The Wish List (16 page)

‘Emma,’ he interrupts.

I sigh, having run out of things to say. ‘Yes?’

‘Do you think you and I had a one-night stand?’

I swallow. ‘Didn’t we?’

‘I don’t know the dictionary definition, but I’m sure you have to have sex for it to constitute that.’

‘You mean . . . we never . . .’

‘No.’

I look away, my mind whirring with relief, gratitude, and a dozen questions followed by the sudden realisation that I said something in our Facebook exchange that I need to clear up
immediately.

‘I haven’t got an STD!’ I blurt out. ‘And I’ve never had one!’

He looks taken aback. ‘Okay.’

‘I know it might have sounded like I had one, but I didn’t. I have firm medical proof that I didn’t.’

‘You really don’t have to explain. These things happen.’

‘But not to me! Honestly, Matt, I’m one hundred per cent . . . healthy. In that department.’

‘Good for you.’

I sigh. ‘Are you finding this funny?’

‘Not at all,’ he claims, failing to suppress a smile.

‘Now you mention it, I didn’t
feel
like we’d done anything,’ I continue. ‘Problem was, there was physical evidence to the contrary.’

‘I see.’

‘My knickers weren’t where they were supposed to be.’

‘I know.’

My mouth drops. ‘So how . . .’

‘Emma,’ he begins coolly, ‘you put on a bit of a . . . performance when you got to my flat. I tried to stop you, but you were determined and—’

‘What sort of performance?’ I croak.

‘It began with the in-flight demonstration. Then it progressed to . . .’

‘What?’ I ask grimly.

He suppresses another smile. ‘It’s a shame burlesque
wasn’t
on your list. You could’ve ticked off another one.’

I see Matt the following afternoon while I’m washing dishes in the kitchen. Only, it’s not just him I see.

A huge white Audi pulls up in front of the flat and the driver – an exceptionally good-looking man with a slender build and dark hair, leans over to kiss the female passenger. And I mean
kiss. He can hardly bear to let her go, doing so eventually when she steps out, the engine still running.

I recognise her from Facebook, but in the flesh – even from a distance – Matt’s wife is more attractive: a goddess in skinny jeans and cowboy boots, with glossy auburn hair in
a high ponytail.

She waits uncomfortably by the door after ringing the bell, her demeanour changing only when it opens and her three children rush out. Matt follows, kissing each goodbye, before they leap into
the car and drive away. He stands for a second, gazing after them with hard eyes, before returning to the house and slamming the door.

Part of me is glad he won’t be around for a few days.

He found the whole burlesque thing hilarious, but I’m afraid I’m struggling to do so. I laughed, of course, in the absence of a convenient spaceship to beam me to an adjacent
galaxy.

I thought I’d hidden my mortification well, until he paused and said, suddenly serious: ‘Emma, it’s
fine
. We all do daft things every so often. And I got you into bed
before I saw anything. Honestly, I didn’t even peek.’

At that point, I suppressed the urge to wail as if alerting the neighbourhood to an air raid – and simply made my excuses and left.

For four days afterwards I feel, for the first time since he moved in, that I can relax in my own home – an issue I’m pondering on Wednesday, the day before he’s due back, as
I’m driving home from work.

The beep of my phone alerts me to an email and I pull in and check it, my heart fluttering with hope that it’s from Rob.

We’ve exchanged a few texts this week. Polite ones, sweet – but noticeably unflirtatious and largely dominated by guitar practice updates. I’m still struggling to gauge
what’s going through his mind – or indeed my own mind.

The email is from [email protected] and is sent from his phone.

I gasp audibly. Is he inviting me on a date? Because I don’t
want
to go on a date with Matt, for a multitude of reasons. He’s attractive, I can’t deny it, but
there’s no way I’m leaping into something with my feelings about Rob still far from clear – and especially not with my neighbour.

I decide to play it cool, essential in the light of the revelations about my burlesque performance – even if I am sure I looked more like John Cleese than Dita Von Teese.

