The Wish List (30 page)

‘What a
loser
I am,’ she spits eventually, straightening up. ‘I know it. Go on, Emma. Tell me that’s what I am – I deserve it.’

‘Asha, I don’t think you’re a loser. I just don’t think this is good for you. In fact, I think it’s terrible for you – and everyone else involved. I want the
best for you. That’s all.’

Tears gather in pools in her eyes and the self-hatred that consumes her breaks my heart.

‘Oh, Asha,’ I tut, reaching over to embrace her.

She squeezes me tightly and closes her eyes. ‘Thanks, Emma. You’re such a good friend. If it means anything . . . he really
will
do it eventually. I just have to be patient.
Don’t you think?’

She starts to look up but I pull her gently towards me again, before answering in the only honest way I can: ‘I don’t know, Asha. I genuinely don’t know.’

Watching crap telly has never been so stimulating. I am lying on my sofa on Wednesday night, my eyes fixed in the direction of the television, and every nerve ending in my body
is buzzing.

The show is the kind of reality tripe that makes it hard to believe whoever devised it invested more than six minutes of their life and the back of a packet of Silk Cut.

I say this, of course, and I am still watching it. Although that’s largely because the only thing I’m concentrating on as I lie on Matt’s chest is the touch of his hand as he
strokes my hair, twirling strands round his fingers as my heart thuds in my ears. I close my eyes and breathe in his neck – then the TV volume explodes.

‘WHOOOOAAAAAAAAH!’

I stiffen and focus on the source of the interruption – a woman leaping from a plane at twelve thousand feet. It prompts the sort of response in my stomach that most people would feel only
as a consequence of a violent bout of gastroenteritis during a particularly hairy cross-Channel ferry trip.

‘That’s on my list,’ I mutter. ‘At least, it
was
.’

‘Oh yes – skydiving,’ Matt replies. ‘I remember you mentioning that. I didn’t think I’d seen it on the list pinned on your fridge, though.’

‘That would be because I cut it off the bottom.’

He bursts into laughter. ‘Why don’t you do it?’ he asks, as if we’re talking about something as straightforward as clipping my toenails.

‘I don’t think I could, Matt. Genuinely. I decided early on that that’s one I’ll be sitting out.’

‘Well, it’s not something anyone can be persuaded to do,’ he concedes. ‘You’ve got to really want to do it.’

I narrow my eyes. ‘Have
you
done it?’

He nods. ‘I did it for charity a few years ago, just after Mum had breast cancer.’

‘I didn’t know she’d had cancer.’

‘She’s had the all-clear for a number of years now, although it was scary at the time. Anyway, I raised quite a lot of money. I loved it.’

‘Seriously?’

He laughs. ‘Is that such a surprise?’

‘I’m in awe, that’s all. The reason I cut it off the bottom of my list is because I know I’d get up in the plane and refuse to jump out.’

‘You
wouldn’t
,’ he tells me with total confidence. ‘No matter how tempted you are to bottle out, you’d go through with it.’

He shakes his head determinedly, then grins and switches it to a nod. ‘Very.’

I giggle as he pulls me towards him and brushes my lips with his, making me flutter with lust.

‘The boys aren’t coming this weekend. They’re visiting their grandparents in Worcester. I thought maybe, if you’re around, we could go for a drive in the country. Have
lunch and maybe a walk afterwards.’

I try not to grin. ‘I’m around.’

He hesitates, gazing at me with hot eyes as he focuses on my lips. I reach up, just one degree, and kiss him, my insides swirling with desire. His tongue is gentle against mine at first, until
the urgency in both of us takes over and I hunger for his hands on my body.

Matt pulls away momentarily to reach for the remote, mute the television and switch off the lamp on the table next to us.

He plants butterfly kisses on my collarbone, moving his hands to the buttons on my shirt as I throb with longing. I watch as he prises open each button, giggling as he grapples with the last
one.

The shirt is discarded. My bra is next. And after slowly constructing a mountain of clothes, we make love for hours, our skin bathed in flickering celluloid light.

