The Wish List (29 page)

She was right about one thing, though – my predicament isn’t as bad as Asha’s.

So, I’ve arranged to go to Rob’s at eight thirty, but stop off first to see how Asha’s feeling.

She answers the door like she’s trying to pull it off its hinges with her bare hands. ‘Come in.’

‘Is everything okay?’ I ask tentatively, following her to the kitchen, where she picks up a knife and begins to bludgeon some basil leaves.

‘I
used
to be a feminist. What the hell happened to that? How did a woman who grew up reading Betty Friedan and listening to Ani DiFranco end up . . . a . . . a
mistress?’

She spits the word out, like salt on her tongue.

‘Asha,’ I say, touching her arm. ‘Come and sit down.’

‘I need to make something to eat,’ she replies, going at the basil again so violently she ends up with a slimy splodge on the chopping board, like in that scene from
Ghostbusters
.

‘Don’t take it out on your dinner.’ I take the knife from her and lead her to the kitchen table.

‘What’s brought this on?’

‘Absolutely nothing.’ She looks up at me. ‘I
mean
, he’s still done absolutely nothing about leaving Christina. As terrified as I was, part of me thought that
when her friend saw us, that might prompt him into action. He keeps saying he needs more time. And I feel like the bitch from hell for even asking him to act. But if he
is
going to do it,
surely he needs to get on with it. I mean, I understood about Christina’s dad but that was ages ago and . . .’

She slumps back into her seat.

And for the first time since Toby came into her life, my thoughts on him are totally clear. She might love him. She might never love anyone like him. But, no matter how difficult Toby’s
predicament is, one thing is certain: this is doing her no good at all.

It doesn’t matter that Toby is trying to do the best by everyone. He’s failing miserably. And if Asha allows it, this could go on for ever.

‘If it means anything, things aren’t simple between Rob and me either,’ I say. I don’t know why I feel the need to tell her about what’s going on with Rob. But when
I’ve finished, her take is different to Cally’s.

‘You know what I think, Emma? I think Rob is absolutely gorgeous. If I had a boyfriend like him, I’d never want to let him go. He’s funny and sweet . . . I’ll be brutally
honest: he’s fantastic.’

‘So you think I should stay with him?’ I say numbly.

‘No, Emma. You either feel it or you don’t. And if you don’t feel it, you can’t beat yourself up about it – you’ve just got to put everyone out of their
misery.’

I sigh. ‘Asha, I think we both know what we need to do, don’t we?’

She snorts bitterly. ‘Are you suggesting we do a double dumping? An
I’ll-do-it-if-you-will
type of thing?’

I laugh, but I’m not feeling at all blithe. She continues before I get the chance to reply.

‘I don’t know about you, Emma – but my decision’s made.’

‘Are you doing it, Asha?’

She nods, her jaw tensing. ‘I’ve got to.’

I look out of the window as rain pelts against it. ‘Me too.’

Rob will cry. There is no question about it. And I’m dreading it.

As I drive over to his flat, my stomach in knots, all I can think is: I hate this, for more reasons than I can possibly list. I hate it because he’ll be excited about seeing me after days
apart and, instead of a romantic reunion, he’ll get a big metaphorical slap across the face. I hate it because I don’t
want
to be a bad person, but feel like Darth Vader poised
to slaughter Bambi with his light sabre. And finally I’ll hate it because, despite being sure I’m doing the right thing, there’s every chance I’ll regret it the second the
words are out of my mouth.

I pad to his door and ring the bell, half wondering if he’s going to be expecting this. I mean, you would, wouldn’t you? I’ve been on holiday with another man (about which
I’ve admittedly spent a long time protesting the innocence) and haven’t even seen my own boyfriend since I returned. I don’t know how I can sleep at night.

He’s smiling as he answers the door, and the words going through my head are: ‘Rob, please don’t cry. Please,
please
don’t cry!’

His expression changes instantly.

‘Emma . . . why are you crying?’ As he guides me into the flat I realise fat, salty tears are sliding down my face, stinging my skin. ‘What is it?’ He wraps his arms
round me as I try to form my words, to pull myself together. But all I can do is snivel fervently, while my nose heats up and my skin pebble-dashes with red.

