The Wish List (36 page)

I turn to look at Asha and it’s immediately apparent that this image isn’t one she expected either. Her face has turned an insipid shade, the sort of tone no skin should have while
its owner is still breathing.

Asha can’t bring herself to speak – and I’m pondering what I can say to break the silence when Toby lifts the boy down from his shoulders and places his arm round his wife,
stroking her belly and smiling tenderly as she says something.

He takes out his keys and unlocks the car, kissing her on the lips then gathering up the children and piling them into the back. They are gone before Asha has caught her breath.

It’s a snapshot, of course. It’s feasible that we’ve caught them at an exceptional moment. They could have just won the lottery and put down a deposit on a starter villa in St
Lucia for all we know. It doesn’t matter. This fleeting moment has smashed into a million pieces the picture Toby painted Asha; the one she painted us.

‘Oh Asha,’ Cally says, placing her hand on our friend’s shoulder. Asha’s face is a picture of dejection, her eyes dull with confusion and unfolding realisation.
‘Sweetheart, you always knew he had a family,’ she adds softly.

She nods, fixing her gaze on the middle distance, her jaw clenched.

‘I’m sorry,’ Marianne adds.

I put my arm round her, her hunched shoulders trembling under my touch as she covers her face with her hands. It’s a terrible sight. My beautiful, brave friend – former teen peace
activist and the tough-as-nails linchpin of a centre that’s helped thousands of women – reduced to this.

It’s obvious none of us know quite what to say or do, not yet. We all know it’ll be the start of an evening of tears and consolation, one that’ll involve wine, recriminations
and enough slagging off to leave Toby’s ears in flames.

But, for now, it’s hard to know what to say.

‘Asha, I’m so sor—’

Before my words have escaped, something changes. Her back straightens. She fills her lungs with cold sea air, wipes salty tears from her cheeks and turns to us with burning eyes.

‘So am I. Truly.’

She opens her bag and produces a mobile phone, the one Toby bought her. Sniffing back tears, she sets about composing a text with shaking hands as she marches to the railings of the promenade,
wind whipping back her tears. Cally and I follow and reach her side as she presses Send.

‘Are you okay?’ Cally asks.

Asha looks at the phone and nods, her expression giving away nothing. Then she leans back with her arm stretched out behind her, in the stance of the teenage athlete she once was. When she lets
go of the mobile, it hurtles through the air like a torpedo – until it crashes into the water and sinks, gone for ever.

‘What did your text say?’ I ask.

She replies through quivering lips. ‘“It’s over.”’

And, for the first time, I’m actually convinced it is.

‘I really feel for Asha,’ says Cally, slumping on her kitchen chair. Asha insisted on being alone for a little while. So Marianne and I dropped her off at home
before driving over to Cally’s place to say hello to Cally’s mum, who’d taken Zachary for a pizza while we were out. Now that she’s left – and Zachary’s in bed
– one subject dominates the conversation. ‘I know I’ve given her a hard time about Toby, but today was awful.’

‘I think she needed to see that, horrendous as it was,’ Marianne points outs.

‘And at least she’s done the right thing,’ I add. ‘I think he’s out of her life now – his poor wife doesn’t have that luxury.’

Marianne pushes out her chair and stands up. ‘Cally, can I use your loo?’

‘Of course. You know where it is.’

As Marianne disappears upstairs, I take the opportunity to bring up a subject that’s been on my mind since the start of the week. ‘I saw Pete again.’

Cally freezes. ‘You didn’t say anything, did you?’

‘Of course not. I suppose . . . I wondered if you’d put any more thought into it?’

She gets up and goes to fill the kettle. ‘Em, can we drop this? It’s more complicated than you think.’

I look at my hands. ‘Obviously, it’s your call. You’re probably right. But I need to tell you, Cally, that I was with Dad the other day, talking about my mum. There are a
million things I want to know about her that I can’t know because she’s gone. Tiny things, from the perfume she wore to whether she liked
Gone with the Wind
. The idea that
Zachary’s not going to know about his own father when potentially he
could
—’

I hear a rustle and realise Marianne is at the door. I stop talking instantly, looking as guilty as if I were a vegetarian clutching a bacon roll at two in the morning, and glance at Cally,
expecting her to change the subject. She simply stares at Marianne.

