The Wish List (25 page)

‘Sure you don’t want a drink?’ he asks, getting up for a beer.

‘I’m fine, honestly.’

Rob and I have hardly said six sentences to each other in the hour since the programme finished. We’ve sat here – cuddling, admittedly – but singularly failing to find
something interesting enough to bother mentioning. I’m twenty-nine years old and behaving with this man as if we’ve been together for fifty years.

‘Does it bother you that we sometimes have long breaks in conversation?’ I ask when he returns, flipping open his beer bottle.

‘Not really,’ he shrugs. ‘That’s normal for couples, isn’t it?’

And it strikes me that even if that might be what some couples do, it’s not what
I
want to do.

If I wanted to sit here in silence I’d do it by myself. The confusion and contradictions bombarding my brain suddenly overwhelm me. I feel a momentous urge to escape the claustrophobia of
this room, and I don’t just mean to empty my bladder.

I slink down as Rob shudders with laughter at something on TV, and I gaze out of the window, feeling my heart race.

How
bad
am I exactly – for doing what I’m about to do?

I have a feeling I already know the answer to that one.

It’s been a few months since I was on a plane and the experience does little to quell my unease.

‘You know it’s compulsory to have a G&T on Icelandair flights?’ Matt tells me.

I look round. ‘Nobody else is having one,’ I point out.

‘They must be waiting for us to kick off proceedings,’ he smiles, ordering the drinks from the stewardess. She’s superhumanly attractive, with a curtain of pale satin hair and
ethereal skin – like a Cliniqued version of Galadriel from
The Lord of the Rings
.

‘I’m really glad you decided to come, Emma,’ Matt says. ‘It’s my mission to ensure you don’t regret this.’

We clink glasses and I look out of the window into a cloudless sky, pondering how impossible that mission is.

I already regret this. I regretted it the second I hit the button to pay for the flight. And I regretted it doubly – triply – during the ominous pause on the phone after I told Rob
where I was going while he was away in Barcelona.

I assured him that there was nothing going on between Matt and me, that we were just good friends and that the only reason I was going was that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to
fulfil a dream I’ve had since I was a teenager. He told me he understood. He sounded like somebody was holding a corkscrew against his balls at the time.

Which only makes me feel worse. It would’ve been so much easier if he’d flown into an unreasonable jealous rage. As it is, he simply slipped into a
reasonable
sulk, one I
feel so guilty about I actually considered calling the whole thing off even as I was going through Passport Control.

On the plus side, I’m literally here for just two nights. Fifty-one hours, to be precise. That’s not much, is it? Particularly since Rob’s in Barcelona. It’s not as if
I’ve left him at home by himself.

I
might
have got away without even mentioning it. Which clearly wasn’t an option. Because that would have led to me feeling even more of a bitch than I already feel.

It’s a bone-chilling minus two degrees Celsius when we step out of the airport and join a queue for the Flybus. ‘I’ll be glad to get into the warmth of the
hotel,’ I say, clapping my gloves together.

‘Actually, we’re having a stop-off,’ he tells me, as the bus draws up.

I frown. ‘What sort of stop-off?’

He grins. ‘I hope you brought your swimsuit.’

The only Blue Lagoon with which I’d been familiar was the one in that racy Brooke Shields film from the early eighties. I’ve never watched the whole thing; I simply
landed on it while channel hopping when I was about thirteen. Dad was in the room and I can remember little except making a sharp exit for a fictitious wee at the bit where they get fruity under
the coconut palms. In those days (and still now, for that matter), I’d have preferred a masked gunman to burst into the living room than be confronted by the sight of a stray televisual
nipple in the presence of my father. What I do recall is that the film was set in the South Pacific, which, despite my minimal geographical expertise, I’m pretty sure is hotter than here.

Matt’s suggestion, therefore – that we go frolicking in swimwear
outdoors
– must be a joke. I’d need de-icer to peel off my bikini afterwards. Yet he seems one
hundred per cent serious.

‘Exactly how many drinks did you have on that plane?’ I mutter as I follow him to the entrance of what looks like a very posh spa.

‘See you in there,’ he grins, heading into the men’s changing rooms.