‘Emma . . . what’s the matter with my gorgeous girl?’ He lifts up my chin. ‘What’s happened?’

We sit on the sofa and he hands me a tissue. When I blow my nose it feels like a lump of hot dough expanding in an airing cupboard.

Then I look into his eyes and know that this is it. The moment I’m going to do the awful deed, once and for all. All I can do is stay strong.

‘Emma, can I say something?’

‘Yes?’

He hesitates, searching my face. ‘You need to . . . um . . .’

‘What is it, Rob?’ I ask, emotion swelling up inside me.

‘You need to wipe your nose again. You’ve got a . . . a bogey.’

I grab another tissue and suffer the indignity of frantically removing stray snot from my face, uncertain, after the procedure is complete, whether or not I’ve even removed all traces.

‘That’s better.’ He smiles, leaning in to kiss me.

I pull back. ‘Rob, don’t.’

Suddenly, I don’t need to say anything. All the protestations I’d planned about what a wonderful guy he is and how I’m certain he’ll meet someone who’s right for
him and I know I’ll miss him like mad . . . they’re about to become pointless.

Because he knows. I’m already breaking his heart for the second time. And I’ve never felt worse.

I don’t stay at Rob’s for long afterwards. He’s upset, I’m upset, and there is little point in analysing something that isn’t going to change. The
fact that he wants to stay friends is about the only consolation in a situation that makes me lie awake all night – thinking about him, then Matt, then me, the last of these being a person I
really don’t like. Not tonight.

The following day continues in the same vein: staring at a redundant computer with intermittent Assam tea runs for Dee.

When I return to Liverpool that night and drive home from the station, I pull up to the house feeling like my brain has been turned inside out. Matt is outside, heading into his flat. When he
spots me, he’s clearly about to come over. So I grab my mobile and start talking into it as I open the car door, pretending to be engaged in a conversation comparable in importance to the
Middle East peace talks.

‘Oh
absolutely
!’ I whoop enthusiastically, as I step out and give Matt a cursory wave. ‘You’re
so
right. Totally. Hmmm.’ I nod a couple of times.
‘Gosh, that’s terrible. Oh I think so. I definitely think so.’

He watches as I head into the house, continuing my fictitious conflab, then I close the door.

My head feels swollen with thoughts as I slump on the sofa and lie down, shutting my eyes.

The darkness doesn’t help. It only sharpens my guilt about Rob and my misery about work tomorrow.

Then my mind drifts to thoughts of Iceland.

To my indecent desire as I gazed at Matt’s muscular back while he swam through the Blue Lagoon. To my thudding heart as he embraced me in bed. And to the pain in his eyes when he spoke
about Allison . . .

My eyes jerk open.

All I can do is put thoughts like that
right
out of my mind. I decide to try a relaxation technique, but only tense and release my muscles twice before the doorbell rings. I drag myself
from the sofa and head to the door.

Even before I open it, I suspect it’ll be Matt, but I’m still not prepared for the dance my heart breaks into as I set eyes on his moonlit features.

‘You forgot something,’ he smiles, holding out my cardigan. ‘You left it behind in the hotel room – I presumed it wasn’t a gift for the maid.’

‘Ah, thanks.’

‘So, how’s the job?’

I scrunch up my nose.

‘You’re not enjoying it?’

‘I’m sure things will improve. Besides, that’s the least of my worries.’

He pauses, waiting for me to explain.

‘Rob and I have split up.’

He hesitates. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Emma. Are you okay?’

His dark eyes dart across my face, and I pray he doesn’t try to do something nice, like hug me. I can’t bear the thought of a friendly cuddle from him. I had a friendly cuddle that
lasted all night when we were in Iceland and waking from that – unkissed – was not a good feeling.

‘I’m fine,’ I reply firmly. ‘Right, I’ve got loads to do before work tomorrow so . . .’

‘Of course.’ He takes a step backwards. ‘We’ll catch up at the weekend.’

‘Goodnight.’

He skips down the steps, brushing against the leaves on the birch tree and leaving them swishing in the cold air. The second I shut the door, I want him back, this man for whom my feelings are
totally unrequited.

