The Wish List (37 page)

All I
can
find, at the bottom of a drawer, is the item I won in a Christmas cracker: a plastic hair clip with pink feathers and lights that haven’t ceased flashing in the two
years since I won it. I throw it on the floor, stamp on it violently to halt the flashing – then pluck out the feathers as if it’s something I’m about to fill with sage-and-onion
stuffing and roast at 180 degrees Celsius.

I then position it carefully – hiding the offensive parts (i.e. all of it) behind a mass of hair – and spray on enough Extreme Hold hairspray to support a set of shelves.

This turns out to be just the start. The tights I left out last night develop the sort of ladder you could use if you were cleaning windows upstairs, I sneeze when applying mascara and, worse
than that, half of my ‘lucky’ underwear goes inexplicably missing, meaning that – having not unloaded the washing machine yesterday – I’m forced to wear a crap bra
with my Elle Macpherson Intimates knickers.

Predictably, I’m late when I arrive at the Channel 6 offices. And after leaping over the barrier in the car park, sprinting to the office and announcing myself to the receptionist, I
finally meet Perry
just
as he’s being shown to the presentation room and clearly in a lather as regards my whereabouts.

‘Here she is!’ he grins.

‘Great,’ says one of the three executives he’s with. ‘We’ll do the introductions in a minute. After you.’

‘Thank you,’ I reply coolly, heading into the room. I have taken but two steps when I feel Perry’s hand on my shoulder, tugging something from the back of my collar like a
magician pulling a set of hankies from his sleeve.

‘Emma,’ he hisses, thrusting something in my hand. ‘Is this yours?’

I unclench my fist and examine the item.

I appear to have found my Elle Macpherson bra after all.

The presentation is due to last for two hours and there is so much adrenalin pumping through my body I feel ill. As I’m introduced to the panel one by one, their titles
seem to get ever more intimidating: Creative Executive Producer . . . Commissioning Editor . . . and the head honcho himself: Controller. I’m trembling as I shake hands, and the overriding
thought dominating my brain is this: we are
not
going to win this without Perry Snr. It’s just not possible.

The fact that proceedings began with my underwear flopping out of the back of my suit – and that the main event involves Perry Jnr jumping up and down like there’s a hopscotch grid
underfoot – don’t help.

‘Thanks for coming, both of you,’ begins Mark McNally, the Controller. He’s in his early forties, has a formidable reputation in the industry, and, since he won the top job at
Channel 6 last year, he has made sweeping changes.

‘I should start by saying that the team has stressed how much they’ve loved working with you for the last few years.
Bingbah
has been a great success. But, as you know,
ratings are slipping. Our young viewers – and advertisers – want something new. You’ll already know that the competition from overseas is strong. All those factors meant we had no
choice but to throw open this tender.’

He clasps his hands. ‘We don’t want to make changes for the sake of it. However, you’re the last company we’re seeing and, I’ll be honest, some of the other
presentations have . . .
excited
us. A lot. If we’re to commission another series of
Bingbah
, you need to be very persuasive.’

He looks at Perry, who, thirty seconds ago, was leaping about hyperactively but is now sitting as though cryogenically frozen, like one of those people in
Awakenings
. I dig him in the
ribs.

‘Of course!’ he splutters.

Mark McNally smiles and opens his arms. ‘Well, would you like to show us what you’ve got?’

I glance at Perry. This is his part of the pitch, but he’s immobile again. Just his lips are moving – slightly; he is muttering. The next few seconds are excruciating. I feel like a
teacher waiting in the wings during the school nativity play, trying not to prompt anyone’s lines, determined to let them have a go at getting it right themselves.

Only, Perry’s not going to get it right. It’s obvious. And there’s nothing else for it. I’m going to have to wing it.

‘Of course,’ I say, reaching over to the laptop to start the presentation. ‘Um . . . where do I start . . .’

Perry’s hand is suddenly on mine. I glance up and he smiles. ‘I’ve got this, Emma,’ he says.

‘Sure?’ I whisper.

He nods.

Reluctantly, I remove my hand and sit back, wondering how far exactly the power of prayer can get you.

