Be Careful What You Wish For

  ‘It’s the American, isn’t it?’

  Startled, I glance up. ‘What is?’

  ‘He’s the reason you’ve had that look on your face all day.’

  ‘I don’t have a look,’ I say hotly, watching the little Vodafone hands appear on the screen. Gosh, it’s taking ages. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Brian staring at me. ‘Honestly, you get a boyfriend and suddenly you’re the expert on relationships,’ I mutter. Finally the little Vodafone symbol appears and I dial 121.

  ‘I don’t need to be an expert on relationships to know when someone’s in love,’ he replies.

  Is it that obvious?

  ‘You have one new message.’

  ‘Hello, this is a message for Heather Hamilton.’

  Prepared to hear Rosemary’s polite vowels, I jump as a loud, no-nonsense voice barks down the phone. It sounds like—

  ‘Victor Maxfield here.’

  My heart thuds. What does he want?

  ‘I’ve just returned from my fishing trip and found your letter of refusal on my desk. My dear, don’t you know the first rule of journalism is to make sure you’re aware of the facts? Yes, my nephew Gabriel did put in a good word for you, and, yes, on his recommendation I gave you an interview. But that wasn’t why you got the job. You got it because you’re a bloody talented photographer.’

  My breath catches in the back of my throat. Gabe isn’t why I got that job? I’m a Bloody Talented Photographer? My stomach rushes upwards as if I’m on a swing, then plummets down again. And I’ve been a Bloody Stupid Idiot.

  ‘Gabriel might be my favourite nephew but the Sunday Herald is an award-winning newspaper and I’m not about to give you a job because the idiot’s in love with you.’

  What?

  After everything, this curveball hits me in the stomach. Did he just say what I thought he said? But that’s ludicrous! Gabe? In love with me?

  But . . . Victor Maxfield is still talking and I struggle to listen.

  ‘But, look, I’m a busy man, I’ve got a paper to run, and I don’t take no for an answer. So stop all this nonsense immediately. We’re running a piece on the Edinburgh Festival and we need a photographer up there. There’s a plane leaving for Edinburgh at five from Heathrow. When you call me back, I want you to be on it.’

  And then he hangs up. Just like that.

  I stare at my Nokia in disbelief. I’ve suddenly got a job at the Sunday Herald after all, and with it my first assignment – the Edinburgh Festival.

  Which is where Gabe is.

  I walk round the van, tug open the passenger door and climb in. Brian’s sitting in the driver’s seat puffing at a cigarette and listening to the radio. ‘Everything OK?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘I need a favour.’

  ‘For you, anything,’ he quips.

  ‘Can you give me a lift?’

  He smiles. ‘Course I will. Where to? Little Venice?’

  ‘No, Heathrow.’

  A look passes between us. There’s no need for an explanation.

  ‘What time’s your flight?’

  ‘In less than an hour.’

  ‘Righty-ho.’ Turning the ignition, the van splutters into life. ‘Hold on to your hat.’ He jams the gearstick noisily into first and as the wheels spin on the gravel, we shoot off down the driveway in a swirling cloud of dust and anticipation.

  Chapter Forty-six

  We race towards London.

  After I’ve told Brian about my message from Victor Maxfield I discover he’s actually a frustrated rally-car driver and rises to the challenge with aplomb, putting the little white minivan through its paces as if he’s Michael Schumacher in a Ferrari. With the engine screaming and a cigarette stuck to his bottom lip, he expertly cranks up and down through the gears as we zigzag across lanes of traffic.

  We cause quite a stir. People gawp in astonishment as the Together Forever minivan whizzes past in a blur, Brian and I strapped into the front seats in our full wedding regalia. I spend most of the journey glancing frantically from the busy roads to my watch. My heart leaps into my mouth every time we hit a red light, or have to brake at a zebra crossing. What’s with all this traffic? And roadworks? And red lights?

  But then, after what feels like for ever, I see a sprawl of grey terminal buildings. Heathrow airport.

  ‘Thanks, Brian,’ I gasp, unbuckling my seatbelt and throwing open the door. I jump on to the Tarmac and my knees go wobbly.

  ‘Here, you nearly forgot something.’