It is that thought – the horrible imbalance in our affections – that inflames the rims of my eyes with tears, reducing me to a mess again . . . just as the doorbell rings for the
second time, a minute later.

I wipe my eyes and go back to the hall, returning to the spot where I stood only a moment ago. A volcano erupts inside me when it’s him again.

He is silent for a second. It is enough time for my heart to react to the sight of his parted lips under the soft rays of silver light.

‘I shouldn’t do this . . . you’ve only just split up with someone . . .’

‘What?’ I frown.

His eyes lock with mine. ‘I forgot something else, Emma.’

At first he doesn’t move; neither of us does. Then he steps forward, bending towards me slowly, sweeping his arm round my back. His mouth draws near as my eyelids dreamily flicker shut. We
float into the kiss, brushing lips with a feather touch while my insides blaze and my blood feels like molten lava.

It’s a long, long kiss – as sweet as a first kiss, as strong as a last.

In my case, it’s neither.

It’s simply the best.

A strange thing happens over the next few days. Technically, my life should be about as cheerful as an
EastEnders
Christmas special. It always has been when work
isn’t going well. But very little dampens my mood.

Not Lulu telling me I won’t get internet access until I’ve reached a certain (unspecified) level of seniority. Not Dee asking me to refrain from eating an orange because being four
feet from the zest irritates her sinuses. Not the anaesthetising boredom, the abominable rudeness of my colleagues, nor the fact that the closest I get to interior design involves buying batteries
for the office smoke alarm.

Because something amazing has happened. His name is Matt.

When I’m at work, I spend hours thinking about him.

When I’m not at work, largely, I’m with him. We spend all weekend together. We go to the cinema together. We cook a huge family dinner on Saturday, followed by several games of
Twister (both when the kids are there and – ahem – after they’re in bed).

In the five days following that blissful kiss, everything changes. Minor irritations go unnoticed, major catastrophes feel like no big deal.

Obviously, life on Planet Emma isn’t entirely perfect.

My guilt about Rob simmers underneath this euphoria, almost constantly. I keep wondering if he’ll make contact again – or indeed if I should text or call him. But I don’t want
to give him hope when there is absolutely none.

I’m meeting Asha for a run on a cold Tuesday evening, and on the way one of the (many) wonders I’m pondering about this unexpected situation is how comfortable I feel around
Matt’s sons. It’s a new and strange feeling, one that puts a smile on my face as I think about it.

Still, I resolve not to be too cheerful when I meet Asha, who I know will have had a difficult week. Not least because breaking up with Toby coincided with a chaotic time at work – her
only response to my text enquiring how it went was:

But as we set off for our run, it becomes apparent that there is little to fill me in on.

‘Let me get this straight, you
haven’t
dumped Toby?’

‘No. I haven’t,’ she replies defiantly, as if it was never on the agenda.

‘What happened to “I used to be a feminist”?’

She deliberately speeds up, and my thighs are on fire as I try to catch her.

She shakes her head. ‘If you just knew what it was like.’

‘But you said—’

‘I know what I said, Emma. Oh, you don’t understand.’

We run along in silence for a minute, before her phone rings and we stop as she takes it out of the holder on her running pants.

‘Hi.’ I can tell from the way she answers that it’s Toby. ‘Okay. Yep. I’ll phone at ten tomorrow. Speak to you then.’

As she slips the phone into its holder, something occurs to me. ‘Have you got a new phone?’

‘This is a temporary one. To phone Toby on,’ she confesses reluctantly.

‘What?’

She sighs. ‘Christina found his phone bill and started quizzing him about why my number appeared so many times. So he bought me this one.’ She glances at my expression. ‘Oh
don’t look at me like that, Emma.’

I shake my head, too stunned to answer.

‘You don’t understand,’ she repeats.

And it strikes me that she might be right. I’ve been finding it increasingly hard to comprehend the situation the longer it’s gone on.

‘He’s like a drug to me. There’s no point in me trying to defend this. It’s indefensible. But I can’t keep away from him.’

‘Did you
try
to dump him?’

‘Yes,’ she huffs, her face crumpling. ‘I ended up sleeping with him.’

She pauses at the top of the hill, exhausted more by the conversation than the run, and leans forward with her hands on her knees as she catches her breath.