The Wish List (11 page)

‘Lunchtime next Saturday. So: your advice. Where’s cool in town these days?’

I cross my arms. ‘Dad, you don’t need somewhere
cool
. You’re sixty-one years old. You need somewhere
nice
.’

‘If you say so,’ he mutters, clearly deciding to change the subject. ‘I believe you spoke to Brian on that Sky whatnot.’

‘
Skype
.’ Any technology created post-Sinclair Spectrum blows my dad’s brains. ‘I did, yes.’

‘Marianne seems very happy with him,’ he continues brightly. ‘What did you think?’

I hesitate. ‘Nice. And as you say, she’s happy.’

He stirs his tea as it becomes obvious we’re both thinking the same thing. ‘Not like Johnny, is he?’ Dad says quietly.

‘No, Dad,’ I reply, unable to deny it. ‘He’s not like Johnny at all.’

My economy drive – despite the hiccup with the washing powder – is going surprisingly well. That’s the bright side of spending Saturday night in, the one
benefit on which I’m trying to focus.

The downside is that I’m consumed by what Rob might be doing tonight; by whether he’s having a quiet night in, venturing out with friends, at a work event or – and I’m
going to
have
to recognise this possibility – spending the night with another woman.

The thought makes me feel queasy and is followed by a wave of frustration. Do I just simply want what I can’t have? Why has he become so unbelievably desirable now we’re no longer an
item?

The reality is, desire – in its simplest, physical form – was never a problem when it came to my feelings for Rob. It was (and is) absolutely clear that I fancied the pants off him.
But there’s a big difference between wanting to constantly tear someone’s clothes off them and wanting to marry them.

Maybe, with time, I’d have wanted to do both.

It wasn’t as if it was
only
about sex with him. I genuinely enjoyed Rob’s company – whether it was during a simple trip to the cinema or one of the glitzy fund-raising
events he was involved in.

I loved going to those with him. Part of that was about the razzle-dazzle – the champagne, the celebrity guests, the posh dresses. But they were also a reminder of how hard Rob must have
worked to be as successful as he was; he didn’t just hover around the edges of that world like I did – he was right at the centre of it.

Sometimes I think that the only problem with the idea of getting married to Rob was that it came far too soon. Before the thought had ever even occurred to me – after only months together.
Even he’d have to admit that was way too quick. Only, he never did admit that. I suspect, as far as Rob’s concerned,
weeks
wouldn’t have been too quick.

I drive home from Dad’s determined to put such thoughts out of my mind and focus on my evening of pure – albeit thrifty – indulgence. I’m going to have a Jo Malone bubble
bath (a Christmas present, your honour), a box of Maltesers (they were on offer) and an evening of cinematic pleasure in front of
The Notebook
on DVD. I don’t know why weeping in
front of a film cheers me up quite so much, but this one does it every time.

As I turn into my drive, I spot a removal van outside Rita’s old apartment.

‘Shit!’ I mutter, as my heartbeat triples in speed and I slam on the brakes and duck my head under the dashboard.

I
cannot
let my new neighbour see me. Not just because he has a detailed knowledge of my gynaecological bothers. Or because seeing him again would breach the terms of my one-night stand
(which involve sleeping with someone
you never see again
, not someone with whom you share a council tax band). But also because I’m very aware that he has a wife. And I want to see
her even less than I want to see him.

With my head in a brace position, I attempt to roll the car the final few feet into the drive, assuming that after two years of living here I can do it with my eyes shut.

It’s apparent this is an optimistic assumption when I smash a potted azalea and come alarmingly close to scraping the car against the wall in the manner of someone taking a potato peeler
to it.

I turn off the engine and listen. There are voices outside Rita’s old flat, instructions to removal men about where to put pieces of furniture. I refuse to move until they die down, and
even then it’s only to cautiously pop up my head to check the coast is clear.

Then I fling open the door, swing out my legs, slam it shut, and am about to race to the house, when I realise I’ve trapped my cardi. I manage one large stride before being catapulted,
Laurel and Hardy-style, onto the side panel and almost rupturing a kidney on my wing mirror. Muttering expletives, I stumble up the five steps to the main door, then I hear something that nearly
melts my brain.

