The Wish List (14 page)

‘Five months. And, while I’ve managed to snog a pensioner, risk a life-threatening STD and learn the opening bars of two Christmas carols on the guitar, all the exciting things on my
list elude me. I have no new job – and no impending Northern Lights trip.’

‘You’ve booked the polo, though.’

‘I have,’ I concede. ‘And my hair has grown at least half a millimetre. Admittedly, the ends look like the bristles on a twenty-year-old toothbrush.’

There is a pause, then she puts down her fork and leans into me. ‘I haven’t mentioned anything to the others,’ she whispers, ‘but Toby’s doing it
tonight.’

I stiffen.

‘He’s leaving Christina.’

‘Oh God,’ I whisper back, unable to think of anything else. ‘How do you feel?’

She rolls her eyes as if she doesn’t know where to start. ‘Nervous. Guilty. Elated. I want it over and done with. I last spoke to him on the way here – and he was heading home
to do it right then. He told me not to expect a phone call until late tonight, though.’

‘Why?’

She bites her lip. ‘There’s going to be . . . fallout.’

I clutch her hand, processing my thoughts. The marriage can’t go on in the horrific state it’s in. And there’s no doubt it will be for the best in the long term, for everyone.
But that doesn’t mean tonight isn’t going to be horrible. I might not know Toby’s wife, or his children. But the thought of what could be happening now to a family on the other
side of the city makes my stomach twist.

The rest of the evening involves a reasonable amount of wine – and a lot of fun. We’re torn between going on somewhere else and simply relaxing in the bar. In the
end, the fact that we’re all talking like it’s going out of fashion, turns out to be decisive – so we stay.

It’s nearly eleven when I go to the loo and take out my phone. Rob has had a habit of texting me when I’ve been out lately and I get a twinge of concern that he hasn’t tonight.
I pull up his number and find myself composing a message.

He texts back seconds after I’ve pressed Send.

I’m returning to the bar when another text arrives.

I know this is a hint. I also know I’m delighted to an inappropriate degree about it. The angel on my shoulder might be telling me I should stick to my guns, let Rob get on with the rest
of his life and continue his search for ‘The One’ who isn’t me.

But she isn’t as persuasive as her evil twin, the one on my other shoulder. It’s she who’s calling the shots when I dart back to the loo to check my lips are moist but my
underarms are not. She’s the one in charge when I text Rob to say:

– and is still in charge when he arrives about seven minutes later, so fast I can only conclude that he either water-skied here or broke the thousand-metres sprint
record.

‘You look gorgeous,’ he declares, slightly out of breath.

‘So do you,’ I reply. And, God, he really does. He’s wearing my favourite shirt – otherwise known as the Sexiest Shirt Known To Man, an item of clothing that emphasises
every contour of his torso. When he smiles tonight, his whole face is luminous – quite an achievement, given it’s so dark I nearly asked if they had the cocktail menu in Braille.

‘Where’s Jimmy?’

‘He was chatting someone up. I think I may have lost him.’

I take a sip of my drink. ‘So you’re all mine?’

He hesitates, then smiles. ‘I’m all yours.’

The girls greet Rob like their long-lost friend, and it’s impossible not to feel happy that he’s here. He gives Asha a birthday kiss on the cheek – making her
blush in the process – before insisting on buying everyone drinks.

While I become vaguely aware that I’m behaving badly by lapping up his attention, I convince myself that the flirting is light-hearted and not to be taken seriously. Until I feel his hand
on mine.

He clutches it and leans in to whisper in my ear: ‘Get back with me.’

I pull away gently, even though I feel an overwhelming desire to grab him by the collar and kiss him passionately, before agreeing to what he wants. Because he’s a great person, because I
miss him and, most compellingly, because he looks as hot as hell in that shirt.

‘Then we’d be back to where we started. And I can’t . . . I don’t want to . . .
you know
.’

He stares at me with hard eyes and the spell is broken. ‘Yep, I did something really awful when I asked you to marry me, didn’t I?’ He doesn’t say it bitterly, not
really. He’s trying to hide how upset he is.

‘I’m sorry, Rob.’

‘Me too,’ he replies, swallowing a large mouthful of his drink.

I become aware of someone standing over us and look up to see Asha. She has a strange expression on her face.