The next couple of days at work are strange. We’re in limbo, with no idea whether our future is secure, yet with no other option but to do as the fridge magnets advise:
keep calm and carry on.

Giles has bombarded me with questions about how the pitch went, but the honest answer to that is that I don’t know.

All I know is that Perry surprised me. He was manic, of course. And I spent most of the time trying to rein him in – something that had limited success given the number of times he kept
returning to an idea he’d had about a group of gardening implements that come to life.

Aside from that, he was surprisingly good. As – I think – was I. And the presentation, complete with some brilliant work from the animators, was genuinely spine-tingling. Yet, am I
certain we convinced Mark McNally that we were capable of achieving everything he wanted? Far from it.

‘Couldn’t you work out anything from their body language?’ Giles asks, shoving an entire Hobnob in his mouth. I resist the temptation to enquire what his next trick is.

‘I was at a pitch – not on a date. The truth is, I don’t know. I suppose I’m . . . quietly confident.’

The second the words are out of my mouth I regret them. I have literally no idea if they’re true – and now I’ve made Giles sit back in his seat, relieved, when frankly
he’s in no position to be.

Still, we potter away on what turns out to be some of the best work of the series – simply because there’s nothing else to do to take our mind off the pitch. And, of course, the
other thing that’s burning me up – Matt.

There are now eight days until my birthday – and the day Matt leaves, a thought that makes my stomach clench every time I think it.

I turn to my computer and realise I’ve got two last-minute replies to my birthday invitations. Neither is from Rob, who is obviously sticking to his guns on the idea of not being friends.
Just before I leave work – at five p.m. for the first time in ages – I compose a short email.

Then I log onto Facebook and send another – to Johnny.

I know it’s brutally short and to the point. I can’t bring myself to feel he deserves anything more.

Matt’s kids are with their mum tonight and we’ve arranged to go to dinner in Lark Lane. I stop off at the supermarket on the way home to get some shampoo, and
I’m waiting to pay, when I hear a blood-curdling shriek from behind.

‘Arrgh!’

‘Little fuck—’

The initial scream made me jump. The language – and the ferocity with which it’s delivered – forces a gasp from me.

I spin round and register a little boy being hoisted up by the collar and smacked hard on the back of the legs by a large snarling bloke doing a good impression of the sort of dogs that are
seized by the local council.

A fellow shopper steps in and tells the big guy to ‘take it easy’, but he just shrugs him off and marches away, dragging the little boy. It’s at that point that I realise who
the little boy is. ‘Joshua!’ I fling the shampoo on the conveyor belt and march over, as instinct overtakes rational thought.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ I blurt out, my neck burning.

‘
Emma!
’ squeals Joshua, as he wriggles away and runs to me, clutching my leg.

‘It’s okay, sweetie.’ I stroke his hair as he sobs into my side.

‘And who are you?’ The strong French accent is dripping with contempt. I don’t need to ask the same question of him.

‘I’m Emma,’ I reply, trying to keep my voice level. ‘I’m Joshua’s neighbour and a . . . friend of the family.’

He looks at me blankly, unimpressed. ‘Yeah. Nice to meet you,’ he says sarcastically. ‘Joshua – ’ere.’ He jerks his head, ordering him back like a disobedient
animal.

Joshua doesn’t move.

‘
’Ere!
’

Guillaume reaches over and drags Joshua towards him with such force that the little boy almost falls over again. He stands quivering next to Guillaume while my mouth falls open in shock.

‘We’re going.’ He flings down the shopping, turns and grabs Joshua by the arm, and begins marching him away.

Joshua’s tiny legs struggle to keep up, as my mind starts spinning. Shoppers look on uncomfortably, assuming that Guillaume is his father, but still wondering if he’s crossed a line
sufficiently to be challenged. Suddenly, something inside me snaps.

‘
Hey! Wait!
’

Guillaume stops and looks at me.

I grab my phone and start dialling Matt’s number, simply because I don’t know what else to do.

‘I think Joshua ought to come with me,’ I ramble, as my phone starts ringing.

‘Yes! I’m going with Emma!’ Joshua cries, attempting to run to me – until he’s dragged back.