‘Hey!’

Matt Taylor, my One-Night Stand, is walking towards me – waving, smiling, clearly counting on a pleasant introduction to his new neighbour.

Well, screw that.

Stacey might have been straight round there with a basket of her home-made satsuma jam, but not me. I stumble up the steps, holding my hand against my face, like Lady Gaga avoiding the paps,
before racing into the house and slamming the door.

I storm along the hall, feeling stress fall away from me the second I’m in the refuge of my flat. I open the Maltesers immediately, the ready meal now surplus to requirements.

For the remainder of the night, I feel like a prisoner in my own home. No matter how many Maltesers I pop, how many times I rewind the snog-on-the-lake bit in
The Notebook
, my mind is
firmly focused on two issues.

The first is the unsustainability of this. No matter how much I try to convince myself that perhaps he’s only renting and might move out in a week, I know that meeting Matt Taylor –
and his wife and children – is inevitable.

The removal van doesn’t leave until gone eight and, for an hour afterwards, my new neighbour is striding between his car and the house. Not that I’m looking. Oh, okay, yes I am. And
thinking about the night we spent together, and my knickers, and my hangover, and Marianne’s warnings – basically, my kaleidoscope of regrets.

Which brings me to the second object of tonight’s obsession. Rob. And how I wish with all of my heart that he was here with me tonight.

Despite my determination to have a restorative lie-in, I wake the next morning at 7.05 a.m. with an odd combination of grogginess and agitation. I throw off the covers, slip on
my flip-flops and pad to the kitchen to make tea and tidy up a bit.

I don’t know when de-cluttering became fashionable. I suspect it was courtesy of those
House Doctor
programmes that advocate removing all evidence of human life, leaving all the
ambience of a Travelodge room.

I open one of the cupboards in the kitchen and am shocked to discover a recyclables crate I completely forgot to empty after a girls’ night in a few weeks ago. I pick it up, avoiding stale
dregs of booze dribbling on the Cookie Monster PJs Dad bought me for Christmas, and stagger to the door.

I head straight to the back of the house, but when I reach the recycling bins I realise that something’s amiss. My wheelie bin isn’t there.
Somebody
has nicked it.

As soon as this thought flashes into my head I dismiss it. It’s hardly high value and wouldn’t be easy to pinch, even for a career criminal.

I tiptoe round the house, surveying the area – then glance next door and narrow my eyes. I don’t
know
that my new neighbour is responsible for this wrong-doing – but I
do know that it never happened before he moved in.

Stealthily, I make my way to the three-foot wall that separates the houses. I put down the crate, then jump over, dart underneath Rita’s old kitchen window and creep to the back. The bin
is outside his patio door. It’s unmistakably mine – I’d recognise the angle of the Bank Holiday Collection sticker anywhere.

I silently begin dragging it to its rightful home, wincing as it creaks. When I reach the three-foot wall again, I have a choice. I can either take it all the way to the front of the house and
pull it up the driveway in full view of . . .
anyone
. Or I can try to get it over the wall quickly.

Speed is the only option.

I attempt to heave it over the wall, contorting myself into a variety of positions that culminate in one that makes me resemble a constipated sumo wrestler. It’s when I’m convinced
this ungainly squat will allow me to pull the bin over on my back, that I am interrupted.

‘Need a hand?’

The bin slips from my grasp and I fall to my knees – arse in the air, pyjama bottoms shredded and a hideous sense of dread running through me.

It is not even seven thirty. I seriously hope today gets better.

He recognises me the instant I stand and look him defiantly in the eye.

It’s the only option. Trying to make my getaway is pointless. I’m going to have to face the man I shagged and ran from. With that horrible fact emblazoned on my brain I decide the
only tactic is to do as Scooby Doo would do: create a diversion.

‘This wheelie bin belongs to me.’

‘Does it? Sorry – it must have been the—’

‘Having to search for it at this time on a Sunday morning isn’t my idea of fun.’ Even as I’m saying it, my reaction feels over the top. I sound like a lunatic. But I
don’t care. Because the more I keep talking, the more he’ll be prevented from raising our liaison, email exchange, or the fact that I’ve been caught breaking and entering his
patio.

