The Wish List (28 page)

Except Dee doesn’t answer. You’d think I hadn’t even spoken. I glance round, wondering self-consciously if I’d only imagined voicing the words aloud.

‘Um . . . do you enjoy working here?’ I repeat, louder this time.

Dee says nothing at first then looks up, startled. ‘Oh! Were you talking to me?’ She scrunches up her nose so there’s a tiny, barely discernible line at the top.

‘I was wondering if you enjoy working here?’

She stares at me momentarily, then purses her lips into a funny little half-pout. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got a report to finish. I can’t stop and talk.’

At which point, she looks down and starts tapping again.

I search my desk, looking for paper clips to tidy, when the door bursts open and Lulu marches in. She heads straight towards me and I grin enthusiastically, eager to show eagerness. To tell her
I’m raring to go. To demonstrate how willing and able and—

She sails right past me and swans into her office, slamming the door shut.

I bite my lip and decide to try to muster up some courage. I stand and head towards her door, knocking on it gently.

‘
Come in!
’

It is apparent from the second I enter that Lulu doesn’t want me there.

‘Yes?’ she asks. But not in a nice way.

‘Hi,’ I reply, determined not to be intimidated. ‘I was just wondering . . . well, is there anything you’d like me to do?’

She pauses from rifling papers on her desk and looks up. Then frowns. Then smiles.

‘Oh, this must be so frustrating for you!’ she says. ‘I’d hoped to have had some work lined up for you by now but I’ve been so busy on some pitches I’ve been
putting together there hasn’t been time.’

‘Can I help?’ I offer eagerly.

She glances at her folder. Then looks up at me.

‘I think probably best not for the moment. Until you’ve had a chance to learn the ropes.’

‘Will there be an opportunity to start doing that soon?’ I ask.

‘Of course!’ she smiles. ‘I’ve got a packed diary this week and it’d be lovely if you could accompany me on some meetings.’

‘That would be fantastic,’ I say, relieved. ‘Are there any today?’

She turns to her online diary and starts flicking through it, considering each appointment, before dismissing it. ‘There’s one on Thursday that’d be ideal.’

‘Thursday. Okay,’ I say brightly. ‘So . . . what do I do until then?’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something,’ she says breezily. ‘I really haven’t got time to sit down and start spoon-feeding you.’

‘No, I didn’t expect—’

‘Aha! I’ve got just the thing,’ she grins. She picks up a cup and offers it to me. ‘Tea. No sugar. And not too milky.’

To be fair to Lulu, I get to accompany her on a client meeting before she’d expected me to – when Thursday’s appointment is moved to the Tuesday afternoon.
The visit is to a humungous pile of a house near Alderley Edge in Cheshire owned by the boss of a company that supplies Jacuzzis.

You can tell. Because if there’s one thing this place has got, it’s Jacuzzis. In virtually every room. It’s like Rhyl Sun Centre, without the slides. Unfortunately, what they
have in spa appliances is not matched in taste.

Which is fine, obviously – that’s why we’re here.

As I walk through the door behind Lulu, my mind is bursting with ideas for the place; I’m thinking of soft furnishings, colour schemes, gorgeous quirky touches that would really bring it
alive.

But what’s clear within a minute of me setting foot in here – from the fact that I’m not even introduced to the client – is that I have one purpose and one purpose only.
To make Lulu look important.

Which I don’t mind. I mean, not at all – she’s the boss.

Only, in between my hovering around and carrying her pencil case, I somehow drop what’s clearly a major clanger.

It happens when they’re discussing tiles in the kitchen. ‘They have some beautiful ones in Fired Earth,’ I pipe up. ‘They have a slight shimmer and I think they’d
look amazing with the work surfaces you’re considering.’

Both Lulu and her client turn to look at me incredulously – their expressions so utterly disbelieving you’d think a passing Arabian camel had just knocked and offered to do the
dishes.

Then they return to their conversation, clearly deciding it’d be best to pretend I either hadn’t spoken at all or, even better, didn’t actually exist.

That evening, as I find a seat on the train – desperate, for the second night on the run, to get home as quickly as possible – my phone rings and when I answer it I’m so
grateful to hear Giles’s voice I almost tell him I love him.

