The Wish List (31 page)

‘You two are brave!’ he grins. ‘It’s safe to say you’re my last booking of the season. I just hope you’ve got something warm to wear – I’ve given
you all the duvets I’ve got.’

As darkness falls over the valley, Matt and I – fully dressed in gear similar to that we wore in Iceland – cuddle up in a feather bed directly underneath a big, round skylight.

I have no idea what the temperature is outside, but I’ve never been warmer. We kiss for most of the night, under a canopy of stars, and by morning one thing becomes crystal clear.

Whatever happens between Matt and me, I know one thing for certain: I’m a gonner.

Although my obsession with Matt is taking my mind off minor irritations in my life, there’s only so much it can do. Because work, frankly, is getting ridiculous.

I turn up on Monday to discover that my chair has relocated to a meeting room in advance of a pitch that Dee’s giving at ten thirty. I look round the office to see if there are any spares.
Every one is currently firmly occupied by the peach-perfect arses of Loop’s other employees.

‘Don’t suppose you know if there’s anywhere else I can sit?’ I ask as Dee taps away on her keyboard, like one of those creepy Victorian dolls after an Estée Lauder
makeover.

‘Hmm?’ She fails to remove her eyes from the screen.

‘I just wondered . . . where do I sit?’

She frowns at her computer screen then drags her eyes to me, pursing her glacial lips. ‘I have no idea. I have other things to worry about. This pitch is worth thousands.’

‘Is there anything I can help with?’

She pulls another strange face, as if my absurd suggestion has the same effect on the lining of her nostrils as the zest of citrus fruit.

‘I don’t think so.’

I know some people spend most of their working life on their feet. If I was a trainee shoe-shop assistant, gymnastics instructor, or mortuary manager I’d have no gripes whatsoever.

But I’m not. I’m a trainee interior designer. And not only do I now have nothing to interior design, I also have nothing to put my bum on while I’m not doing it. Even when I
plead to keep my seat until ten fifteen, Dee insists that the meeting-room layout can’t be disturbed. So I hover redundantly next to my desk while pondering alternatives and realise that
there is but one. I head to Lulu’s office and knock.

‘Come in!’

She holds up her hands before I’ve opened my mouth. ‘I know what you’re going to say!’

I hesitate. ‘Do you?’

‘Yes! I have work for you, honestly. I’ve got a job that’s perfect for you. Tomorrow.’

‘Oh,’ I say, my spirits rising.

‘It’s a restaurant – you’ll learn lots.’

‘Oh . . . oh, that’s brilliant,’ I gush, perching on the edge of the seat opposite her. ‘
Thank you
, Lulu. I know I’m starting at the bottom and, seriously,
I’ll do anything at all. I’m not precious. I just want to . . . you know, get going. On something. Anything.’

She smiles and links her supremely manicured hands together. ‘I know.’

‘Is there any preparation I can do? Anything at all? I could research the client, gather some background, come up with ideas . . .’

She drums her nails on a folder, then picks it up and looks at it anxiously. She starts to give it to me. She actually stretches out her arm, poised to grant me temporary possession.

I hold my breath as I reach out and am literally millimetres from it, when she swallows and snatches it back. My hand is left hovering in the air as if I’m practising moves to ‘The
Robot’.

She places the folder on the desk and smiles, picking up her tea cup. ‘Not too milky this time. Okay?’

I meet Giles for lunch in Pret a Manger. Which is a phenomenon I never, ever thought I’d see. He never used to leave the office – I was convinced at one point he
was living out of the filing cabinet – and here he is coming all the way to Manchester to see me.

‘How do you do this journey every day?’ he asks, downing his triple espresso as I unwrap my crayfish salad.

‘It’d be fine if the job was okay—’

‘I need to talk to you about Cally.’

‘Oh. And here was I thinking you wanted to catch up with your old friend.’

He looks at me, momentarily unsettled. ‘Yeah, that too . . . but I need your advice. Urgently.’

I can see he does too. He’s virtually twitching. There are almost sparks coming off him. ‘What is it?’

As he takes a deep breath and looks out of the window, it strikes me how well he brushes up these days. He’s wearing aftershave – a pleasant one. And, despite the metal T-shirt, the
recent explosion of grooming means he looks, well,
nice
. ‘Am I wasting my time with her?’