‘I’m sure. But you see—’

‘I don’t mean to be petty,’ I continue, contrary to evidence, ‘but you
have
misappropriated my property.’

He frowns, focusing on my pursed lips and the hands I appear to have placed on my hips as if I’m about to start doing ‘The Time Warp’. It’s then that I notice the smell
again. The irresistible, delicious scent literally oozing from this man. I take a step back from him.

‘I think you’ll find it belongs to the council,’ he replies calmly. His lip twitches and I can’t work out if he’s about to burst out laughing or tell me off. I am
now crimson. Even my ears are blushing.

‘And the council have assigned this wheelie bin to
my
flat.’

He looks over my shoulder to the overflowing crate of wine bottles. ‘Heavy night?’

I don’t rise to the bait. ‘I should stress that, had you wanted to borrow the wheelie bin, or even deposit your own recyclable goods in there, I’d have had no problem at all if
you’d asked.’

‘I see.’

‘As it is, not only have you removed my wheelie bin, you’ve also filled it with non-recyclable items.’

‘Right.’

‘Which means that if it’d gone out on a Tuesday, the bin men would’ve put a big sticker on it, announcing to the world that I was the sort of woman who placed non-recyclable
items in a bin designed solely for recyclable ones. And I am not that irresponsible.’

He stands staring, as if waiting for me to finish. Which I wish I’d done after the first sentence.

‘That’s all,’ I conclude.

‘Thank you. Well, first of all, I apologise that your wheelie bin ended up in my garden – it must have been a removal man, because it wasn’t me. But I’m genuinely sorry
for the inconvenience. Second, may I say that of all the welcomes I’ve received since moving in – the cards, the friendly hellos, the bottles of wine – yours is, without doubt,
the most . . . memorable. And I say that as someone who received four jars of satsuma jam.’

I open my mouth to speak, but he gets there before me.

‘As for you being reckless, irresponsible or anything remotely negative, I would never be so presumptuous about someone I hardly know.’ He holds my gaze meaningfully at the last
words.

‘Good.’

He looks at me again and an awkward silence hovers in the air.

I go to turn away, when he says something that makes my stomach flip over. ‘You know we spent the night together, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I hiss. ‘I also know you have children and are married and—’

‘Separated.’

‘What?’

‘I’m separated. My wife and I aren’t together.’

I straighten my back. ‘I see.’ This does alter things – and I’m relieved. But not enough to make me proud of having a one-night stand with my new neighbour. ‘Fine.
Good. But I’d still rather you didn’t mention . . . you know, to anyone.’

‘“You know”?’

I narrow my eyes and focus on him so hard I could be about to fire lasers from them. ‘
You
.
Know
,’ I repeat, then spin on my heels and march away, dragging my
wheelie bin back to its rightful home.

I’m almost overjoyed to get to work on Monday morning. ‘Almost’ because, while I’m sick of hiding in my flat and relieved to escape from it, being at
Little Blue Bus Productions today only underlines my growing suspicion of one thing: I really should get out of this job.

The irony is that Giles and I have a brilliant morning.

We’ve finished the script on a new series and had a meeting with the animators, who were effervescing with enthusiasm as they started sketching out ideas. As Giles and I stood over the
shoulder of one, James, we smiled at each other like proud, but dysfunctional, parents.

We achieved loads, were bursting with ideas and laughed so much – about everything from Giles’s comedy coffee spill when Denise from accounts walked in, to the slip of James’s
pencil that left a Bingbah looking like the bastard love child of a My Little Pony and Chewbacca from
Star Wars
.

It was one of those mornings that reminded me why I’ve loved this job for so many years – the creativity, the buzz, the energy you get from talented people doing what they do
best.

Then I got back to my desk.

Perry had embarked on an emailing frenzy, something that sends ripples of terror round the office each time it happens.

He goes underground for weeks, resulting in urgent and repeated requests going totally unanswered. Then you’ll log on and suddenly nineteen of the buggers will be sitting there in bold
type, sprinkled with random punctuation marks – Perry’s approach to exclamation marks can be compared only with that of a toddler with a tub of hundreds of thousands.