‘Shall I tell her?’ Cally asks my sister.

‘Tell me what?’ I look between the two of them.

Marianne sits down and nods. Cally joins her. And it’s patently obvious that they both know something I don’t.

‘Zachary’s father, Emma . . . it’s not Pete,’ Cally tells me.

I frown. ‘So who is it?’

She takes a deep breath and her jaw tenses as she looks at Marianne. ‘It’s Johnny.’

I’d always considered myself a good judge of character. Now I’m starting to think my people radar is about as effective as candyfloss toothpaste.

I glance at Marianne incredulously. ‘Johnny cheated? With
Cally
?’ I turn to Cally furiously.

‘I didn’t cheat,’ she protests as I feel rising indignation on Marianne’s behalf. ‘It wasn’t like that. It was—’

‘She
didn’t
,’ Marianne interrupts. ‘Zachary was conceived while Johnny and I weren’t together. That three months we had apart in the summer of
2009.’

‘I’m not proud of it, Emma, believe me,’ Cally protests, rubbing her head. ‘It happened when I bumped into Johnny one Friday night in Liverpool while I was out with work.
He was home for the weekend and we stumbled across each other in a bar in Slater Street. I was drunk. And I convinced myself it was okay because he and Marianne had split up a couple of months
earlier. I didn’t know they were going to get back together.’

I say nothing, but feel anger rising inside me. The fact that Marianne and Johnny had technically broken up might be a relevant factor – but doesn’t let Cally off the hook entirely
as far as I’m concerned.

‘You must’ve known there was a chance they’d get back together,’ I point out. Cally drops her eyes.

‘Don’t give her a hard time, Emma,’ Marianne tells me. ‘She and I went through all this twelve months ago. I don’t feel resentful, I promise you.’

‘What happened twelve months ago?’ I ask.

Marianne takes a deep breath. ‘That was when I found out.’

‘Before then I’d told no one who Zachary’s father was,’ Cally tells me. ‘There were two reasons for that. The first was because Johnny convinced me not to. He
wanted nothing to do with our baby from the beginning, particularly given that he and Marianne had just got back together when I found out I was pregnant. The second was precisely
because
they were a couple again. As much as I thought Johnny was a tosser for wanting nothing to do with me or the baby, I didn’t want to ruin things for Marianne.’

‘What happened last December?’ I repeat.

Cally looks at her hands. ‘As time went on, I made several attempts to contact Johnny, to change his mind about seeing Zachary – about even recognising his existence. He ignored them
all. Then, in the run-up to Christmas, I started to feel a real sense of injustice. It wasn’t even about any maintenance I was entitled to – which I’ve never had. But Zachary
did
exist, whether Johnny liked it or not.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I thought if I could go and speak to him face to face, it would help. I took the day off work while Zachary was at nursery and got the train to London, to his flat. I had no idea if
he’d be in or not. It turned out he was in.’

‘What happened?’

Cally looks at my sister.

‘I walked in on a blazing row,’ Marianne says. ‘As the story unfolded, the Johnny standing before me just became horrible, a bully – someone who wanted nothing to do with
his own child. I was in shock, of course. But it was more than the revelations. I was looking at this man and I realised I didn’t love him any more. I didn’t even like him. I
hadn’t liked him for a long time.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

‘Johnny wasn’t the dream boy you thought he was, Emma,’ Marianne tells me. ‘At least not by the end. I’ve never said anything because, frankly, I was no dream girl
either. All those parties . . . the decadence . . . there was a dark side to it.’

I frown. ‘In what way?’

‘Johnny was . . .
is
being destroyed by cocaine. He’s a mess. He’s totally dependent and is spending a fortune. If I’m entirely honest, there was one time when I
could see myself going the same way.’

My jaw drops.

‘It was Johnny who introduced me to it. His circle of friends became my circle of friends. Except they weren’t real friends. It was amazing fun to begin with. There’s nothing
like your first experience of coke. And that’s the problem. It’s never as good after that, so you take more.’