‘Does Cally like the Yorkshire Dales?’ he says, thankfully before I have a chance.

‘Hmmm . . . everyone likes the Yorkshire Dales, don’t they?’

‘S’pose. Bit hilly for me, personally.’

‘How are things at work?’ I ask.

‘Oh, you know . . . Perry’s off his sodding head, we’re on the verge of missing another deadline for Channel 6 and the whole place is in danger of going tits up at any given
moment. Why, do you miss us?’ he asks sarcastically.

And for once I can’t bring myself to answer.

Part of my mission to complete the list involved giving my work and love life a shake-up. So the irony that neither is remotely on track isn’t lost on me.

‘At least you’ve seen the Northern Lights,’ Cally offers, when I stop at her house on the way home from the station.

‘True. It’s just my emotional and vocational lives that are a complete mess,’ I say, rolling my eyes.

Zachary bounces in from the living room and climbs onto a bar stool, catching his foot against a fraying piece of fabric. Cally’s house has changed dramatically since pre-Zachary days. She
moved into it because she fell in love with the original tiling on the hall walls, the same tiling that’s now rarely without chocolate smeared all over it.

I have seen at first hand that maintaining even the most basic household standards is a battle with Zachary around. Trying to get the house to look like, say, that of an average childless couple
would be a full-time job.

And Cally’s got one of those – a fairly demanding one at that. So there’s only one option: not to bother. The result isn’t exactly a scene of total devastation;
it’s probably best described as a minor natural disaster on the scale of, for example, the eruption of Mount St Helens.

‘I can do magic!’ he announces proudly.

I put down my tea and feign surprise. ‘You can’t!’ I challenge him.

‘Can – look,’ he says with a grin, then he holds out two clasped – and clearly already empty – fists. ‘Choose one.’

‘Um . . . that one!’ I say, touching his left hand.

‘Ta-da!’ he replies triumphantly, and I pull a pretend ‘shucks’ face as he runs back into the living room.

I notice Cally is frowning at me.

‘What is it?’

She shakes her head and smirks. ‘Nothing. Look, let’s take one thing at a time. What’s wrong with the job?’

‘Oh . . . nothing, seriously. It’s been two days. I need to give it time, that’s all.’

‘Something’s obviously bothering you.’

I hesitate. ‘I
thought
I was taking a position as a trainee interior designer. Only, so far I’ve done no interior-designing and no training – and there appears to be
none on the horizon either. I have absolutely no problem with starting at the bottom, by the way. I have no problem with making the tea. I’d just like to do something as well as
that.’

Cally thinks for a second. ‘It
is
early days. It might grow on you. I mean, if the people are okay . . . That’s why I love my job. It’s not just the number-crunching,
believe it or not—’

‘The people are bitchy,’ I leap in. ‘And boring.’

‘Bitchy
and
boring? It sounds like the
Big Brother
house.’

I put my head in my hands. ‘They have celery instead of Hobnobs. Hobnobs are a banned substance.’

It’s clear that the Hobnobs are a defining factor – she is momentarily silenced.

‘Give it a couple of weeks. You might get used to it. And, bugger it – take in some Hobnobs. Start a revolution. It’s a breach of European legislation to stop you. It’s
your
sodding cellulite so you can do what you want to it.’

‘You’re totally right. It’ll all be fine. I’ve made the right decision. No doubt about it. Even if there are times when I’d give anything to hear Giles whinging
again.’

I look up and realise what I’ve said. ‘Not that Giles is a whinger,’ I mutter. ‘Not much, anyway. He’s got lots of other lovely qualities.’

Cally laughs. ‘It’s all right, it’s not as though it’s going anywhere between me and him.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘Oh no!’ she hoots, pouring some milk into a glass for Zachary. ‘Don’t get me wrong, he’s great fun. I mean, he really is. I haven’t had this much fun with a
guy since . . . well, a long time.’

‘Zachary’s dad?’ I offer.

She shrugs. ‘I guess so.’

I bite my lip. ‘Do you ever think about trying to trace him?’ I ask.

