The Wish List (40 page)

He puts down his fork and leans over to kiss me on the cheek, before looking down, embarrassed.

‘What was that for?’ I ask.

‘Being you.’ He shakes his head. ‘God, that’s corny,’ he laughs.

I swallow and force myself not to well up again. I fail totally. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . I don’t want to ruin our last night together.’

‘You know what I think?’ he says decisively. ‘I think we should make tonight a little pre-birthday celebration. A celebration of what we had. You and me.’

I nod, as tears slip down my face. He squeezes my hand, then picks up his wine glass.

‘Here’s to you and me, Emma. It was brilliant. Almost.’

I’m crying now, I just can’t help it, but manage to lift up my glass and ping it against his, before collapsing in a weeping heap.

‘Come on, now,’ he whispers, pulling me into him and stroking my head. ‘None of this can be helped, can it?’

I look up. ‘I could—’ I’m about to tell him again that I’ll come with him, when he puts his finger to my mouth and shakes his head.

I realise that I need to pull myself together. This is so much worse for him. He’s the one having to move to a different country. He’s the one whose kids will be living with a man
who’s a complete bastard. The fact that I’m not going with him is probably neither here nor there.

It doesn’t stop me thinking one thing, though. One thing that keeps me awake all through the night, long after the clock clicks on midnight and I officially turn thirty.

This hurts like hell.

Am I supposed to feel different? More grown-up? More responsible? More comfortable in my skin? That’s what the celebs say when they hit thirty, isn’t it? As if skin
becomes something to compare with a nice pair of Hush Puppies.

Still, I understand the sentiment and I’m determined to embrace it. I’m going to be a fabulous thirty-something – a Cameron Diaz-style thirty-something, with glowy skin, young
admirers and, courtesy of the diet I’m certain I’ll feel motivated to embark on now I’m older and wiser, a stomach you could dry your laundry on.

I wake up before Matt and pad to the bathroom, trying to convince myself that – no matter what’s happening in my love life – this is the start of a new era.

For lots of reasons, I should be optimistic. My job is amazing, something it’s taken a raft of experimentation and trauma to recognise. I have a wonderful family and friends. I’m
generally happy, generally fulfilled. And the fact that I’ve done all bar a couple of the things on my list is something I feel good about, thanks very much.

So I’m not going to be negative today, no matter what my instinct tells me. I’ve done all my crying; I will weep no longer. Instead, I will look on the bright side – at how
much I’ve achieved, how much I’ve lived and how much the last six months has changed me for the better.

Besides, one thing’s for sure – at least I’m not fifteen again.

I flush the toilet and go to the sink to wash my hands, and as I look in the mirror I am confronted by a zit the size of Mount Olympus.

Matt and I spend the day together and it’s lovely. He finished packing yesterday and although there are loose ends to deal with, the morning is largely for the two of
us.

We eat lunch in Lark Lane then wrap up and stroll to the Palm House, arm in arm, to listen to the carol singers. To passers-by, we’d look like a couple with a lifetime ahead of us. We are
anything but.

We’ve promised to stay in touch, but we both know that the only sensible way to deal with this situation is to get on with our lives. It’s a thought that rips me in two and for that
reason I don’t even think about it, not today. I simply enjoy my birthday.

‘Would you like your present?’ Matt asks as shards of winter sunlight ripple through the glass.

‘Oh . . . I thought you’d forgotten!’ I jest.

He rolls his eyes. ‘Yes, because you’ve hardly mentioned this birthday since I met you . . .’

I nudge him in the ribs as he produces an instantly recognisable turquoise bag – from Tiffany’s. I unwrap it carefully, my heart pounding as I gently pull each white ribbon, before I
remove the lid and have to stop myself from gasping.

It’s a bracelet, the most exquisite bracelet I’ve seen in my life – a string of tiny silver beads with a single heart-shaped charm.

‘Matt, it’s absolutely beautiful.’

‘Really?’ he asks, and I realise he’s been nervous about his choice.

‘Seriously. I don’t know what to say.’

‘Well, that’s your first present. The second you can’t open until a month today.’ He removes an envelope from his coat pocket and hands it to me.

I frown. ‘Why? My birthday’s today.’

‘That’s the deal. Promise me.’

‘Okay! Fine! You didn’t need to get me two, though.’

‘I wanted to.’

Then he reaches out to hold my face in his hands, and as he leans in to kiss me my mind flashes back to the very first time this happened.

‘Hey,’ he says, pulling away. ‘No tears. It’s your birthday.’

I smile as he stands and takes me by the hand towards the car, to face the inevitable.

I see the children only briefly to say goodbye, when Allison stops at the house with them to pick up something of Joshua’s that he wants for the ferry. I’m glad she
did as I’d bought them all a variety of books and stickers for their journey, a small selection to add to the Christmas presents I’ll be sending along with Matt.

‘Are you all excited about your trip?’ I ask as I peer at them in her people carrier.

Jack frowns and crosses his arms. ‘No. It’s rubbish. I don’t want to go to France. I’m fed up.’

Which just about sums up the situation, really.

Matt and I go our separate ways at two thirty, like we’d agreed, before he locks up his flat and drives south to the ferry.

Our final kiss is on his gravel driveway and it feels like a fitting end: in front of the house that holds so many memories created in such a short space of time.

I give it everything I’ve got not to cry.

I want him to remember me as the woman he shared six months of fun with, not some puffy-faced wreck.

‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter, as he pulls me into him, a move that leaves me assaulted by thoughts that are so horrific I lose the ability to speak.

