The Wish List (41 page)

‘You look gorgeous,’ Asha reassures me, topping up her mascara. ‘Besides, the tailored look is in this season, isn’t it?’

‘This isn’t tailored, Asha. This risks puncturing my vital organs.’

She smiles softly, but her eyes betray how sad she really is. Yet, despite Toby’s persistent phone calls, she’s stuck to her guns – and is determined to never see him
again.

‘How are you doing, sweetheart?’ I ask.

‘I’m doing fine. Yesterday was a challenge, I must admit.’

‘What happened?’

She puts her mascara back in her bag and takes a deep breath. ‘Christina is pregnant.’

‘Oh Asha.’ I don’t know what else to say.

‘Quite an achievement considering that, allegedly, they weren’t having sex, don’t you think? I only know because he emailed me a long letter saying he’d finally got the
message. He admitted defeat, and said he understood why I didn’t want anything to do with him any longer. The bit about the new baby was almost a postscript.’

I sigh and lean in to hug her.

‘It’s fine,’ she says. ‘I’m thirty years old. I’m a grown woman. Worse things happen, eh?’

‘You’ll find someone, Asha, I know you will.’

She smiles. ‘It’s odd, but part of me feels almost relieved, believe it or not. As well as feeling completely and utterly shit, obviously. But I’ve got my friends. I’ve
got my family. And I’ve finally got my self-respect – which is something I haven’t been acquainted with for a long time.’

‘I’m proud of you, Asha.’

‘The feeling’s mutual. Happy birthday, lovely!’ She smiles again, squeezing my arm. ‘You’d better get out there before your guests arrive.’

By nine thirty the place is packed. I feel like I’m at my own wedding; the only thing missing is a groom – and, given the events of the last six months, it seems
unlikely there’ll ever be one.

‘Emma. . . . Emma . . .
Emma!
’

I glance down and Zachary is standing next to me, tugging my skirt. ‘Here’s your present. It’s a book called
Riders
.’

I bend down and take it from him as Cally appears behind him. ‘Sweetheart, it was meant to be a surprise.’

‘That’s okay,’ I insist. ‘Thank you
so
much, Zachary.’

He leans in and gives me a hug, squeezing me as tightly as his podgy arms can manage, before darting away again to ‘fix’ a speaker by thumping it with his plastic hammer.

I can’t help smiling.

‘I really hope you don’t mind me bringing him,’ Cally says. ‘Mum’s away this weekend so I had no childcare.’

‘It’s lovely to see him here. Besides, I’ve seen him dance to the Black Eyed Peas and I’ll need someone to deflect attention from Dad. Besides . . . he’s a lot
mellower these days, isn’t he?’

She shrugs. ‘Well, all two-year-olds go through a bit of a wild patch, but yes, he’s changed. As have you,’ she smiles.

‘Drinks, ladies.’ Giles appears and presents us both with a gin and tonic, clinking his glass against mine. ‘Happy birthday again, Em. You deserve a fantastic one.’

‘Oops . . . Zachary!’ Cally shrieks as he begins scaling sofas. ‘
Spiderman
was on this afternoon and . . .
Zachary!
’ She thrusts her drink in my hand
with her usual lightning reflexes and goes to rein him in. Except someone beats her to it. Before anybody can argue, Giles is on the other side of the room, coaxing the little boy down. He
instantly captures his attention, presumably with one of his jokes about flatulence, underpants or burping – these, he assured me the other day, were the only things anyone who wished to bond
with a small male child needed to remember.

‘Is this the first time they’ve met?’

Cally nods. ‘I introduced them today.’

‘They seem to be getting on well,’ I point out, as Giles launches into a coin trick that has the little boy enthralled.

‘Yeah. Don’t they?’ she grins. ‘They’ve talked a lot about farting, admittedly, but I can’t complain about that. So, how are you feeling?’

‘Happy that I’ve ticked off so many things on my list. Happy to be surrounded by most of the people I love. Happy about the letter from my mum,’ I add, touching my
necklace.

‘But sad about Matt?’

I nod, feeling my throat tighten. ‘You know, Mum said something in her letter about being fearless. About loving with every bone in my body.’

She frowns.

‘Cally . . . I need to do something about this.’

There’s an urgency in my voice as adrenalin rushes through me. ‘I need to do something big.’

She looks alarmed. ‘You don’t mean go after him? To France?’

