Be Careful What You Wish For (38 page)

A shudder runs up my spine and I pull my dressing-gown round me. Is that why I got that job? Not because of Gabe
but because I wished it?

Sinking to the floor, I stare at the pages in my hands. Until a few weeks ago I would have dismissed it as ridiculous, but a lot’s happened in those few weeks and now the idea is exploding like a firework in my mind, showering me with questions. Is this all my fault? Am I the one to blame? Did I make this happen? Gabe might have pulled the strings, but ultimately he pulled those strings because of me – because
I
wished for that job. If I hadn’t, none of this would have happened.

None of this would have happened.
As the voice repeats inside my head I’m reminded of Ed’s warning, ‘Be careful what you wish for,’ but this time I’m not dismissing him as a spoilsport. I’m finally listening to my big brother. And for once – just this once – I’m realising he was right. Be careful what you wish for –
because it might just come true.

And it has all come true, hasn’t it? But whereas a few weeks ago being offered my dream job, a huge salary and the kudos I’ve always dreamed of would have made me the happiest girl in the world, now I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it. It doesn’t mean anything. I didn’t get the job because of my talent, so I don’t deserve it. It’s an empty triumph that has cost me my friendship with Gabe. The realisation is like a kick in my stomach. What have you done, Heather? What
have
you gone and done?

Crouching on the floor, I close my eyes, trying to block everything out, but it’s like I’ve opened a door and all the wishes from the past weeks rush back to me. Little boomerangs of hopeful energy that I’ve chucked out into the universe to be granted, some big, some small, but they form into a long list. I try ignoring it, but I can’t. I’ve spent the last weeks on an amazing fun-filled shopping spree, wishing for this, that and the other, indulging my every whim, never stopping to think of the consequences. Now it’s time to face up to them: now I have to pay for it all.

Filled with apprehension, I work my way through the list.

I wished . . .

As I think about James my stomach lurches. I wished for him when I was with Jess in the changing room at Zara, and then – abracadabra – there he was, waiting for me in the wine section of Mrs Patel’s a few hours later. A romantic-comedy-loving, Dido-listening, three-hundred-thread-count-bedlinen-owning male, whose hobbies included foreplay, romance and talking about his feelings. And the icing on this perfect thirty-six-year-old man? Telling me he loved me. Only I didn’t love him.

And, boy, did we get one. A huge society wedding that will put the business firmly back in the black. Only it just so happens to be my ex-boyfriend’s.

It hurts even to think about this one as I’m pretty certain I did get all six numbers, but I wish I hadn’t. It makes getting my bag stolen with the ticket inside even worse. One minute there I was, spending my millions, living in a mansion, driving around in an Aston Martin, and the next it had all been snatched away and I had to spend the afternoon in a police station, instead of with Gabe on Hampstead Heath.

Yes, their spectacular final goal made sporting history and put a permanent smile on my brother’s face, but it’s also thrown his marriage into jeopardy. Instead of focusing on Lou and the baby he spends all his time glued to the TV watching football on SKY Sport. So much so that I’m worried my little niece or nephew is going to end up with divorced parents. And it’s all going to be Auntie Heather’s fault.

It was fantastic until I got a speeding ticket, three points on my licence and a sixty-pound fine – which I keep forgetting to pay.

Wretched, I haul myself to my feet and walk over to the window. Resting my elbows on the ledge I gaze out into the sunshine-filled garden. Which brings me on to the next wish on my list:

A bumble bee buzzes past and I watch him bounce from one flower to the next, trying to gather pollen. Except Mr Bumble Bee can’t find enough because all the plants are wilting – we haven’t had a drop of rain. Guilt stabs. Now I feel like a bumble-bee murderer.

If I hadn’t been wearing them last night I wouldn’t have slipped on the kitchen floor and hurt myself. Right on cue my swollen ankle twinges painfully and I rub it gingerly.

I thought I’d be really happy but it’s very disappointing. Only Jess has commented – but she said my boobs were looking a bit smaller and my face was drawn . . .

And it’s the same with
all
of my wishes, I realise suddenly. Yes, I got the perfect boyfriend, the dream job, the size ten figure and all the empty tube seats, front-of-queues, parking spaces and
pain-au-chocolats
I could ever wish for. But sitting here, with just a thudding hangover and a raw sense of regret to keep me company, all the gloss, fun and excitement of the last weeks have disappeared. And I’m left with the harsh truth.

None of my wishes have made me happy.

I bury my head in my hands. I don’t know what to do. It’s all such a mess. I want it all to go away, for everything to be how it was before, but how?

Then it comes to me in a flash.

Of course – the lucky heather.

Before, it seemed like a blessing, but now it’s like a curse. If I can find it and throw it away, everything will be OK. I can put everything back to how it was.

I jump to my feet. The last time I had it was at my interview – I put it in my pocket for good luck. The irony isn’t lost on me and I rush into the hallway, unearth my cream jacket from the layers of coats hanging by the door and thrust my hand into the pocket.

But it’s not there. I check the other side. Empty. I feel a pang of alarm. I can’t have lost it. I look on the floor in case it’s fallen out somewhere – and then notice something lying on the mat. A letter.

Distractedly I pick it up.