  Brian is holding out one of his cameras. It’s digital. ‘You’ll be needing this. And this.’ Scrabbling behind him, he tugs out a black nylon laptop case. ‘This way you can email your shots to your picture editor. Just in case you find you want to stay a bit longer in Edinburgh . . .’

  My stomach stops jumping around all over the place just long enough for a huge smile to spread over my face. ‘Brian, I don’t know how to thank you . . .’

  He flaps a hand. ‘Go on, scram. Otherwise you’ll miss your plane. And that Yank of yours.’ And giving me a wink, he pulls out of the lay-by and disappears into the traffic.

  As I walk into Departures the first thing I notice is the queue, zigzagging all the way back from the ticket desks along black elastic barriers to the revolving doors. Which is where I am.

  A queue? I haven’t stood in a queue for weeks. I glance at my watch, I sort of hover, not sure what to do, anxiety growing. Fuck. I’m going to miss the flight. Victor Maxfield will think I’m crap, I’ll be fired and spend the rest of my life taking pictures of brides with leg-o’-mutton sleeves . . .

  I struggle to calm myself. After all, there’s no point getting stressed about it, I tell myself. I spot a discarded copy of the Evening Standard, snatch it up and start to read it. Slowly we drift forward inch by inch. Column by column. Page by page. Until finally I’m just reading about the hike in interest rates when—

  ‘Next.’

  Scrunching up the newspaper I fling myself at the check-in-desk. ‘Phew! at last!’ I gasp. ‘I was worried I was going to miss my flight.’

  The stewardess keeps typing into her computer, her fingernails clickety-clicking on her keyboard.

  ‘I’m booked on the five o’clock to Edinburgh,’ I gabble.

  Nothing.

  I stare at the top of her head. Has she heard me? ‘I think it goes quite soon,’ I add, louder this time.

  There’s a pause, and then, ‘Name?’ she monotones.

  Finally.

  ‘Heather Hamilton,’ I gasp. ‘Miss.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she mutters and continues tapping leisurely at her keyboard. Now, I know they must deal with this kind of thing every day, but can’t we at least have some sense of urgency?

  Apparently not.

  She pauses to sigh. ‘Oh dear, you might have missed your flight. The gates are nearly closing.’

  ‘But that’s what I’ve been trying—’ I explode. Calm down, Heather. Just calm down.

  ‘But if you hurry you might make it.’ She passes me a boarding card. ‘You’re in seventy-five F, a window seat.’

  ‘Oh, no, I can’t have a window seat,’ I say quickly. ‘You see, I’m a nervous flyer and I like to be on the aisle because if there’s an emergency and we need to jump out with our life-jackets I can get to the exits quicker . . .’

  Fellow travellers throw each other nervous looks and move away from me.

  ‘It’s the last seat,’ says the stewardess. ‘And there are people behind you, so if you don’t mind . . .’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It leaves from gate forty-two. You have five minutes.’ She throws me a sour look. Fuck.

  Running in heels is murder, believe me. My ankles are wobbling all over the place as I rush through Security and dash on to the moving walkway. ‘Ow,’ I yell, my injured ankle twists under me. I grab the hand-rail to balance and look down. Shit! My heel has snapped off. Cursing, I slip off the pink shoe and gaze sadly at it, then remember I have a plane to catch.

&
nbsp; ‘Bloody hell!’

  I look up to see an air stewardess heading in the opposite direction and staring at me in astonishment.

  ‘Jess!’ I gasp, as she glides past. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘What am I doing here? I’m a bloody air stewardess, what do you think I’m doing here? I’ve just come off a nine-hour flight and I’m going home for some shut-eye.’

  We shuffle backwards to stay level with each other.

  ‘More to the point, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m flying to Edinburgh . . .’ I nearly trip over a businessman’s briefcase and apologise profusely. ‘. . . on a shoot for the Sunday Herald. It’s a long story,’ I explain, remembering how I emailed her last week about my row with Gabe and his sudden departure.

  ‘Isn’t Gabe at the Edinburgh Festival?’ She arches her eyebrows.

  ‘Sorry, Jess, I’ve got to rush. I’m going to miss my plane.’ Cutting her off quickly I hobble off along the concourse. ‘I’ll call you.’

  ‘You go, girl,’ she yells after me. ‘Oh and, Heather!’