‘What’s up?’ I ask, but she suddenly looks so distressed I don’t wait for her to answer before apologising to Rob and taking her into the loo.

She leans on the sink and crosses her arms. ‘He’s changed his mind.’

‘What? He didn’t do it?’

She struggles to find her voice. ‘He didn’t do it.’

‘But . . . did he say why?’

‘He didn’t get a chance. I didn’t want to speak to him.’

I lean in to hug her. ‘Oh, Asha . . . I’m sorry you have to go through all this. You don’t deserve it.’

‘Maybe I do,’ she sniffs, as tears flood down her cheeks. ‘I mean, I’m the mistress, aren’t I? I’m the bad guy. I deserve all the punishment I get.’

It suddenly seems like a good time to go home. So, after we’ve touched up Asha’s make-up – enough to hide her tears – we head out.

‘Where’s Rob?’ Asha asks, scanning the bar.

And it seems she’s not the only one going home alone tonight.

What exactly does one wear to a house-warming barbecue? Or rather, to Matt Taylor’s house-warming barbecue? There is a difference. Cally had a house-warming barbecue and
that was easy – I wore jeans and a vest top because I knew I’d end up playing Twister, downing dubious vodka-based cocktails and reeking of the smoke from cremated sausages.

Matt Taylor’s house-warming barbecue will be a more sophisticated affair, I’m certain of it. It’s not just the fact that Matt’s what Cally would term ‘a classy kind
of guy’. I’ve also seen a catering company van outside the house this morning –
and
there’s going to be champagne! You don’t sip champagne in the same outfit
you’d wear to clean your step. Not that I have a step. I can only aspire to accommodation sizable enough for a luxury like that.

Every item in my wardrobe is catapulted to the floor as I become increasingly worked up about the dearth of suitable items. My wardrobe is suddenly – officially – a fashion
desert.

‘If you could go to the shops now and get your dream outfit, what would it be?’ Cally asks when I phone her in desperation.

I consider ball gowns, combat pants, jodhpurs, a tutu. ‘I have absolutely
no idea
! I can’t go splurging on new clothes anyway – I’m economising. What are you
wearing?’

‘I hadn’t really thought about it.’

‘Cally, it starts in three hours,’ I point out, hiding my exasperation.

‘Jeans and flip-flops, then, I guess. Or maybe shorts – it’s going to be roasting later.’ I sit down to stop blood rushing to my head.

After convincing my best friend that this’ll be more than a shorts and flip-flops affair, I try on about sixteen outfits – but find everything too low-key, too high-key or just plain
wrong. I end up in the silk dress I wore to Rob’s cousin’s wedding, despite it prompting an explosion of memories, including one of Rob dedicating ‘Always On My Mind’ by
Elvis to me, before he swept me up to dance and whispered, for the first time, that he loved me.

The dress is a floaty, raspberry-coloured number, and I decide that, as long as I don’t embellish it with too many accessories, it’ll be perfect.

Only, when I slip on my ballet pumps, it’s not just the shoes that are flat – the whole outfit is. Seven pairs of heels later I settle on the nude ones that
Grazia
promised
would elongate my calves. This, I feel, would be a good thing for someone who has the sort of legs that could appear in panto alongside Snow White.

It still doesn’t look right. So I add earrings. Then a bracelet. Then a necklace. And a ring. I’m poised with the same fascinator that I wore when I last donned this outfit, when I
restrain myself and take several deep breaths.

When Cally turns up later with Zachary, I am pleased to see that she’s taken my advice on the dress code.

‘Isn’t that the outfit you wore for the races?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ she mutters, as Zachary dives into my flat. ‘It fits me even less now than then.’

‘You look lovely,’ I say, as she clumps in. Cally has never felt comfortable in heels. Anything higher than two inches and she takes on that ‘I wish I was in wellies’
gait Camilla Parker Bowles boasts during royal visits.

‘I hate these heels. I’ve never mastered walking in them.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ I reassure her. ‘They suit you.’

‘You once told me I walked like Camilla Parker Bowles.’

I wince. ‘I’m sure it was a compliment.’

Asha arrives five minutes later, looking stunning in one of those outfits that is understated but stylish enough to work anywhere. And I suspect – or at least hope – that it’s
only me who’ll be able to tell she’s been crying.