I set about composing a response that sounds casual – something that looks like I’ve hit the Reply button without giving it a second thought. I complete nine drafts before it’s
right.

Okay, it’s not Tolstoy, but it’s important to get these things right. I tell myself that if he’s talking about Saturday night then that has serious implications. Saturday night
means a date. I couldn’t even consider that. His response doesn’t arrive until the following morning.

A flicker of disappointment runs through me and I tell myself not to be ridiculous. I grab my work jacket and briefly scan my wardrobe for an outfit suitable for my non-date. One thing I am sure
of is that it isn’t going to involve floaty dresses.

Despite this being a non-date, despite the fact that my brain is still tangled with thoughts of Rob, despite the fact that I’ve spent a week
partly
dreading
seeing my neighbour, I feel odd on Saturday morning.

I can’t eat – and that
never
happens.

Even when I had severe gastroenteritis after eating dodgy chicken liver pâté at my cousin Tara’s wedding, I soldiered on heroically and managed a banana muffin and latte from
Starbucks the next day.

I potter round the flat doing my usual Saturday morning chores – hoovering the lounge and waxing my bikini line (not simultaneously). In the meantime, I am trying to work out whether the
loss of appetite is because I read
Heat
last night and noted that my thighs are at least two and a half times the size of Paris Hilton’s.

Then I realise they always have been – and am forced to ask: am I
nervous
?

I push the thought out of my mind as a text arrives from Rob.

It’s a lie.

Matt knocks on my door at twelve thirty and my heart is racing as I open it. The phenomenon is instantly exacerbated when I see what he’s wearing: a black shirt. I should stress that this
does not beat the Sexiest Shirt Known To Man. Nothing beats that. But it’s rolled up his arms to display the outline of toned biceps and undone at the top to reveal a tanned, muscular chest,
and a terrible thought hits me: Emma Reiss, do you
want
this to be a date?

I dig my nails into my hands. Of course I don’t.

‘It obviously didn’t rain in the Greek Islands.’

He grins and moves aside as I step out. ‘Not much.’

Whenever a man challenges my love of shoes, I throw one word right back at them. Cars. I don’t
get
men and their attitude to cars. I don’t get it at
all.

As anyone with half a brain knows, a car is a large metal object that gets you from A to B. It is not a piece of art, or a fine wine and, patently, it is not a beautifully crafted Louboutin
(which, for the record, costs approximately one per cent of a Skoda).

I would rather watch facial hair grow than
Top Gear
.

Consequently, most of the cars I’ve owned have been little flashier than a large baked bean can on wheels. The two-door Fiat I drive now is as extravagant as it gets. And I’d be the
first to admit I don’t treat it with the respect it deserves: something has to physically drop off for me to even consider acting on a light on the dashboard.

Still, I can’t deny that there’s something special about whirling through the Cheshire countryside in Matt’s BMW; about the blur of hedgerows, the scent of lavender and the
bluest of skies above. Even with the baby seats in the back, it reeks of luxury – although possibly that could be the Magic Tree.

The restaurant is smaller than I’d imagined of somewhere with a Michelin star. It’s a converted white-stone cottage, and decorated inside with coir carpets, striking wallpaper and
plush furniture.

‘Matt! Thank you so much for coming!’

I remember Anna from the barbecue. It’s not that I spoke to her directly, but she performed one of the more spectacular moves to escape my rounders bat – a forward-roll-type affair
that, had the circumstances been different, I’d have congratulated her on wholeheartedly.

She kisses Matt on the cheek, pushing her dark wavy hair back from an elfin face. ‘It’s Emma, isn’t it? I couldn’t forget you after last week, could I?’ she
giggles.

I’m immediately hit by a severe bout of motion sickness, despite standing totally still.

‘She’s just kidding,’ Matt murmurs as we’re shown to the table. ‘Honestly, Anna’s great.’

‘How do you know her?’ I ask.