The hint of a thought that’s been gathering pace for days explodes in my brain and is suddenly perfectly clear, perfectly lucid. ‘Is that so crazy, when you’re in love with
someone? I need to be with this man, Cally. It’s as simple as that.’

She shakes her head, clearly unconvinced, but before I can argue there’s a tap on my shoulder and it’s James, the animator at work. I’m swept up in a bustle of chatting,
drinks, gift-giving. Yet my mind is firmly on one thing. And what’s going on around me only confirms it.

This should be the night of my life. But something’s missing. Something is on his way to France right this minute. And I should be with him.

‘Emma.’

I recognise the voice before I spin round and set eyes on Rob. He’s wearing a checked shirt, slim jeans and has left a trail of my younger cousins swooning in his path. ‘Thanks for
inviting me,’ he says awkwardly.

I smile, at first leaning in to kiss him, then deciding to turn it into a hug. ‘Rob, it’s so lovely to see you.’

He smiles shyly. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’

‘I am,’ I shrug. ‘Being thirty isn’t bad, after all.’

‘So have you given up on the guitar?’

‘I’m not sure I’m a natural. What do you think?’

He laughs. ‘You just didn’t practise enough. I may have a new student, by the way. I spoke to Asha earlier – did you know she’s thinking of taking it up?’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yeah,’ he grins. ‘She’s nice, Asha, isn’t she?’

I smile, as an idea infiltrates my head. ‘She is, Rob. She really is.’

Marianne has never looked so beautiful – or happy. My sister is dressed in a simple, floral, River Island dress but it’s enough to dazzle everyone in her path
– including Brian.

‘We meet at last!’ I go to kiss him, but he nearly sweeps me off my feet with a hug instead. I hadn’t appreciated, from our brief online conversations, how tall he is –
at least six foot three – with an athletic physique and a smile that is warm, genuine. Unlike the last time I saw him, he’s dressed impeccably and has lost the woolly mammoth look from
his chin.

‘I know I wasn’t meant to be here tonight – but they agreed to let me have the day off from work and I couldn’t think of a better way of celebrating.’

‘You’re celebrating?’ I ask.

‘Brian’s script has been bought by a production company,’ Marianne says, clearly bursting with pride.

‘You’re kidding me? That’s unbelievable! Do you know how hard that is? Of course you do . . .’

He laughs. ‘Well, there’s a long way to go before I collect my Bafta, but it’s all going in the right direction.’

I glance at Marianne, at her beaming smile. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I can see it is.’

It’s ten thirty when Dad makes his big speech and I’m not nearly drunk enough. It’s not that he says anything awful – although I could have done without
the reference to the school nativity play when I was so stage struck I vomited into the manger.

‘Many of you know that Emma’s been learning the guitar. She’s been very secretive, but that’s all going to change,’ he beams, as I shift anxiously from foot to
foot. ‘She told me ages ago that one of the songs she’s learned – the one she’ll be playing tonight – is one of her favourite songs by the Lone Roses.’

My throat suddenly feels in urgent need of hydration. And while I vaguely remember my ambition to play something by the Stone Roses tonight, that was during the blissfully ignorant first stage
of my lessons – before I worked out that my musical capabilities stretched only to shattering ear drums.

‘Come on, birthday girl, don’t be shy!’ grins Dad – as Deb hands him my guitar. I don’t move anything but my head – and that I
really
move, shaking
it from side to side, my eyes wide with blood-curdling terror.

‘Emma! Come on now!’

Cally – one of the select few who’ve heard my guitar playing – winces as if someone’s squirted petrol in her eye.

But with the rest – the poor, ignorant rest – cheering, I can do little except move reluctantly to the stage and start to negotiate the steps, a manoeuvre which, courtesy of my
dress, gives the impression that I’ve been recently mummified.

‘Um . . . thanks, Dad,’ I mumble as he hands me the guitar and shoves me in front of the microphone. ‘At least I’m among friends.’

Everyone laughs riotously, as if I’m joking. Which of course I am. A little. There’s something about being on stage, having an audience, that gives my confidence a slight boost. I
mean, I know I’m no Susanna Hoffs but I’m not
that
bad. Not really.

‘Here we are,’ says Dad eagerly, thrusting a stand in front of me, complete with my guitar book.

It’s open at the song I was determined to play: ‘I Am the Resurrection’. The opening chords are strumming through my mind as the crowd looks on expectantly.