This is the last time I will feel my cheek against his neck.

The last time his lips will melt into mine.

The last time I will hear him say my name.

The last time I will feel those hands in mine.

The last time . . .

‘You’d better go,’ I tell him, unable to bear it.

He nods. Then he backs away, and I watch him go into the house and close the door behind him. For the last time.

I look into the sky and feel the strength leave my body.

I’m thirty years old today.

It’s the most perfect and the most awful birthday of my life.

Dad offers to give me a lift to the party and arrives while I’m in sweat pants and a hoodie, putting the finishing touches to my make-up.

I’ve been doing so while carefully avoiding the opportunity to look out of the window to see if Matt’s car has disappeared.

‘Happy birthday!’ Dad staggers in carrying such a mountain of presents it looks as though he’s stood at the end of the
Generation Game
conveyor belt and wrapped
everything that came off it.

He struggles past and I go to shut the door. I hesitate with my hand on the latch, and the temptation to pop out to examine Matt’s drive is too much. The car has gone.

‘I might have gone a bit overboard!’ Dad shouts from the living room.

I shut the door, composing myself, before joining him.

‘I’ve kept all the receipts if you want to take anything back,’ he says, thrusting a parcel at me. ‘Although Deb helped me pick some out and she’s snazzier than me,
as you know.’

I tear off the paper until the first gift is revealed.

‘It’s a pogo stick,’ Dad announces. ‘They’re making a comeback. You can burn over a thousand calories a minute apparently.’

I don’t question the plausibility of this statistic.

I wouldn’t describe the pogo stick as the highlight of my gifts, but it’s fair to say that it’s a mixed bunch. Still, the T-shirt Deb chose is really nice, and I’m sure
I’ll find some use for the ‘Slanket’ – a fleece blanket with sleeves – which is so huge I’m convinced it only needs its own bathroom and it could accommodate a
family of five.

‘You didn’t need to get all this, but thank you, it’s all lovely.’ I give him a massive hug. ‘Right – I’m just going to get my dress on and we can go
whenever you’re ready.’

‘Er . . . Emma.’

‘Yes?’

He hesitates. ‘There’s something else. I need to pop to the car.’

He disappears while I put the gifts in my bedroom and I return to find him sitting on the sofa holding a small cardboard box. I say a fleeting prayer that he hasn’t bought me a guinea
pig.

But when I sit next to him I realise that it’s a box full of envelopes. Tons of them.

‘What are they?’

‘They’re for you, sweetheart. They’re from your mother.’

There’s a letter for every birthday between the age of seven and thirty – and dozens more, apparently, going right up to the age of a hundred, if you can believe
that.

‘Your mum said that if you made it past then, the last thing you’d need was her wittering to keep you going,’ Dad smiles.

‘But . . . why are you giving them to me only now?’

Dad looks at his hands and shakes his head. ‘Your mum wrote letters for both you and Marianne – there is another set for your sister too. The year after she died, I gave Marianne the
first one. Emma, she was devastated – unbelievably upset. I couldn’t bear it. It was all just too traumatic. So I packed away both sets of letters and promised myself that only when the
time was right would I get them out again. But, it never did seem right. Until now.’

‘Oh Dad.’ I clutch the letters, mesmerised by the handwriting.

He smiles. ‘It was when we had the chat about how you wished you knew more about her . . . well, it became obvious that I’d made the wrong decision all those years ago. I’m
sorry, Emma.’

I squeeze his hand. ‘I’m just glad you didn’t throw them away.’

‘Oh heck, no! And there’s more where they came from!’

I run my fingers over the faded envelopes. ‘I want to read them all. Every one. Right now.’

Dad looks at his watch.

‘Your party starts in forty-five minutes. Why don’t you start by opening the one she intended for today?’

I feel my breath quicken as I flick through the envelopes and find the one marked: ‘For Emma, on your thirtieth birthday.’

My heart is racing as I pick it up, imagining my own mum sealing this envelope with her hands so many years ago.

I prise it open and slip out the letter. It’s still crisp, a single page of my mother’s beautiful cursive writing, in indigo fountain-pen ink.

I begin by reading out loud so Dad can hear too, but after a sentence that becomes impossible. I simply want to read. To hear the message my mum sent to me for this very day,
today. As I scan the words, the soft tones of her voice come back to me, as if she’s sitting here.

With trembling hands, I put down the letter and look in the envelope again. At the bottom is a small, folded piece of tissue paper. I take it out and unwrap it, even though I’ve guessed
exactly what’s inside. The second I see my mother’s diamond necklace – the one in that picture I love so much – tears spill down my face, and I pick it up and clasp it
tightly.

It’s the best birthday present I could ever have wanted.

After a week of lacklustre dieting, there’s plenty more room in the dress than when I tried it on. By which I mean approximately half a millimetre, possibly less. Still,
there’s no way I’m ticking off all those things on my list and failing on this one – technically the most straightforward.

‘I think I may be pushing my luck,’ I mumble to Asha, examining my creaking zip. I have come to the conclusion that if it survives the night under such colossal pressure, Karen
Millen should consider a side line in the production of mountaineering clips.

We’re in the Ladies in Leaf before everyone arrives. And I mean everyone. The fifty-odd people I know and love best are coming – university friends, work colleagues, favourite
relatives. Which means Perry will be rubbing shoulders with the likes of Aunt Sheila and Uncle Dave, producing a social mix that couldn’t be more eclectic if the staff of
Kerrang!
gatecrashed the
Vogue
Christmas party.