‘Zachary’s dad?’ She takes a deep breath. ‘You know I thought about it when I found out I was pregnant,’ she replies, although the truth is I don’t think she
thought very hard. ‘These days, it’d be impossible. I don’t even know his surname. Obviously, if I knew the guy I’d tell him about Zachary, even though it’d complicate
things. Zachary’s growing up in a stable and loving environment and I’m doing the best I can by him. Things aren’t easy, but my mum’s started baby-sitting more regularly and
. . . I’m not sure how much good it would do anyone.’

‘Have you thought about introducing Giles to him?’

She looks at me as if I’ve taken leave of my senses. ‘God, no!’

‘Why are you so certain it wouldn’t work out?’

‘You know I’ve always preferred blonds,’ she winks and takes the milk through to Zachary in the living room.

When she returns, she’s determined to steer the conversation to
my
love life. ‘So what’s going on with the gorgeous Rob?’

I swallow. ‘I’m going to dump him.’

‘
Again?
’

I tut. ‘I’ve only done it once before! You make me sound like a serial offender.’

‘Once, Emma, was plenty.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I
mean
, the second you dumped him, you were consumed by what a big mistake you thought you’d made.’

‘But it’s not working.’

‘You said that last time. Before you said you missed him terribly and wished you hadn’t done it.’

I cringe. ‘Did I?’ I ask feebly, knowing full well I did.

‘Look, don’t get me wrong,
you’re
the one who’s got to sleep with him. You’re the one who’s got to put up with him proclaiming his undying love for
you. You’re the one who’s got to go through the
hell
of being treated like a princess and—’

‘Are you telling me I
shouldn’t
break up with him?’

‘Of course not. If you’ve no longer got feelings for him, then that’s settled. You need to do it, no question. I’m simply reminding you what happened last time. If you
dump him again, Emma, that
really
needs to be it. You can’t keep bouncing in and out of someone’s life like that – it’s totally unfair. And Rob’s lovely, he
doesn’t deserve it.’

I sigh. ‘I know you’re right . . . it’s just . . .’

‘What?’

‘You know the trip to Iceland? And Matt? And . . .’

She stares at me as the penny drops slowly. ‘You’ve got the hots for Matt!’

I nod.

‘Oh, well, that puts a whole different perspective on things,’ she grins. ‘I can
totally
see you two together. Of course, the fact that he’s got three kids might
not make you an ideal match but . . . the point is, he is gorgeous! So what happened in Iceland?’

‘Nothing,’ I reply, although attempting to stop Cally is like trying to put the brakes on a recently launched ballistic missile. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘Why? Did you flirt with him? You must have. Come on, what happened?’

I hesitate. ‘I did flirt with him. I did . . . hope something would happen, awful as that makes me.’

‘And?’

‘He told me he’s still in love with his wife.’

Cally’s grin vanishes instantly, as if she’s wiped it off with white spirit, leaving a sour pout in its place.

‘Do you have to look like that?’

‘Sorry, it’s just not the happy ending I was expecting to that little short story.’

‘Me neither!’

She looks at me sternly. ‘Emma . . . what is
the
fundamental rule of falling in love?’

I shake my head blankly. ‘That it conquers all?’

‘It’s
never waste time on men who aren’t interested in you
. Because lots of others will be.’

I bite my lip. ‘I think he fancies me a little—’

‘Of course he does – you’re attractive and he’s a man. But Emma, he’s told you – he’s told you to your face – that he’s in love with another
woman. Forget him. This isn’t some challenge you’ve got to win. You
can’t
win. Stick to men who recognise you as the goddess you are.’

I blow my nose. ‘You mean Rob?’

‘Not necessarily. But
maybe
,’ she shrugs. ‘Don’t fall into the classic trap, as so many women do, of finding men who are unattainable the most attractive.
There’s a minimum requirement you should expect the man in your life to meet, Emma.’

‘What’s that?’

‘That he thinks
you’re
the best woman on earth.’

‘Oh . . . why are you making this so hard on me?’

‘
Sorree
. If it’s any consolation, at least you haven’t got things as bad as poor Asha.’

‘Why, what’s going on?’

‘You need to talk to her, Emma. She never listens to me. She needs to get rid of that guy, and quickly.’

It has now been over a week since I saw Rob and it’s starting to become obvious that my excuses are just that. I’ve simply got to go and see him, to do the right
thing once and for all. I only wish I could accurately determine what
the right thing
is after the gargantuan spanner Cally threw in the works.