I close my eyes and breathe in the atmosphere, electricity buzzing through my veins. I suddenly know I don’t need the sheet music – no more than John Squire needed it when he stood
before thirty thousand enraptured fans at Spike Island.

So I step away from it and gaze at the audience, anticipating the performance of my life. Then I strum. And I sing. And they recognise the lyrics instantly . . .

‘
Kum-ba-ya, my lord . . . kum-ba-yaaahhhh. . . .
’

Half an hour later, the dance floor is so packed you’d think it was at the centre of a magnetic field. Giles is teaching Zachary ‘The Time Warp’ as Cally
giggles uncontrollably. Brian is swinging Marianne round like he’s trying to start a fire with the soles of her shoes. And Deb is giving Dad detailed instructions on how to master the pelvic
thrust without risking trauma to his dodgy hip.

The party is roaring, everyone is having a blast, and I feel a swell of gratitude to be surrounded by friends and family like these. The cast of people that make up my life; the people I
love.

I untangle myself from Uncle Trevor – assuring him Aunt June would be a better partner for his
Dirty Dancing
routine – and stand breathlessly at the bar as the room throbs
with noise. As music rushes through me, I reach up and touch Mum’s necklace, twirling the tiny diamond between my fingertips. My future – my choice – is the only thing on my
mind.

France is wrong for me in every way. I have no job there. I’ll have severe difficulty in ever getting one, given that I’d be living in the middle of the countryside. None of my
friends and family are there. And that’s before we get onto the fact that the only French I can remember from school is:
‘J’ai douze ans
’
–
which
became defunct in 1994. Moving there would be the biggest risk of my life – and, I’ll be honest, it’s one of which I can see only one benefit: Matt’s there. And that’s
why it’s so completely right. Being with him is the only thing that counts.

I put down my drink and rush to the cloakroom to find my phone. Only, as I pull it out and glance at the screen, I freeze.

There are four missed calls, all made in the last hour. All from Matt. I weave through guests in the main room and head outside to get a signal so that I can phone him.

It’s freezing, yet I’m red hot, my breath swirling in the darkness as I frantically dial his number. I get an engaged tone the first time, then the second. I’m about to repeat
the exercise when footsteps distract me.

‘Hey! How’s the birthday girl?’

It’s Johnny. Looking better than he did the last time – but then he’d probably consider this early compared to some of the twenty-four-hour binges Marianne has told me
about.

‘Um . . . hi, Johnny. Didn’t you get my Facebook message?’ I ask.

‘Hardly use it, Em. Had a good birthday?’

‘Johnny, I know about you and Cally. And Zachary. Your son.’

He pauses, taking in the information. ‘I see.’ He takes a deep breath and looks me in the eyes. ‘I suppose you think I’m an arse, do you?’

I hesitate. ‘Something like that, Johnny.’

His jaw tenses with anger. ‘When I become a father, Emma, it’s not going to be the result of a one-night stand with some slut.’

‘Johnny, you already
are
a father,’ I find myself saying. ‘That’s the case whether you like it or not. Cally is no slut. And, by the way, your son is
amazing.’

He shakes his head furiously. ‘Emma, I’m in love with your sister and I always will be. She’s the one I should’ve had kids with. I’m paying for one mistake . . .
one stupid bloody mistake that never should’ve happened – and I’ll be paying for the rest of my life.’

‘Johnny, Marianne fell out of love with you long before you fathered a child with Cally. The way you’ve acted over that has sealed the deal. You have a beautiful, healthy, funny
little boy. He’s yours. Your flesh and blood, Johnny. Look.’

I grab him by the hand and pull him to the window, where I wipe clean a section and peer in. ‘Look,’ I repeat.

He glances at me reluctantly then leans his face towards the window, focusing on the corner of the room. Zachary is on Giles’s knee, giggling as he’s being tickled.

‘That’s your boy, Johnny. Isn’t he lovely?’

I stand up straight, wondering if it’s possible for him to alter his position on Zachary now he’s seen him. I have my answer sooner than I imagined.

He looks at me briefly, then turns his back and walks away. From his son. From his past. And from his son’s future.

I am about to turn my attention to the phone again, when it rings. I recognise the number immediately and answer so fast I almost drop it.

‘Emma.’

‘Matt,’ I reply. ‘What is it? I missed a load of calls.’