‘She’s my wife’s second cousin.’

I try to think of a response to this. ‘Oh,’ I manage, failing miserably, and scan the menu instead.

He gauges my unease. ‘Don’t worry – Anna’s in touch with me more than Allison these days. Plus, she knows you and I are just friends. And even if we weren’t . . . I
mean, Allison and I aren’t together any more so . . .’ For the first time, Matt looks uncomfortable.

I suddenly feel an urgent need to know more about him and his ex-wife, but say nothing.

At least, I say nothing
about that
. Throughout lunch, Matt and I generally talk and talk and don’t stop, covering everything from his children to my mum – and whether I
should’ve included ‘Learn to bobsleigh’ on my list. Which was his idea, incidentally.

The flowing conversation
may
have something to do with the flowing Sancerre, of course, although I register that only well after the damage has been done.

The problem is this: the staff here are so attentive to a diner’s every need that you never have anything approaching an empty glass. You take a sip of wine, and before you’ve
noticed, it’s full again. You do it again, and the same thing happens.

It’s like playing What’s the Time, Mr Wolf? – you never catch anyone moving, but there’s no doubt it’s happening, a fact confirmed when, for the first time since we
got here, I spot the waiter filling up my glass – and nearly rugby tackle him.

‘No more, thanks!’ I blurt out, aware that I’m precariously close to my four-glass limit – something I can’t remember happening on a Saturday afternoon before.

Then I lean in and peer at Matt’s glass. ‘Please tell me you’ve drunk more than one glass.’

‘I’ve drunk more than one glass,’ he replies firmly.

‘Oh, thank God.’ I narrow my eyes. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Well, no.’ He suppresses a smile. ‘I just wanted to make you feel better.’

I take a sip of water in an attempt to dilute the liquid currently going through my renal system. ‘Well, now I’m tipsy I might as well ask you what I wasn’t going to ask
you.’

‘Which is?’

I look into his eyes, suddenly serious. ‘What happened with your wife?’

He looks shocked, more than I’d expected. I instantly regret my insensitivity.

‘Sorry – I didn’t mean to—’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Matt, that was a stupid thing to—’

‘Emma.
It’s fine
.’

I swallow as he pauses to gather his thoughts.

‘She left me. She left me for another man.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.

He looks up. ‘Me too.’ He presses his lips together, clearly not used to opening up about this. ‘She was the love of my life.’ He says this without any sense of drama;
it’s simply a statement of fact. And I don’t know what to say in reply.

‘I’m trying to get over things . . . to get over
her
. But it’s difficult to imagine ever feeling the same way about someone.’

I note the present tense.

‘When did you split up?’

‘Six months ago, back in February. I’d suspected the affair for a while before she confessed to it. We separated almost immediately afterwards – or rather, she left. With the
kids. The hardest part is that . . . she isn’t a bad person, my wife. Not at all. She just fell out of love with me.’

‘That must have been so hard. Especially with the children.’

‘I don’t think any of us imagine the fairy tale will end that way, do we? Not when we fall in love.’

I sigh. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever been in love,’ I confess.

‘Really?’

‘Maybe I’m doing Darren Jones a disservice.’

‘Who was he?’

‘We went out together in sixth form for a month. He was a teenage animal-rights enthusiast. I was besotted, for a couple of days at least.’

‘What happened?’

‘I dumped him.’

He shakes his head and suppresses a smile. ‘Callous.’

‘He never, ever removed his Parka. Never. I went round one lunchtime and caught him asleep in bed with it on.’

He laughs. ‘So nobody else has come close?’

I hesitate. ‘Somebody
did
come close.’

‘Recently?’

I nod. ‘He asked me to marry him.’

‘What did you say?’

I squirm. ‘I dumped him too.’

‘Oh God!’ he laughs again and, despite the fact that I generally find
nothing
funny about that particular situation, the sound is infectious.

I put my hands over my face. ‘I’m not a man-eater, I promise,’ I plead, shaking my head.