 

 

I take a moment to absorb each word, to savour every syllable. Except whereas once I would have been over the moon to open this letter, now I feel only bitterness and regret.

And so for the next twenty minutes I do one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I write a letter I never imagined I would write, turning down Victor Maxfield’s offer. In it I explain why: about Gabe, how I can’t take a job I don’t deserve, and how I still respect him as an editor. Then I fold it neatly into three, slide it into an envelope, and seal it and my fate. I feel a wave of relief. Now I can put it behind me like one of those mistakes I’m supposed to learn by. I can forget all about it. I can forget about Gabe.

Without washing my face, I pull on an old tracksuit and my Uggs and, with my sore ankle, trudge to the postbox on the corner. For once I don’t have to wish for a stamp: I have one in my purse. I stick it on to the letter and shove it through the slot. But I can’t let go. For a moment my resolve wavers. Then I open my fingers and hear it drop softly inside.

There. It’s over.

The burble of my mobile interrupts my mood. I reach into my pocket and glance at the display. Briefly, I hope it’s Gabe, but it’s my father. A warm glow engulfs me. If anyone can make me feel better, it’s Lionel.

‘Hi there,’ I say, feeling a rush of love for him.

‘Heather, it’s Rosemary.’

I feel a stab of disappointment, followed by irritation. What’s she bothering me for?

‘Something’s happened.’

An icy hand grasps my heart. ‘What is it?’

There’s silence, then—

‘Your father’s had a heart-attack.’

And the bottom falls out of my world.

 

I
don’t remember what happened next. My mind simply shut down.

To most people the thought of losing a parent is inconceivable – you can’t imagine it, you don’t want to imagine it. As they grow older you might think about it sometimes, but only briefly, and then you push it from your mind. But when it’s happened to you, it’s all too real. It can happen. It does happen.

It happened to me.

My mother, a vibrant redhead with a laugh that made you feel as if you’d been dipped in melted happiness, isn’t here to laugh any more. She’s gone, her life rubbed out like a child’s pencil drawing. And now the prospect that Lionel might—

Fear stops the word forming in my mind. I cling to the steering-wheel of my MG and force myself to stay focused on the car ahead.

I’m on the M4 on my way to Cornwall. I’m not sure how long I’ve been driving. Two, maybe three hours. Everything’s a blur, – vague memories of going back to the flat, asking a neighbour to feed Billy Smith, throwing some stuff into a bag. I glance into the rear-view mirror and catch sight of my haggard face, the deep crease etched between my eyebrows. I’m still wearing my ratty old tracksuit, and I think Lou must have called me as I know Ed’s on a flight back from the States, but I don’t remember speaking to her. In fact, I don’t remember much at all about the last few hours, except Rosemary urging, ‘Get here soon, Heather, you must get here soon,’ her voice filled with foreboding.

Pressing the accelerator pedal to the floor, I pull out to overtake the car in front of me. There’s a blasting horn, and I swerve sharply, narrowly missing a silver BMW I hadn’t noticed alongside me in the next lane. The driver races past, giving me the finger. Before, I would have yelled some obscenity, but now it barely registers. Instead I stare fixedly ahead, concentrating on making it to the hospital in time.

In time for what?

Until now I’ve been too afraid to acknowledge the unspoken fear, but huddled in my car on the stretch of grey motorway, I face up to it. I’m trying to make it to the hospital in time to say goodbye.

The journey from London to Cornwall is the longest, scariest one of my life. It’s late afternoon when I reach Newquay and see the signs for St Luke’s Royal Infirmary. But it’s not until my first glimpse of the hospital that I recognise it: this was where Mum had her chemo. Pulling into the car park, I gaze up at the ugly concrete building, a casualty of sixties architecture. I haven’t been here for nearly twenty years, yet I remember it as if it were yesterday.

I find what seems like the last space and, ignoring the ‘Pay & Display’ signs, I run across the hot Tarmac, weaving through row upon row of cars, the bright sun glinting off their bonnets. Indignation bites. How can the sun be shining when inside that building my father is fighting for his life? The sky should be grey and there should be a fine, persistent drizzle that will dampen my clothes and make me feel wretched. Instead of just numb.

I hurry towards the automatic doors – then falter. Visitors are arriving with flowers and the obligatory grapes, and I move sideways so that they can enter. I need to go in too, but it’s as if I’m twelve, visiting Mum – so scared that I’ve started wetting the bed again.

‘Y’okay, love?’ One of the visitors, a middle-aged lady with a bunch of pink chrysanthemums, is looking at me with concern and I see that I’m white-knuckling the railing.

‘Er, yeah, I’m fine – thank you. I just needed a bit of fresh air.’

‘It’ll be all right,’ she murmurs, giving my arm a supportive pat, before turning away. I watch as she disappears through the doors and drawing strength from this stranger’s gesture, I release my hand from the railing. Dad made a promise never to say goodbye and neither will I. Gathering my courage, I go inside.

The hospital is a labyrinth of wards and corridors, but finally I’m directed to the intensive-care unit and find Rosemary sitting on a plastic seat in the corridor. Handbag in her lap, she’s staring straight ahead, mouth pursed, jaw tight, face devoid of emotion. She turns as she hears my footsteps.