The Wish List (33 page)

‘Where were you thinking of taking inspiration from?’ David H. Jones asks coolly.

Lulu swallows. ‘Um . . . Capizzi in Sydney.’

‘New York,’ I hiss.

She glares at me. ‘That’s right! Whoops! I was thinking of Castro Park in Sydney.’

‘Gastro,’ I cough. ‘Gastro Park.’

She gulps. ‘Gastro Park.’

He looks at us both, clearly having come to the firm conclusion that he’s hired a couple of imbeciles. I glance at Lulu and a dainty bead of sweat trickles down her Botoxed brow.

And despite the fact that I can’t honestly say Lulu’s my favourite person, I know there and then that I’ve got to save this woman.

‘Any ideas about colour?’ he goes on, but by this stage Lulu has clearly lost the ability to speak and turned a peculiar shade that, on her colour chart, would be described as Hint
of Puke. We all stand there, willing her to speak, before it becomes painfully evident she isn’t going to.

‘I have just the thing!’ I step in, and Lulu stares incredulously. ‘I was thinking blues . . .’

‘Blue’s overdone,’ he replies.

‘Or maybe greens . . .’

He pulls a face. ‘Not for us.’

I swallow. ‘Reds?’

‘Too porno.’

‘Pinks?’

‘Too twee.’

‘Maybe black and white . . .’

‘Too eighties.’

‘Or a yellow . . .’

He pauses and thinks. ‘Yellow. I could go for a yellow. What’s your best shade?’

I rustle around in my folder and produce the ideal colour – a colour I’ve loved since the moment I saw it. ‘Here,’ I declare proudly. ‘Lemon Turd.’

Lulu’s knees buckle.

‘What?’ David H. Jones says.

‘I mean curd. Lemon
Curd
. . . Why, what did I say?’ I splutter.

‘You said . . . Oh, forget it,’ David H. Jones replies, barely stopping himself from rolling his eyes. ‘Listen, why don’t you ladies spend some time looking round –
we can review things when you’ve had a chance to put something together in a couple of weeks. Pete!’

He starts waving, beckoning over a guy in a suit and hard hat on the other side of the room. Pete, whoever he is, jogs over, clearly taking the term loyal servant to a new level.

I’m in the process of trying to sort out my folder when Pete appears at our side and his boss asks him to show us round. So it’s only when I’m finally done and he asks us to
follow him upstairs that I get a proper look at him.

At first, his floppy blond hair and slightly gawky smile look only vaguely familiar. But something about him gnaws at my mind until I come to a realisation: I
know
this guy.

‘Have we met before?’

He turns and looks at me, but his expression is blank. ‘I don’t think so. Unless you live in Chorlton?’

‘No,’ I reply, shaking my head.

‘I’ve obviously got a common-looking face,’ he grins.

Lulu relaxes slightly while we complete the tour, taking notes. She’s still hyper enough to single-handedly power half the electricity in this place, but it’s an improvement on how
she was earlier.

As Pete sees us out, he hands business cards to both Lulu and me, then we shake hands and head back to the Merc.

The second she closes the door, her smile disappears, like gum-drop lips dropped into boiling tar.

‘
That
was an unqualified disaster.’ She glares at me.

I frown. ‘Um . . . I’m not sure – I—’

‘You’re not sure? Where exactly do you buy this shade of
Lemon Turd
from, eh? The Shit Shop?’

I swallow and look out of the window, saying nothing. After a while a text arrives on my phone. It’s from Cally.

I’m about to respond when something hits me. I take out the business card from my bag and look at the name. The last time I saw Pete Hammond might have been three years ago. But I’d
recognise him anywhere.

He’s Zachary’s father.

Cally is defiant. ‘It can’t have been him. You’ve got it wrong, Em.’

She takes a sip of tea then puts her cup down, unwilling to discuss this further.

‘Cally – I’m certain. It is the guy you slept with that night. It is Zachary’s dad.’

‘Shhh! Keep your voice down.’ She throws her eyes up to the ceiling; Zachary sleeps in the room above.

‘Sorry,’ I whisper, cringing. I take a deep breath and start again – quietly. ‘Why are you so sure it isn’t him? You didn’t see him – and I’m
positive
. I don’t understand.’