As I pull on my bikini, I get a pang of self-consciousness about the idea of Matt seeing me in a state of undress, especially since I haven’t had a chance to fake-tan my legs.

That thought is obliterated entirely by another priority when I step outdoors: I can hardly catch my breath it’s so cold. The chill is penetrating; my bones are virtually rigid from it. I
only realise I’m not moving – frozen into inaction – when Matt grabs me by the hand and we run to the water, skipping down the steps and giggling as we sink in.

As my body submerges into the silky warmth, it’s like entering the hottest, most exquisite bath of my life. I close my eyes, breathe in the clean air and feel a sense of pure,
instantaneous relaxation.

‘What do you think?’ Matt asks.

I open my eyes and take in my dazzling surroundings properly for the first time. Encircled by snow-capped volcanic rocks, we’re in a huge pool of steaming water that is totally opaque and
the sort of colour you’d get if you mixed Horlicks with Blue Curaçao.

‘It’s . . . indescribable,’ I laugh, shaking my head. ‘Amazing.’

‘The lagoon stays at an almost constant thirty-nine degrees,’ Matt tells me. He’s on his back, floating about three feet away from me, as water laps over his torso.

‘I’ve never known anything like it.’ My enthusiasm feels insufficient, but I’m in such a state of awe I can do no better.

‘I’m glad you approve. Here – follow me.’

We swim to the other side of the pool, to a bank of what Matt tells me is silica mud. He picks up a handful of the creamy white goo and it oozes through his fingers.

‘This stuff is meant to be good for your skin. You put it on like a face pack.’

I smirk. ‘Go on, then.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘I meant for
you
. Beauty treatments aren’t my thing. I’m beyond help.’

I pick up a handful and pretend that I’m about to apply it to my face, but at the last second smear a great big blob on his cheek. ‘
There
. You’ll look like Brad Pitt
by the morning.’

He shakes his head, suppressing a grin as he wipes it off with mock disdain. ‘Thank you
so
much, Ms Reiss. Here we are in these serene surroundings – and you’re
behaving like it’s Splashy World.’

‘Ha! Splashy World sounds like my kind of place.’

Matt and I stay in the water for hours, emerging only to cool down occasionally (which doesn’t take long, as you might imagine). As we float, sipping a champagne cocktail from the swim-up
bar, I can think of no other experience in my life during which I’ve been so simultaneously relaxed and exhilarated.

And . . . something else. A feeling I’m trying hard not to submit to, but which is proving virtually impossible to resist.

When Matt takes my hand, when he guides me through the water, when his skin brushes mine . . . I have an overwhelming desire to slip my arms round his neck and wrap my legs round his body.
I’m drawn to him in a way that’s almost magnetic, watching as he glides through the water, a vision of physical perfection.

It’s not just the fact that he’s nearly naked, although I can’t deny that the taut stomach and bronzed arms help. It’s something more than that. It’s difficult to
put my finger on what it is, except to say this: I’m unable to take my eyes off him.

Hours later, we finally step out of the pool and run to the doors, wrapping ourselves in the fluffy blue towels waiting inside. As Matt and I go our separate ways to get changed, I make a
concerted effort not to look at the ripple of muscles in his back. I push open the changing-room door instead and compose myself. It must be something in the water.

There is a problem with the room. I’m not talking about a leaky roof or dodgy tiling. On the contrary, I suspect every room in the Hotel 101 is as gorgeous as the rest of
the place. With the stripped floors, uber-cool furnishings and flickering log fires, you couldn’t fault it. Except for one fact, about which Matt is mortified.

‘Obviously, I’ll take the floor,’ he insists, slamming his hand against the lift button like he’s trying to hold three cherries on a fruit machine.

He turns to me, the muscles on his neck visible. ‘Emma – I had no idea they only had double beds. I’m so sorry. I was convinced the booking said it was twin. I’ve
literally never been anywhere on one of these jobs that didn’t have a twin room.’

I swallow. ‘They couldn’t move us?’

‘There isn’t a single twin room in the hotel,’ he says, hitting the button again. ‘I’m so embarrassed.’

I shake my head. ‘Don’t be. It’s no big deal. And there’s no way I’m letting you take the floor – this is your room. I’m the one bunking in.’

‘That’s irrelevant.’