The following evening I pop in to see Dad in the shop. He and Deb are staying late tonight to reorganise the riser-recliners or something – and I can’t resist
asking for an update on how his date went last night. He was
very
optimistic, so certain it was going to go well, that I was half expecting to be introduced to my new stepmother by the end
of the week. Which can only mean one thing.

‘She wasn’t really my cup of tea,’ he says apologetically.

‘What was the matter with her?’

He ponders for a second, vexed about the idea of saying something unpleasant. ‘She was terribly bossy. And
mean
to the waiters. And . . . well . . .’

‘Not her feet?’

He frowns, clearly disappointed with himself for reaching a verdict that’s anything other than kind. ‘She had a funny face.’

‘Funny?’

‘That sounds cruel, doesn’t it? I don’t mean to be. It’s just . . . follow me.’

We enter the back of the shop and he logs onto Facebook on his computer. He only has twenty-seven friends because he hardly uses it, except to randomly and inadvertently ‘poke’
everyone in his acquaintance each time he’s on.

I scrutinise his date’s profile pic and come to the conclusion that ‘funny’ barely covers it. She’s had more surgery than a run-over cat.

‘How old is she?’

He glances at me. ‘She said . . . forty-three.’

I start coughing. She looks closer to seventy-three, even after her skin’s been stretched tighter than a Latin American snare drum.

‘Here we go!’ announces Deb, appearing from the kitchen carrying two cups of tea.

Deb has the best legs of anyone I know – pale and shapely, with a slender ankle that she knows how to show off to spectacular effect. Today she’s wearing a wool dress that reaches
just below the knee, with opaque tights. It’s perfectly nice by itself, but teamed with her red Wizard of Oz heels, it’s a show-stopper.

‘Emma – when did you arrive, love? Let me make you a cup too.’

‘Deb, don’t worry. I can’t stay long.’

She glances at the computer screen, then catches my eye.

‘I’ve told your dad he can do better than that. Lots of women out there’d snap him up. And he needs to change his username to GeorgeClooneyAlike. I checked on Match.com and
it’s still available.’

Dad and I burst out laughing. ‘Wouldn’t that breach some sort of trades descriptions act?’ I suggest.

She scrunches up her nose. ‘But he
does
look like him,’ she protests. ‘Don’t you think? He’s the spitting image.’

Despite the fact that my dad is about as close to being George Clooney’s doppelganger as I am to Marge Simpson’s, Deb appears entirely serious.

‘I’m not
that
bothered anyway,’ Dad shrugs. ‘I’m happy as I am, all in all. I can’t complain.’

‘How is
your
dating going, Deb?’ I ask.

She sips her tea. ‘You always get highs and lows with these things, Emma. And I’ll be honest, I’ve been at no risk of vertigo for quite some time. Some men on those websites
are after only one thing – and it’s not my knowledge of orthopaedic chairs.’

Dad guffaws. ‘At this rate, you and I will have dated so many of those people on Match.com there’ll only be the two of us left!’

Deb takes an awkward sip and smiles. ‘God help us!’

I get home late and, with Matt working, make do with a ready meal in front of the television, fluttering with excitement about tomorrow. I decide to get an early night and am
in bed reading when my phone beeps. I pick it up and register that it’s an email – from Rob.

At the top of the email is a link. I click on it and instantly recognise the music it takes me to. It’s ‘Always On My Mind’ by Elvis. The song we danced to when he first said
‘I love you’ at his cousin’s wedding. The song is beautiful, the voice haunting, and, as the music dies, I scroll down to see four words at the bottom of the email:

I don’t sleep well.

I spend the night tossing and turning, cogitating over what I should do about Rob. The thought that he’s hurting, and that I’m the cause, is unbearable. All he’s ever been is
good to me.

Yet, there’s no way to resolve this issue.

The only thing that would make him happy is getting back together with me. But even if things
hadn’t
developed between Matt and me, no relationship guru would recommend going out
with someone because you feel sorry for them.

The next morning I’m still in two minds – no, about seven minds – about how to respond. After more drafts than the Magna Carta, I compose an email. I have no idea if this is
the right thing to do, but it’s the only thing I
can
do.

Every word of that is true. Yet that fact – and the absence of an alternative plan – doesn’t make me feel even slightly better.