She waves her hand dismissively. ‘Zachary’s dad could be anyone. I was a one-woman Club 18–30 resort in those days.’

‘You never slept with anyone without using protection. You always said that that night was the only slip-up you ever had.’

She stirs her tea so violently it spills out from the sides of the cup.

‘I’ve got his business card. You could call him up and—’

‘I could call him up?’ she interrupts furiously, rolling her eyes. ‘Just like that? And say: “Hi, you won’t remember me but we slept together three years ago. Great
night. Would you like to meet
your son
?”’

‘I know it wouldn’t be easy. But you always said that if you knew who he was you’d tell him. There’s got to be a way—’

‘It’s
not
a good idea, Emma.’

I lower my eyes and dig out the business card, before holding it out to her. She doesn’t take it, so I place it on the table in front of her.

She hesitates, picks it up and reluctantly stuffs it in her jeans pocket. ‘I’m sorry, Em,’ she sighs, rubbing her forehead. ‘I didn’t mean to snap. Can we change
the subject?’

‘Of course. Think about it, though, won’t you?’

She nods.

‘So . . . how are things with Giles?’

She shrugs, then smiles. ‘Aw, he’s great fun. A gem.’

This lifts my spirits immensely.

She thinks for a second. ‘I’ve been wondering if I should go on one of those dating websites. You know, now I’ve got back into the swing of things.’

I open my mouth, horrified. ‘What about Giles?’

‘Giles and I aren’t serious, Emma,’ she says, clearly believing this wholeheartedly. ‘Ask him – he’d burst a lung laughing at the thought.’

I am about to contradict her, when I decide against it. I have a feeling that alerting Cally to Giles’s real feelings wouldn’t help him one bit.

‘Although,’ she muses, ‘you’re probably right. I won’t go online – that’s tacky when I’m, you know . . . physical with someone else. And,
I’ll give Giles one thing, he knows how to show a girl a good time. He’s great.’

I try to muster a smile. ‘He is, Cally. He really is.’

Cally’s situation – with Giles, with Pete – isn’t the only thing that puts me on edge when I leave her house. It’s Matt. As I get into the car to
drive home, I check my phone, noting that he hasn’t responded to the text I sent at nine o’clock this morning. I remind myself that his phone had been playing up and that
that
could be the reason.

Except this stupid, and probably insignificant, thing causes me to drive home with a head full of thoughts. Of the new low I hit at work today. Of Cally. Of Giles. But most of all of Matt. And
how he’s never chosen not to reply before.

By the time I’ve got home – noticing all the lights to his flat are off – and I’m Skyping Marianne, I have considered a vast array of reasons, including one particularly
grim possibility.

‘Exactly how put-off do you think a man would be if you’d
let yourself go
in the bikini-line department?’

Marianne stares blankly out of my laptop screen. ‘I love these deep and meaningful philosophical discussions.’

‘I’m serious – what do you reckon? Would you get away with a week’s worth of extraneous growth . . . a week and a half maybe?’

My sister looks at me as if I am a small child who has asked whether the moon is made out of Dairylea.

‘I would say that if a man had got that far into your knickers he wouldn’t be overly bothered about how coiffured you were down there. Should I even ask why you’re deliberating
over this?’

I scrunch up my nose. ‘Probably not. So what else is new?’

‘Brian’s had a meeting with a TV producer. They’re really interested in his script.’

‘Brilliant.’

‘Of course, you know how competitive these things are so we just don’t know what’ll happen. But it’s really encouraging.’

‘Good for him. Sounds like he deserves a break.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Hey, listen, can I ask you about something – in confidence?’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s about Cally.’

I tell her about my day, about Pete, about my certainty that he’s Zachary’s father – and, the real issue I want her advice on: Cally’s reaction.

‘You know what I think, Emma? I think you should just leave it.’

‘
Really?
’ I say, taken aback. ‘Don’t you think there’s some sort of moral obligation to—’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Even if—’

‘Drop it, Emma. This is Cally’s decision. She’s Zachary’s mother. It’s nothing to do with you.’

As I log off and check my phone for the umpteenth time, I can’t help wishing that people would stop surprising me.