‘Hi, honey,’ says Cally, appearing from the kitchen and kissing her on the cheek.

‘Hi. Where’s my favourite boy?’

Zachary runs up to her and kisses her on the mouth, then gives her an enormous hug.

‘I’m only coming for an hour or so – is that okay, Emma?’

‘Of course.’

‘Have you spoken to Toby?’ Cally asks.

Asha shakes her head. ‘I told him not to phone me. And he hasn’t.’

Cally looks as surprised as I am. ‘Really?’

‘Not once.’

‘Maybe something’s . . . going on at home,’ I suggest tentatively.

She sighs. ‘I must admit, I’d kill to know what’s going through his mind.’

I look at my watch. ‘We should probably head next door.’

Cally looks down at her outfit. ‘Are you
sure
we’re not going to be overdressed? I’ve never worn anything like this to a barbecue before.’

‘It’s not just a barbecue, not with those
caterers
. This is going to be like a wedding.’

‘I hope not,’ she replies. ‘At the last wedding I took Zachary to, his nose bled on the bride’s dress, his remote-control plane crash-landed in the cake and he kept
referring to the groom’s mother as “that man”. It was almost a perfect day.’

It becomes apparent within a millisecond of setting foot in Matt’s garden that my interpretation of the dress code is catastrophically at odds with everyone
else’s.

I know this before I’ve focused on the casual attire of scores of couples and their kids – hipster jeans, Converse pumps and checked shirts. And before I’ve tortured myself
over the absence of heels, clutch bags or blingy hair pins.

I know this because Cally grips my arm with the force of a gorilla who’s ten centimetres dilated and in the late stages of labour. ‘
What
is everyone wearing?’

‘Er . . .’

We are poised to turn on our heels when Matt waves from the other side of the sun-drenched garden, then heads towards us.

‘Lovely to see you,’ he smiles, giving me an unexpected hug, one that brings my neck out in blotches.

‘Thanks for the invitation. This is Cally and Asha, my two best friends.’

Cally tugs at her dress and they shake hands. ‘You’ve got a lovely place.’

‘Yeah, I like it,’ says Matt. ‘There’s a lot of work still to do inside, but I always wanted a project.’

‘You haven’t got rid of the tiles in the living room, have you?’ I blurt out.

‘No, they’re staying. I’ll show you round later, if you like.’ He spots Zachary and bends down. ‘And what’s your name?’

Zachary glares back, saying nothing. ‘He’s called Zachary,’ Cally says with a smile, helping him out.

‘Cool name. And how old are you, Zachary? Let me guess. Are you . . . eight?’

Zachary splutters with laughter. ‘No!’

‘Hmm . . . twenty-three?’

‘I’m
two
!’

Matt has an unmistakable natural chemistry with children – one that’s always eluded me. ‘Well, then,’ he continues, ‘I know some boys you might like to play with.
Would you like me to go and get them?’

Zachary shakes his head and grips Cally’s leg.

‘Maybe later, then,’ Matt shrugs. ‘They
have
got pick ’n’ mix, though.’

Zachary releases Cally’s leg, clearly not having anticipated sweets in the equation.

‘I’ll go and find them,’ Matt grins. ‘Ladies, can I get you some champagne?’

We spend the next half-hour stopping Zachary from ripping sugar teeth from the hands of other children, listening to Stacey regale us with how
frantic
life is now she does Zumba on a
Thursday, and pondering how we can duck out to get changed.

The dress issue really
is
an issue – one that becomes no less intensely embarrassing post-champagne. Nobody says anything, but only because they’re too polite to ask why two
women look like they’re waiting to put a bet on the third race at Ascot.

The other guests are a nice bunch. Most have travelled from Manchester or Cheshire, where, it turns out, Matt is from, and are work contacts, old friends or family. His mum in particular seems
to be having a whale of a time with the children. She’s attractive and energetic, the sort of woman you’d see modelling Fendi tops in the
Guardian
.

Matt is a cool host, flitting between the drinks tent and the barbecue, the chefs in charge of which are from his cousin’s catering company. He taps me on the shoulder a short while after
we arrived, as Asha and I are talking to his friend Richard, a property surveyor from Didsbury.