I can’t resist sitting back with a little smile and crossing my arms.

‘What?’ he asks.

I shake my head. ‘I never thought I’d see the day you asked
me
for romantic advice.’

He frowns.

‘I’m simply saying,’ I continue, ‘that whenever I attempted that with you, your advice never deviated from: “He sounds like a dick. Dump him.” You never
wavered. I could’ve been dating Daniel Craig and you’d have said the same.’

‘I’m sure I offered more insight than that.’

‘No. No, you didn’t.’

‘Fine. I wish I hadn’t said anything.’

‘Oh, Giles . . . I’m kidding. I’m sorry. What was the question again?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he sniffs, opening his sandwich.

‘I’ll tell you anything you need to know. I was only jok—’

‘I’m in love with her.’

I pause and look at him, realising he means it. And, although in some ways I shouldn’t be shocked after the way he’s been acting, that, I’m afraid, is exactly what I am.

Giles has got it bad. And the fact that he’s shaving regularly is but one sign.

I should be delighted for them. He and Cally are two of my best friends and, as unlikely a couple as they once seemed, the idea of them getting together makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Only, there’s a problem. He knows it and I know it.

‘I’m worried she’s using me for sex,’ he says earnestly.

‘Oh . . .’ I try to think of a way of protesting with conviction, but fail abysmally. ‘Really?’

‘It’s obvious.’

‘Is it?’ The truth is, it couldn’t be more obvious if it was a poisonous wart at the end of his nose. ‘Some men would be happy with that set-up,’ I suggest.

He looks offended. ‘I’m not
some men
. And she’s not
some woman
. And, like I say—’

‘You’re in love, I know,’ I finish, feeling suddenly very sorry for him – and regretting my flippancy earlier.

‘She doesn’t want to do things that normal couples do. Apart from
one
thing’ – he raises a meaningful eyebrow – ‘and she wants to do that
a
lot
.’

‘What sort of things did you have in mind?’

He shrugs. ‘I want to take her away for the weekend. To meet her family. I just want to
be
with her. All the sodding time. Do you know what that feels like, Emma?’

‘I think I might.’

‘So what do I do? I have overwhelming feelings of love and affection for this woman . . . I’d do anything for her . . . and all she wants is my—’

‘I’ve got the picture,’ I interrupt, suddenly going off my crayfish salad.

He looks out of the window despondently and I reach over and clasp his hand.

‘The difficulty is, there’s nothing you can
do
, Giles, not really. People feel how they feel . . . that’s that.’

‘You’re not saying I should cut my losses and stop seeing her?’ he gasps, horrified.

‘Of course not. You need to . . . play it by ear, I guess. To see if things develop, see if her
feelings
develop. She
does
really like you. At the end of the day,
you’re the first man in her life for a very long time. And that counts for a lot.’

‘Hmm. But probably not enough.’

I offer to walk with Giles to the station as it’s on the way to the office and, as we leave the café, an email arrives on my phone. I can see from the catch-line
that it’s from Rob – which has the sudden and profound effect of inducing a migraine.

‘Oh no,’ I groan.

‘What is it?’ Giles asks as we continue walking.

I met Rob’s aunt Jemima a few times and she was lovely. I’m sure he’s upset, but is attending the funeral of your ex-boyfriend’s aunt the done thing? There’s no
entry in Debrett’s for that one. I reread the email and decide to put it in my too-difficult box, for now at least.

‘Nothing. Hey, we haven’t had a chance to talk about work.’

‘I know, sorry. My woes have dominated proceedings,’ he says as we arrive at the station. ‘Things are pretty intense at work.’

‘More than usual?’

‘The big pitch for the renewal of our contract with Channel 6 is in just over two weeks. Nobody’s very optimistic. The whole team has been working on the proposals, with me and your
replacement, Mathilda, responsible for storylines.’

‘How’s that going?’

He looks at me ominously. ‘It isn’t.’

‘Really?’

He shakes his head. ‘God knows what’s going to happen. We haven’t got a set of scripts ready. We haven’t got anything
like
a set of scripts ready. In all
honesty, we should be doing a pilot, but nothing seems to be coming together.’