  I glance back over my shoulder, but she’s far away now, waving madly. Then she shouts something I don’t quite catch. I wave back. I’m not sure exactly what she said, but it sounded an awful lot like ‘Go catch some butterflies.’

  Staggering on to the aircraft I’m greeted with an atmosphere that at best is tense – and at worst positively hostile. Row upon row of stony faces greet me as I limp down the aisle to my seat. Seventy-five F . . . I’m nearing the back of the plane. Damn, it must be here somewhere. Perhaps I’ve missed it, perhaps—

  And then I see it.

  At the very back, shoved up right next to the toilets. Two seats. One is occupied by a man with a beer belly so ginormous it’s divided into two – one half being on one side of the arm rest, and the other half bursting underneath, over and around it on the next seat.

  My seat.

  I squeeze past my neighbour, sit down and fasten my seatbelt. So much for getting upgraded into a nice big squidgy leather seat, sitting next to a handsome stranger and drinking complimentary champagne all the way to Edinburgh. I close my eyes. Still, it’s only a short flight. With any luck I can sleep all the way

  ‘Well, well, well, isn’t this cosy?’

  Oh, no. Please, no.

  I’ve been accosted by a thick Scottish accent. I open my eyes to see my neighbour beaming down at me. ‘Hello there. I’m Bruce and you are . . . ?’

  For the next fifteen minutes everything goes relatively smoothly. Well, apart from the constant sound of the loo flushing next to me, and Bruce falling asleep and slobbering over my shoulder.

  ‘Would Madam prefer the chicken sandwich or ham?’ A stewardess throws me her well-rehearsed smile.

  ‘Do you have a vegetarian option?’ I ask politely.

  ‘No, I’m afraid we’ve run out. But there’s a bit of lettuce and tomato in this one,’ she says, inspecting an anaemic-looking baguette through its Cellophane wrapper. ‘You can always take out the ham.’

  ‘Er, no, that’s OK.’ My stomach growls unhappily.

  ‘Coffee or tea?’ she trills.

  ‘Coffee, please.’

  She passes me a little white plastic cup on a tray and pours the thick black liquid, expertly not spilling a drop.

  Out of nowhere the aeroplane gives a little judder.

  What the . . . ? I shoot a glance at the stewardess. Her face remains impassive as she sways on her navy court shoes and continues to pour. Reassured, I take the cup from her.

  See? It’s nothing, I tell myself. Just a little a bit of turbulence. Nothing to be worried about. Nothing at—

  Aggggh.

  Without warning the plane is plummeting and I feel as if we’re dropping out of the sky. Terrifying doesn’t even come close. I hear children crying, a woman shriek, my heart is pounding and a finger’s prodding . . .

  A what?

  I look up to see Bruce is prodding me with his chubby finger and looking at me with concern through his frameless glasses. ‘Och, lassie, it’s OK. Just a bit of clear-air turbulence, everything’s aal reet,’ he’s saying, chewing a ham sandwich. ‘Well, apart from your troosers,’ he adds, gesturing to my lap.

  I look down to see a large brown patch spreading across my crotch then transfer my gaze to my empty coffee cup, which I’m still gripping. Just in time to watch the last drop plop on to my lap. Great. Just great. Can things get any worse?

  Apparently they can. After we’ve landed – correction: bumped, juddered and screeched along the runway – I get trapped behind Bruce and am the last person to disembark. Which means I’m the last person through the arrivals hall, and the last person to join the enormous queue for the taxis.

  And now it’s raining.

  As I watch the drops splatter on to my pink satin shoes, one of which is now minus a heel, I sigh. Where did all the beautiful weather go? It hasn’t rained for ages, not since . . . I rack my brains. Since that night I got drenched and met the old gypsy woman who gave me the lucky heather.

  A weird feeling stirs. Wait a minute. It’s not just the sunshine that’s disappeared, what about all the green lights and empty roads? And what happened to never having to wait in a queue? Getting the best seat? The last sandwich? The only cab? What happened to wrinkle-free skin? Good-hair days? How come they’ve all vanished and been replaced with . . .

  With how things used to be, I realise. Because this is what it was like before—

  Before what, Heather? pipes up a little voice inside.

  And then it hits me.

  Before all my wishes came true.