‘Of course it’s not. You’ve paid for it.’

‘The company I’m working for has paid for it. Not me.’ He hits the button again.

‘That’s beside the point. They paid for it for
you
. It’s
your
room.
Your
bed. And I’m happy on the floor.’

He throws me a look. ‘The floor is mine. Don’t argue. Please.’

I decide not to.

The doors close and Matt and I stand next to each other in the lift with suddenly nothing to say.

The silence is oppressive as I stare hard at the door, willing the lift to have reached our floor and for it to open. I’ve never yearned more for a piped version of ‘Mull of
Kintyre’. At one point Matt starts to whistle, then becomes self-conscious and stops. So I rummage around my bag – for nothing at all.

The doors finally open and stepping out involves an odd, elaborate jig in which we try to persuade the other to go first, awkwardly clashing knees like hysterical Irish dancers.

The room is beautiful. There’s a Raindance shower. A flat-screen TV. The furniture is confidently Nordic, contemporary and, hell – it’s just ice cool. But next to the warmth of
the wood floor it has a lovely cosiness. It’s perfect.

I insist he takes the bathroom first to get ready for dinner and then go downstairs for a drink before me. That way I can chill out, do my ablutions in private and phone Rob.

At least I try. It goes straight to voicemail.

‘Hi, Rob – um, sweetheart. How are things in Barcelona? Well . . . I’ve arrived safely. I really hope you’re well. Missing you already. Well . . . hopefully we’ll
get a chance to speak later.’

Dinner at the hotel is lovely. The food’s delicious. The service is second to none. But something’s . . . well, a bit odd.

In sharp contrast to my dreamlike state in the Blue Lagoon, I feel awkward around Matt in a way I haven’t since the atrocious circumstances of our first meeting. It’s not only the
bed situation, although that obviously doesn’t help. It’s something more.

And I think the problem is with me.

I am stuttering like the exhaust on a vintage Robin Reliant. I am blushing so violently it almost constitutes a pre-menopausal flush. And my flashbacks to the Blue Lagoon are causing the sort of
stirrings I only thought possible with a trip to Ann Summers and four AA batteries.

There’s no mistaking it. I am developing something I haven’t experienced since I was a teenager. A
crush
. A proper bells-and-whistles infatuation. Which is pathetic, is it
not?

Yet, I can’t deny it. There are times tonight when giving in to this feels sublime, like warm brandy slipping down my throat and warming my chest.

It’s only later, in my pyjamas – with Matt on the floor at the end of the bed – that I look at my mobile and see a message from Rob. A message telling me he loves me.

And I can’t help thinking life would be much easier if I’d just snap out of it.

Cally once told me she’d developed a foolproof trick for those occasions when she wanted to stay chaste.

‘If you’re going out with a man you’re crazy about, but you are
determined
not to sleep with him too soon, the key is hair removal. Or non-removal, I should
say.’ She’d leave her legs unapologetically hirsute, her bikini line untouched and her armpits looking like one of the characters from
Fraggle Rock
.

That way, no matter what carnal urges engulfed her, the shame of her rampantly overgrown fuzz was the ultimate deterrent to going further than second base.

This morning, I wake up trying to work out a conundrum, one I know shouldn’t have even entered my mind. I have one more night with these odd sleeping arrangements and there is a
reprehensible part of me that doesn’t want Matt to sleep on the floor.

I want something to . . .
happen
. Something that results in us wrapped round each other, cocooned in these crisp cotton sheets, his hands—

‘We’re being picked up in ten minutes,’ Matt calls into the bathroom as I gaze in the mirror, razor in hand.

‘O-kay,’ I call brightly. Then I think of Rob. And I glance at the razor. ‘Bloody harlot,’ I mutter, throwing it decisively in the bin.

Today, Matt and I are heading into Iceland’s countryside – completing a three-hundred-kilometre loop known as the Golden Circle – so he can take his first set
of official photographs. We’re going in a Super Jeep, the necessity for which is not overly comforting. I am trying not to imagine the kind of terrain that requires a vehicle with five-foot
tyres.

‘It’ll be great,’ insists Matt as we head to reception. ‘I’ve done this a few times. Just make sure you’ve got plenty of layers in case we encounter
problems,’ he adds helpfully.