The Wish List (6 page)

Completing a list that features everything from the Northern Lights to jumping out of a plane (although I’ll need a personality transplant to go through with that one) will not be
cheap.

I sit at the kitchen table with my laptop and log on to my bank, flicking onto the second account that’s been virtually untouched since it was set up when I was a little girl.

It contains five hundred and seventy-five pounds, money I’ve never considered actually spending before. You might think that’s odd. Except this was money left to me by my mum when
she died – the rest of her estate was put in trust with Dad – and I’ve never really had a clue what she would’ve wanted me to do with it.

But now has to be as good a time as any to use it – even if that sum alone probably won’t be enough. Some of my aspirations are seriously expensive and going into my thirties with a
bankruptcy under my belt isn’t part of the plan.

My immediate priority needs to be to cut back – even if I’m not one of life’s natural cutter-backers.

That Money Saving Expert bloke leaves me cold: if I spent all the recommended time switching energy suppliers, swapping 0% credit card deals and researching ISAs, I wouldn’t have time for
full-time employment – and that’d be
terrible
for my finances.

Still, I hit the supermarket in the afternoon and fill my trolley with own-brand goods, trying not to think about what a £1.49 washing powder called Supasoapa might do to my skin, or the
fact that the Cheddar-style cheese looks capable of removing chalk from a blackboard.

The evening’s festivities, however, don’t do a great deal for my economy drive.

Cally has decided to mark her thirtieth birthday in Alma de Cuba, a place overflowing with atmosphere, where Latin dancers whirl under Gothic chandeliers, petals are strewn from a balcony and
two-hundred-year-old frescoes can be seen above enormous palm trees.

It is a fantastic evening – even if, four hours into the celebrations, something has happened to Cally.
Something
being two rounds of cocktails, a couple of G&Ts and an
unspecified amount of rum and Coke.

‘Do you think we ought to wake her up?’ Asha asks, nodding at Cally.

Not so long ago, Cally would’ve been surrounded by admirers and batting her eyelids like she was trying to give them a blow dry.

Today, she is propped up on a bench in her chic sage-green dress, with her face slumped on the table in front of her, her mouth contorted into a concave polygon. She looks like a shooting victim
in
The Sopranos
.

‘I don’t think she’d forgive us,’ I reply. ‘She was up at five thirty with Zachary and will welcome all the sleep she can get.’ I suddenly realise I’m
slurring my words – and have hit the four-drink limit I’ve stuck to since a hideous vomiting incident at a bus stop in my first year at university. People often ask me if I find it
difficult to stick to, but the memory of my guts emptying in front of an audience of commuter traffic has meant it genuinely has not been a challenge.

‘Does it count as sleep?’ Marianne asks, frowning at Cally. ‘I’m not sure she’s conscious.’

My sister is home for the weekend to retrieve some of her effects from Dad’s loft – which is why she’s out with my friends and me again. Her own circle of friends, although
large, has spread far wider than mine over the years, so she’s always happy to have a drink or two with us when she’s back. Judging by how she looks tonight, I can’t deny
Edinburgh life agrees with her. Her skin is luminous and the couple of pounds she’s gained since leaving London suit her.

I’m about to tell her as much when Asha’s phone rings. She takes it out of her bag, sees Toby’s number and gestures that she’s taking it outside.

‘What’s all this about a one-night stand?’ Marianne asks when we’re alone.

‘Oh . . . did they mention that?’ I mumble.

‘You’re not going through with it, I hope.’

‘I wasn’t, no.’ The truth is, I’ve thought a lot about that particular item on the list and, despite the fact that I have for the first time in my life put a Durex in my
clutch bag, it
isn’t
going to happen. It’s just not me.

‘Good.’ Her expression is somewhere between smug and matronly.

I frown. ‘Why
good
?’

‘I don’t want any little sister of mine throwing herself around like the last tart in the bordello.’

Indignation rises up in me. ‘As if you’ve been an angel!’

‘I’m serious. If you’d said yes, I’d have dragged you out of here and bundled you into a taxi.’

I cross my arms. ‘Marianne, I am twenty-nine years old. If I choose to hone my fellatio skills on half the British athletics squad, that’s up to me.’

‘You’d regret it.’