  For a moment I stand very still on the pavement, but my head’s spinning. Surely . . . it can’t. . . can it? I rewind back to the wedding, holding hands in the circle, the strange sensation, the lucky heather vanishing . . . As realisation dawns, I feel a tingle of joy spread over me.

  ‘Oh, my gosh, look at this queue for a taxi,’ I gasp, with a grin that stretches from ear to ear. ‘It’s huge.’

  A couple in front of me turn to me suspiciously.

  ‘And it’s raining,’ I whoop. ‘Yippee!’

  A few more people are staring at me now as if I’m crazy, but I don’t care. I don’t care that I’m getting drenched, or that my hair is sticking to my face, and the water is running down my neck.

  I feel a sharp pain as someone bangs a trolley into my leg.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ they apologise, expecting an angry response, but instead I throw them a beaming smile.

  ‘It’s fine, honestly,’ I say. Pulling up my trouser leg, I watch a big purplish splodge appear. I feel a surge of delight. ‘I love bruises,’ I gush.

  They move off hurriedly, just as a taxi pulls up at the kerbside. As it nears me its tyres cut through a large puddle, splattering me with filthy water. I glance down at my jacket. Its pristine creaminess is now all soggy and mottled with dirt. It’s ruined. Completely ruined. Isn’t it fantastic?

  And throwing back my head I let out a peal of laughter, letting the rain splash onto my face as I hold out my hands and twirl round and round, getting completely and utterly drenched.

  I’ve never been happier.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  A couple of hours later I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed in my hotel room, wearing a fluffy white dressing-gown and a towel wrapped round my head like a turban. In one hand I have my trousers, and in the other the hotel’s hairdryer. I’ve just spent twenty minutes bent over the sink with a bar of soap and a nailbrush, getting out the coffee and puddle stains, and now it’s just a case of drying them off and I’ll be good to go.

  I turn up the heat and stick the nozzle up one of the legs so it inflates like a wind sock, then reach for the carrier-bag hanging on the bedpost. I made the taxi stop at M&S on the way over and bought a rather natty pair of tan leather slip-on pumps (I owe Rosemary an apology – I was astonished by how trendy they are these days, and so reasonable), a pair of socks, an umbrella and a three-pack
of black low-rise g-strings. I tip out everything on to the bedspread and hold up the underwear. To be honest, I should’ve bought flesh-coloured as I’m wearing cream trousers, but flesh-coloured underwear is so unattractive and, well, you never know . . .

  You never know what, Heather? demands a voice sternly.

  I focus on my trousers, which are on the verge of scorching and turn off the hairdryer. Honestly, I don’t have time for all this nonsense. I can’t sit here daydreaming about Gabe and me and us and . . . Oh, shit, I’m doing it again. This is ridiculous. Discarding my trousers, I tug off the towel and begin vigorously rubbing my hair with it. Whatever my feelings, Gabe is just a friend, was just a friend, and if I happen to bump into him at the festival then, hopefully, he’ll accept my grovelling apology and we can be friends again. But that’s all. Just friends. He has a girlfriend already, remember? And after what Daniel did to me, I do not go anywhere near men who are prepared to cheat on their girlfriends. Not even if they do have kind, freckly faces and hang towels neatly in the bathroom, I tell myself firmly.

  Feeling all moral and righteous and utterly resolved, I finish rubbing my hair which is now one big frizz. Good. Now that’s settled I must concentrate on the real reason I’m here. As photographer for the Sunday Herald. I feel a little burst of pride. Even if it will be with kinky hair, I suddenly realise, remembering that I have neither a paddle brush nor a pair of straighteners with me. And switching the hairdryer on again, I tip my head upside-down and start scrunching furiously.

  Twenty minutes later I’ve finished getting ready and, after a quick phone call with the journalist who’s writing the article, I hang up and reach for Brian’s camera. I loop it round my neck and feel a flutter of nerves. OK, this is it. My first job. Throwing back my shoulders I open the door. Showtime.

  Any nerves I have disappear the moment I step out into the street. It’s still drizzling, but it hasn’t dampened anyone’s spirits. Everywhere I look street performers are mingling with crowds of tourists and people handing out flyers, and over the next few hours I take picture after picture after picture, until by nine o’clock my new shoes are hurting and I flop on to a bench to decide what to do next.