Matt gets round to texting me at 11.15 p.m. I feel a tingle of indignation. I mean, I could be in bed, blissfully asleep, only to be unnecessarily roused by a man who has
failed to make contact for fourteen hours.

I know this is hardly Apollo trying to reassure the chaps in Houston, but that’s not the point. Nor is the fact that I’ve
actually
sat up feeling sorry for myself because
the only person who’s been in touch is Iain, from Totally Money, asking me if I want advice on ISAs.

I bristle, wondering for a split second if I should compose a text saying: ‘Sorry, I’m busy.’ But the idea of not seeing him is too much to bear, so I buckle under pressure and
type:

‘A will of iron, Emma,’ I mutter, pressing Send and trying not to analyse what this could be the start of. I never experienced this with Rob, not even a sniff of it. He was the
perfect boyfriend in many ways – constantly in touch, constantly attentive.

Perfect apart from the small matter of me not being in love with him. Something that’s categorically the case with Matt. Because despite – or maybe because of – these ripples
of anxiety, there’s simply no doubting what I feel for him.

It’s only at the moment his next text arrives that I realise exactly how potentially catastrophic this situation is. I pick up my phone with trembling hands and read the message with
incredulity.

It’s not that part of the text that worries me – nay, stabs me in the chest repeatedly with a rusty pitch fork. It’s the next bit:

I’ve been meaning to write and send my birthday party invitations for weeks. But I hadn’t counted on doing it at six in the morning, after only twenty minutes of
sleep all night. I’m dogged with tiredness but buzzing with anxiety as I place each one in an envelope and slam the stamp on it with my fist, like I’m Tom Cruise in the courtroom scenes
of
A Few Good Men
.

Eventually, I dress and tackle some chores, before deciding to go out to post the invitations. I’m standing at the letter box on the corner of Aigburth Road, when I hear someone calling my
name.

‘Emma!’

I spin round and focus on a figure that looks like it’s recently climbed out of a skip, shoplifted a designer suit and – judging by the wobbling – lost all use of the muscular
tissue in its thighs.

When Marianne and Johnny were dating he was one of the most naturally handsome men you could meet. Until the last two times I’ve seen him, he’s never been less than immaculate.
However, as he runs haphazardly across the road to reach me, he looks anything but.

‘Hey, you!’ he grins, squinting through red and sore eyes that look as if someone’s rubbed salt in them.

‘Johnny . . . hi.’ I try my best not to look alarmed.

‘Excuse the state of me – I’ve been home for a friend’s birthday and it turned into a big one. He was thirty – we had to help him celebrate in style.’

‘I can appreciate that – I’m thirty myself soon,’ I reply awkwardly. ‘I’m just posting my invitations.’

‘So how’s your sister?’ he says, diving straight to the only subject he’s ever interested in.

‘Fine. She seems to be enjoying Edinburgh and—’

‘I miss her like
hell
, you know,’ he says dramatically.

‘Oh,’ I reply, taken aback.

‘What’s this guy like? The one she’s seeing?’

‘Brian. I don’t know him well. He seems nice enough. She likes him.’

He looks at his hands, swaying. ‘I’m still in love with her.’

I open my mouth to speak, but fail to come up with anything appropriate.

‘Hey, where are you having your party?’ He focuses on the invitations.

‘Oh . . . Leaf.’

‘
Great
choice. I might pop along if I’m home. When is it?’

‘December the twenty-second. But—’

‘I’d better go,’ he says, and as he leans over to kiss me on the cheek I’m assaulted by a lungful of such powerful alcoholic fumes that if I struck a match I think
he’d turn into a human fireball. ‘Great to see you, Em. Miss ya lots!’

And, at that, he spins on his heels and bounces down the street, leaving me with a sincere hope that he’s too drunk to remember this conversation.

An hour later I’m back home and the bell rings. I answer the door as nonchalantly as is possible for a woman who has been torturing herself all night about what the man
she loves has got up to with his ex-wife.

The second I register Matt’s face, two things hit me: firstly, how deeply and passionately I feel for this man.

Secondly, how certain I am that my worst fears are coming true. His expression says everything without him having to say a word. The only man I’ve ever loved is leaving me for his
ex-wife.