‘I may or may not. That’s up to me.’

She shakes her head, prompting a reminder – a small but perfectly vivid one – of the fury she would arouse in me when we were teenagers.

‘Maybe the more I think about that one, the more I think it epitomises my failure to have done most of the things on that list,’ I continue casually, enjoying winding her up.
‘Or indeed
anything
on that list.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’ve been risk averse.’

‘You’re not a pension fund,’ she tuts.

‘I’ve spent my entire life firmly within my comfort zone.’

She puts her hands on her hips. ‘Emma, don’t you
dare
have a one-night stand. I mean it.’

Suddenly, this is about more than winding her up. ‘Marianne, I am a grown woman and I can think for myself.’

‘Don’t be so pathetic. Honestly.’

I hesitate, thinking of a retort.

‘Well, guess what?’ A smile twitches at my lips. ‘I’m doing it.’

I suddenly feel outrageously confident; outrageously clear. I am free from the shackles of my constant over-thinking and have a moment of clarity that removes any doubt from my mind.

‘Why?’ she shrieks. ‘Because I told you
not
to?’

‘No, Marianne. Because I am twenty-nine years old and counting,’ I reply, spinning on my heels. ‘And I’m about to do some
living
.’

Simply saying those words makes me feel fabulously worldly-wise, a sensation that’s tripled when I make a conscious decision that this is one occasion that absolutely
requires
a fifth drink. So I buy one, before slipping through the crowd like a Bond girl, pretending I’m a woman who lives on cocktails of danger and passion, not M&S ready
meals.

If I’m going to go to the trouble of
doing some living
, it goes without saying it needs to be with someone gorgeous. I wouldn’t usually approve of putting looks ahead of
personality, but in these circumstances I’d have to make an exception.

The only way I can reconcile myself with unleashing my inner trollop is if it’s with someone so jaw-droppingly bootilicious that anyone could be forgiven for doing the same.

Plus, although I’m now seriously feeling the effects of the fifth drink, I’m vaguely aware that Marianne is right and there’s every chance I might regret this. So I need to
mitigate it in the most effective way possible: by thoroughly enjoying it.

Problem is, there’s no one here better-looking than Rob, who set the benchmark depressingly high. I look down and realise my glass is empty – so plump for one more cocktail in the
perverse hope that I develop beer goggles.

‘A French martini, please,’ I ask the barman, and, as I focus through my spirit-induced haze, I realise that he isn’t bad-looking. In fact, the further I lean in to examine
him, the more twinkly eyed, cheeky-smiled and adorably dimpled he is.

‘How are you?’ he winks, flashing me a smile that could drop knickers from ten paces.

I grin. ‘Fine, thanks.’

Flirting isn’t one of my natural skills; I’m better at Scrabble and cracking my knuckles. But as I force myself to pout and run my tongue subtly across my lips – noting how
well it goes down with the barman – it’s easier than usual tonight.

‘Having a good evening?’ He shakes the cocktail, dropping his eyes to my cleavage.

‘Ab-so
-lute-
ly,’ I breathe, handing over a note.

He scrunches up his nose. ‘I’m afraid we don’t take those.’ I glance down and realise I’ve handed over three Tesco Clubcard vouchers.

‘Whoops!’ I mumble woozily, rustling in my purse for valid currency.
Dimples
is still smiling when I find some and he gives me my change.

Over the course of the next half-hour – which I spend chatting intermittently to Chris, the barman – it becomes apparent that I am
definitely in
. His flirting becomes so
suggestive, I feel as though we’re in the first forty-five seconds of one of those special DVDs you can get in Ann Summers.

I can’t be certain of how much sense I’m making. The French martini had a fairly drastic effect on my ability to think straight and the subsequent Piña Colada finished it off
altogether.

He looks only vaguely impressed when I tell him I’m an air hostess, having suddenly convinced myself it’d be more of a turn-on than what I really do for a living. But I’m
pretty sure that the button I undo on my top doesn’t go unnoticed, nor does the hair flicking – especially the flicking, which I employ so enthusiastically I almost fall off my
stool.

I snatch pieces of information about him and learn that by day he’s studying medicine at Liverpool University, but I need to get down to business. I’m now so squiffy I’m
seriously concerned that if I get him into bed, I’ll lose consciousness before I’ve removed my shoes.