Guillaume glares at me. ‘
I
’ve been put in charge of him. By his mother.’

‘Mummy’s not back till later.’

Guillaume slaps Joshua around the ear, sharp and hard.

‘
Stop hitting him!
’ I hiss furiously – as Matt’s phone goes straight to messages and a lady next to me tells her friend that she’s going to get a security
guard.

‘Matt. Will you ring me back, please? I need to talk to you. Urgently.’

As I finish the call, Guillaume turns on me. ‘Who the ’ell do you think you are, crazy woman? This is not
your
kid. You are a neighbour. You are
nothing
.’

‘Well,
you
are not allowed to hit him,’ I say firmly.

He leans in and whispers, ‘I’ll do what the fuck I want.’

‘And stop using language like that – he’s
four
, for God’s sake.’

Joshua dives towards me and tries to escape, the sight of which makes Guillaume explode. ‘Little shit. You do as you’re told. Now
get ’ere
.’

He drags the little boy into the car park, while passers-by look on, assuming Josh has been naughty but still horrified, and with no more idea of what to do than I have. I mean, this man has
been left in charge of Joshua by his mother. He hasn’t kidnapped him.

Joshua is sobbing as he’s strapped into his car seat and I watch helplessly.

‘When is his mother back?’ I demand.

Guillaume turns to look at me, appalled. ‘In ’alf an ’our, if you must know. Although it’s nothing to do with you.’

He slams the car door as a security guard finally appears at my side and Joshua, weeping in the darkness, is driven into the night.

Every inch of colour leaves Matt’s face as he listens silently. I’m trying not to be dramatic, but it’s difficult to play this down. For a second, I even
wonder if telling him is the right thing to do. He is distraught.

‘He actually
hit
him?’ He is incredulous as he sinks onto a stool in his kitchen.

‘I’m really sorry, Matt. I didn’t know what to do. Should I have tried to bring him here with me? God, I should, shouldn’t I?’

‘How? The guy’s huge, Emma. You couldn’t have stood up to him, unless you’ve got a black belt in something you haven’t told me about.’

I sigh. ‘You must’ve wondered what my message was all about.’

‘What message? My phone broke this morning – it’s being fixed at the shop so I’m using a replacement.’

‘I phoned you to ask what I should do. I was in a total panic.’

He stands up and wraps his arms round me, squeezing me into him. ‘Emma, you did everything you could.’ He pulls back. ‘I need to go and speak to Allison.’

‘Do you think she knows what Guillaume’s capable of?’

‘No. I don’t,’ he says firmly. ‘Say what you want about my ex-wife, but the one thing I’m certain of is that she adores her children. If she had even an inkling
that Guillaume – anyone – wasn’t treating the boys right, she’d be devastated. She won’t stand for it, I know it.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ I offer.

‘I don’t want to drag you into this.’ Then he hesitates. ‘Although, perhaps if Guillaume denies it . . .’

We hardly say anything on the way there. Matt stares silently ahead, concentrating on the road, as an avalanche of hideous thoughts tumbles through my head.

The house is an attractive Victorian semi, surrounded by neatly manicured lawns and unnaturally square hedges. There are two cars on the drive; I recognise the expensive one as
Guillaume’s. Matt rings the bell and waits, crossing his arms and tapping his fingers impatiently.

As an internal door is unlocked there is a burst of music and laughter, followed by footsteps. Then the main door opens and Allison is there, in jeans and a cashmere jumper, her auburn hair
tumbling over her shoulders. She looks at me first, then glances at Matt. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I need to talk to you, Allie,’ he says urgently.

Allison looks at me again, presumably wondering who I am.

‘This is—’

‘Emma,’ she finishes. ‘I know. The kids talk about her.’

Matt shifts uncomfortably, then glances into the house behind her. ‘Where are they?’

‘Inside,’ she shrugs.

‘With Guillaume?’

She folds her arms. ‘Of
course
with Guillaume.’

Matt slows his breathing deliberately. ‘Allie – it’s him I need to talk to you about. Emma saw something at the supermarket this evening that was . . . very
disturbing.’