I know it’s possible to look forward to something too much. I’m aware that some eagerly anticipated experiences turn out to be about as enjoyable as discovering a
verruca. But not this one.

‘Have you been to the Trough of Bowland before?’ Matt asks as we dart along winding lanes with sunlight sparkling through the trees.

‘I visited it for a wedding five years ago. My friend Grace got married in a place called the Inn at Whitewell.’

‘Well, someone recommended the pub we’re heading to but I’ve no idea if it’ll be any good.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be lovely.’

He reaches over the gear stick and touches my hand, making my chest flutter. No man has ever had the capacity to do this to me. Not ever. The physical effect of Matt’s skin against mine is
sometimes enough to leave me speechless.

‘Here we are,’ he says, removing his hand and changing gear as he pulls into a car park.

We’re going for our walk first, to build up an appetite for dinner, so set off over rolling fells and stunning moorland. The place is beautiful, a world away from city life, with forests,
hills, rivers and stretching sky. Matt can’t resist taking photos – some of which I manage to persuade him
not
to include me in.

After the walk, we eat an early evening dinner in the pub then, given that it’s unseasonably mild for late autumn, head to the terrace overlooking the valley to finish our drinks.

‘So what’s left on the famous list?’ he asks.

‘Well, I’ve got the job as an interior designer. I might not be interior-designing anything, but for technical purposes, that one’s a tick. I’ve learned to play the
guitar, even if my lessons came to an abrupt end.’

‘Ah. That was Rob’s job?’

I nod and decide not to say anything more about that. ‘I’ve done the polo . . . I’m growing my hair . . . the Michelin-starred restaurant . . . the snogging somebody
famous—’

‘Disgraceful.’

‘Apparently I
didn’t
do the one-night stand – but I’ll have to learn to live with that one.’

He smirks. ‘Sorry.’

‘I also haven’t jumped out of a plane and am unlikely to do so. But that doesn’t count because I ripped it off the bottom of the list.’

‘Cheat.’

‘Nor have I slept under the stars, which, given that we’re now heading into winter, is
never
going to happen either.’

‘So what was the last one? I thought there were twelve.’

I gaze up at him, embarrassed.

‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

‘Yes, all right, Poirot. It was “find the man you’re going to marry”.’

His mouth twitches. ‘I see.’

‘But, obviously, that one’s been crossed off. Mentally, at least. Who needs that pressure? I’d prefer to be single than spend my life with the wrong person.’

‘Quite right. Marriage isn’t all that bad, though, you know. I largely enjoyed mine. Until it went hideously wrong, of course.’

He says this as if it’s a quip, but there’s no fooling either of us. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . That was a silly thing to say,’ he adds.

‘It’s fine,’ I reply, too brightly. As an awkward silence lingers, a malignant thought grows in my brain.

I’m not the jealous kind. I never have been. But I’m sitting here falling irrevocably in love with a man who I strongly suspect still adores his ex-wife. One question rampages
through my head as I gaze at the setting sun: what am I letting myself in for?

‘So, sleeping under the stars,’ he says, and I’m glad of the change of subject. ‘What makes you sure that one’s a dead loss?’

I raise my eyebrows. ‘Because it’s nearly winter and we don’t live in the Seychelles.’

‘Hmm.’

‘What does “hmm” mean?’

He turns to look at me. ‘I’ve got a bit of a surprise. But I’m not entirely sure how much you’ll like it.’

I start to feel uneasy. ‘What is it?’

‘Exactly how adventurous are you feeling, Emma?’

When I first heard the term ‘glamping’ I assumed it was something to do with parking in the wrong place – a bit like how Dad thought
TOWIE
was a
gadget you heated up in the microwave to keep your feet warm.

Furthermore, after my experience with Rob, I vowed never to go near a tent again, glamorous or otherwise.

Matt has other ideas, despite this not being the conventional time of year for this sort of thing – a fact that makes our host at Walnut Hill Farm chuckle like he’s having his toes
tickled as he shows us to our yurt.

Mercifully, our accommodation for the evening is much more than a tent; it has a wooden floor, Moroccan rugs, futon beds and a massive wood-burning stove.