‘What are you doing later?’ he asks finally.

I smile sweetly. ‘Sleeping with you.’

I’m instantly astonished at the fact that these words came out of
my
mouth. Still, this is no time for subtlety, and the effect on him is astounding. He’s stunned into
silence, but one thing’s absolutely clear – he looks perfectly chuffed.

‘She
isn’t
– she’s coming home. Come on, Emma. Everyone’s in a taxi outside. We’re waiting for you.’

I spin round and narrow my eyes at Marianne. ‘Look, Mother Superior, could you leave me in peace?’

I won’t bore you with the ensuing conversation, except to say that it is a word for word repeat of the earlier one – with a few slurrier words – and culminates in a
‘FINE!’ from Marianne that’s so loud and furious it nearly singes the salsa dancers’ feathers.

Still, at least I get rid of her, and spin back to Chris. ‘What time do you finish?’ I purr.

He leans over and brushes my hair away from my face. ‘In two and a half hours.’

I sit bolt upright. ‘You’re kidding?’ Keeping my eyes open for two-and-a-half minutes is a challenging enough prospect.

‘I’m on the late shift,’ he explains.

‘But that’s no good
at all
.’

‘I’ll make it worth your while,’ he adds with an air of desperation.

Dejectedly, but with no better offers, I order a double Red Bull, followed by another. I am about to go for a third, but spot myself in the mirror behind the bar.

I am not the vision of grooming I thought I was – unless you’re comparing me to an Afghan hound on the way to getting its fur washed after jumping in a puddle. One thing’s for
sure: I can’t wait around for – I glance at my watch – two hours and twelve minutes. I need to find someone else. Quickly.

Some chat-up lines are corny. Some are classy. Some are memorable, earth-shattering or stop-in-your-tracks offensive. But, even for someone who is no great authority on the art
form, I’m aware that mine is unusual.

‘Hello, I’m Emma. Do you think you’re likely to want to leave in the next hour or so?’

He’s the fifth person to whom I’ve put this question and I’m not sure why I’m persevering. Not that my opening line is the only problem – in three cases I realised
instantly that, close up, they didn’t look remotely like they did from the other side of the room. One transformed from Ryan Gosling to Tom Jones at close range, and it was a similar story
with the other two. The fourth turned out to be a paramedic on his way to a woman who’d gone into labour in the restaurant upstairs.

I’ve decided that if I don’t get talking to a serious prospect within ten minutes, I’m going home. Only . . . well, the fifth one . . . he has potential.

‘Probably. Why do you ask?’

He looked like Tom Hardy from a distance and while, as with the others, he’s nothing like him up close – he’s still gorgeous. V
ery
good-looking, with dark, cropped
hair, a lovely physique and stubble that’s strangely alluring, even if it looks capable of removing the make-up from my chin with one snog.

The other physical feature that can’t go without mention is his smell; it’s nothing less than knee-trembling. They say physical attraction is a chemical thing, influenced by the
mingling of pheromones and stuff (clearly, I am paraphrasing the relevant articles in the
New Scientist
here).

If you buy that, all I can say is his pheromones and my pheromones are getting on like a house on fire. I could sit here and sniff this man all day, if that were considered in any way socially
acceptable.

‘I need someone to share a taxi with.’

He frowns, amused. ‘We might live in totally opposite directions.’ His voice is accentless, erring towards posh.

‘Where do you live?’

‘At the moment, Crosby.’

In totally the opposite direction. ‘That’s on the way!’

He eyes me suspiciously. ‘Are you okay? You seem a little . . .’

Flirtatious?

‘. . . drunk.’

I straighten my back. ‘I am
not
drunk. What a cheek!’

‘Sorry,’ he concedes, looking naively guilty. ‘Aren’t you here with friends?’

‘I was, but they had to leave. I decided to stay a little longer. There’s no stopping me! Aren’t
you
here with friends?’ In a conversation I’m aware is
less than stimulating, this is the best I can do.

He gestures to the corner, where a guy with red hair has his tongue down the throat of a tall blonde in a barely there skirt and earrings that look like they belong on the Trafalgar Square
Christmas tree.