She swallows. ‘That time we split up – the summer of 2009 – was after I’d collapsed one day and been rushed to hospital. Emma, I felt like I was lucky to be alive.
Unfortunately, Johnny didn’t even come to collect me. He was out with his friends and I virtually crawled home to recuperate. That was when I dumped him – the first time. I still loved
him, but I also hated him. It was then that Cally met him and—’

‘I’m sorry, Marianne,’ Cally whispers, lowering her eyes.

‘You didn’t know we were going to get back together,’ Marianne reassures her. ‘I never should have. And after we did, it never worked – I refused to touch any drugs
after what had happened. Johnny, on the other hand, couldn’t get enough. We’d become different people.’

‘But why did the fact that Johnny is Zachary’s dad remain secret after last Christmas? Once Marianne knew, why couldn’t everyone know?’

‘That was Cally’s choice,’ Marianne replies, looking at her.

Cally suddenly looks like every ounce of energy has drained from her body. ‘I have no idea whether I’ve done the right thing. I have no idea whether I’m
still
doing
the right thing. And maybe things will change in the future. But I thought this: do I want my son growing up knowing that there’s a father out there who’s actively chosen to have
nothing to do with him? Or is it better to think his dad is someone we could simply never track down?’

‘I see what you mean.’

‘I may change my mind as time goes on, I don’t know,’ Cally continues. ‘But, after Marianne left him, Johnny’s attitude was almost
worse
. It was like he
blamed Zachary for it. As far as he’s concerned, he wishes that Zachary had never been born.’ Tears swim in her eyes as she looks up at me and I reach over and clutch her hand.
‘And I don’t want my baby boy growing up knowing that. I really don’t.’

It’s gone ten when I arrive home, and I’m aching to feel Matt’s arms round me. I leap out of the car and am on my way to his flat when the door opens and he
steps out.

His smile is the loveliest sight in the world, dissolving my worries instantly.

‘I was on my way to see you,’ I say.

‘My place or yours?’ he laughs.

‘Mine’s as good as anywhere,’ I shrug.

Inside, he takes me in his arms and kisses me while the rest of the world melts into nothing. I am swollen with desire as he runs his hands down my back, his mouth on my neck.

We stumble into my bedroom and fall into bed. My body is alive with lust . . . but not only that. Three words light up in my head, one by one, like tiny fireworks exploding.

I.

LOVE.

YOU.

I repeat them internally over and over again, for no other reason than I can’t help it. This isn’t about the sex. This is about a man I love, so passionately and wholly, that I can
barely think about anything else.

A man who’s leaving.

‘What’s up?’ Matt lifts up my chin and kisses my cheeks.

‘Nothing. It’s been a difficult week.’

And I sink my lips gently into his, because this is not a conversation I can have.

The following day is when we put the final touches to the most significant presentation in Little Blue Bus’s history. We haven’t managed to do a pilot like we
should have done, in my opinion (and I’m allowed one of those now I’m creative director). But we have put together some seriously brilliant original scripts – and, courtesy of the
talented animators with whom we work, will be presenting the concepts in a way only a corpse could fail to be excited by.

It’s a true team effort – one in which the business side of things is just as important as the creative side, hence my requirement to nod as if I know what I’m talking about
when our producer, Julian, gets out his spreadsheets. I hadn’t thought it’d be easy. Although I admit I’d hoped I might be home before midnight after working so hard that my
eyeballs feel as though they’ve been scrubbed.

‘Good work, everyone,’ Perry Snr says as we bid each other goodnight and head to the car park. I’m about to respond when he explodes into a coughing fit, like his lungs have
gone on a sudden campaign of strike action.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

He nods stoically. ‘Bad chest, that’s all.’

I think nothing of it until the next morning, when I am attempting to remove a foundation splodge from my blouse at 7.25 a.m. and a text arrives from his son.

‘Oh
shit
,’ I groan, wondering how many exclamation marks a man has to use before the state recognises him as clinically insane.

Have you ever had one of those mornings when, despite having prepared everything, nothing goes your way?

After abandoning the blouse and finding another one, I try to curl my hair, but my tongs fizzle and die halfway through. I decide to attempt a stylish up-do instead, like one I saw in
Glamour
on Penelope Cruz. Except, despite scouring the flat like a demented sniffer dog, I can find no Kirby grips.