‘What’s the problem? You and I have produced scores of these over the years.’

He shrugs. ‘Maybe it’s what’s going on with Cally . . . maybe it’s Perry going into meltdown. . . . maybe it’s because I’ve given up smoking.’

‘Oh yes! Well done – what prompted that?’

‘Well, with Cally’s little boy it’s not very nice for her to have to go home smelling of smoke, is it?’

‘Oh Giles.’

‘Actually, it’s not that either. I know exactly what it is. It’s because your replacement, Emma, is the spawn of Lucifer’s loins.’

‘She can’t be that bad.’

‘She talks
all day
and never manages to utter a single mildly interesting thing. She has a degree in child psychology and won’t countenance anything in the script that
doesn’t fit with national curriculum guidelines. I had a week of this before saying to her, “What about
fun
? That’s what this is supposed to be about. Is there nothing to
be said for
fun
?”’

‘What did she say?’

‘She pulled a face like I’d started picking my nose and flicking it at the wall in the shape of a swastika. She banged on about how
learning
was fun – and if kids
wanted to have
fun
they shouldn’t be in front of the television.’

‘She might grow on you.’

‘Yes, like scabies. Anyway, she’s the least of my work worries. I can’t see Perry winning this pitch to Channel 6 on the basis of what he’s got to show them. It’s
not that people aren’t putting in the work – it’s just not being pulled together. It’s a mess.’

I frown. ‘What’s the company going to do if its one and only TV programme no longer has a channel that wants to air it?’

He looks me in the eyes. ‘I think we both know the answer to that one.’

The singing of hymns can be a depressingly lacklustre affair. The composer of ‘O Lord My God, When I in Awesome Wonder’ may have imagined a soul-stirring delivery,
but the reality is often far feebler, an unconvincing cacophony of tuneless, grating tonsils.

As I stand at the front of St Mary’s Church, I’m aware of the wobbly off-key drone, and I fully admit my part in producing it. I’m aware of it, but that’s not what
I’m concentrating on. It’s difficult to concentrate on anything with Rob standing next to me and taking an
entirely
different approach from the rest of us.

Clearly, these are not the circumstances in which to give any form of critical appraisal of someone’s vocal techniques, particularly since I’m not exactly Leona Lewis myself. But
Rob’s projection is so loud and enthusiastic you’d think he was attempting to make contact with someone in the afterlife using the power of song alone.

‘HOW GREAT THOU ARRRRRRRT! HOW GREAT . . . THOU ART!’

If you turned the volume down on today’s proceedings, you’d never guess he was making such a racket. He sings straight backed, open jawed, head swaying at the emotional bits.

When the song is over I rub my ear to attempt to delay the onset of tinnitus and sit down as the vicar invites Rob’s uncle to the lectern for the eulogy.

Rob looks down at the floor and I feel a swell of affection for him. I reach over and squeeze his hand and he turns to me and sniffs gratefully.

‘Mummy . . .’ says the five-year-old boy behind us. ‘This is boring. When does the fun bit start?’

I’d hoped to not make it to the ‘fun bit’, assuming that Aunt Jemima’s wake was what the little boy was referring to.

But as Rob and I leave the church I get swept up in a tidal wave of relatives, friends, family . . . the cast of people to whom, in the eight months we were together, he was always so proud to
introduce me.

‘You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,’ he tells me, gazing into my eyes. ‘I’m just so glad you came at all.’

‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ I say awkwardly, wondering how I’ve managed to make this sound like a Christmas party.

‘Emma, love! It’s been
ages
,’ says Rob’s mum, touching me on the arm. ‘I can’t wait to have a good chinwag.’

It becomes very difficult to duck out and, as the only alternative is getting on the train to Manchester to go to work, staying at a funeral becomes an oddly attractive proposition.

So I go to the wake and it’s that strange combination of merry reminiscing, heartbreaking sorrow, and unnatural amounts of Victoria sponge and brandy.

It becomes apparent early on that Rob hasn’t told any of his relatives that we’re no longer together.

For some reason this doesn’t surprise me, but I don’t embarrass him by challenging anyone about it. Besides, I feel weirdly comfortable going along with the lie. Because I miss his
family. I miss being a part of them, and Rob clearly misses me being there too.