Laughing, he smothers my hair with kisses. ‘Have you heard the one about the comedian who fell in love with a redhead called Heather?’
Peeping out, I snuggle up to him. ‘No, what happened?’
‘He couldn’t get out again.’
I smile ruefully. ‘That isn’t remotely funny.’
‘It’s not supposed to be,’ he murmurs, pulling me close and kissing me.
And closing my eyes, I kiss him back. Now that has to be the best punchline I’ve ever heard.
Epilogue
‘That’ll be three dollars and seventy-five cents.’
I place the magazine on the counter and pull out a five-dollar bill from the pocket of my shorts. The shopkeeper takes it from me and as I wait for my change, I pick it up and scan through the glossy pages. It must be here somewhere . . . I turn over a couple of advertisements. Then I see it. A black-and-white photograph of a woman peeling off her wetsuit, illustrating an article about surfing. My eyes flick to the credit, written underneath in small block capitals:
HEATHER HAMILTON.
I feel a burst of pride. Scene is one of America’s best-selling magazines and it’s my first shoot for them. And, though I say it myself, my photo looks pretty good and that credit isn’t tiny. The letters must be at least nearly half a centimetre . . .
‘Miss?’ The man behind the counter is holding out my change.
‘Oh, thanks.’ I blush, and stuffing the change into my pocket, I close the magazine and walk outside into the scorching heat.
It’s late afternoon but the sunshine is still dazzling. I slip on my sunglasses and look across at the rows of impossibly tall palm trees, with the expanse of blue sky, yellow sand and glittery ocean. Venice Beach, California. I breathe in the scent of salt, coffee, and suntan lotion. It’s everything I dreamed it would be like and more. Filled with cyclists, girls in bikinis, dudes carrying surfboards, a roller-blading sitar player . . . Grinning to myself as he whizzes past on the busy sidewalk, I turn to my bike and plop the padlock into the little wicker basket. Climbing on to the seat I push off from the kerb. I’ve just been for a swim in the ocean and, feeling the salt on my skin and my bikini damp beneath my shorts, I pedal lazily, allowing myself to daydream, my mind spooling backwards with every revolution of the wheels.
Back to Edinburgh and that morning six months ago when I woke up in my frilly pink hotel room next to Gabe . . .
As Brian had predicted I stayed until the festival ended. Gabe’s show was a sell-out. In fact, he was such a hit that a much larger venue offered him a spot. As his audiences grew, so did the buzz. Before he knew it, all the judges of the comedy awards were coming to see him and he was being nominated for the prestigious Perrier Award.
When he won, I wasn’t surprised. Gabe, however, was astonished, as was the whole comedy circuit who’d never even heard of him, but since then he’s gone on to even bigger and better things. His win created a huge amount of publicity and he’s currently in talks about his own TV series, as well as performing a sell-out show in one of the biggest comedy clubs in LA.
I turn into the network of canals, dismount from my bike and begin to push it along the narrow path running alongside the water. As for me, Victor Maxfield loved my photographs from the festival (even though he was probably a bit biased, considering the subject matter) and it was the first of many assignments. Over the next couple of months I had the most amazing time, photographing all kinds of people, places and events.
Then I quit my job. Again.
Beams of sunlight are bouncing off the water, and I push my sunglasses further up my nose. I let my eyes drift out across the canals as my mind returns to the moment I made the decision to leave the Sunday Herald. Only this time it wasn’t because of a stupid misunderstanding, it was because of butterflies. All I have to do is look at Gabe and I feel them fluttering inside me. And what better reason could I find for moving to LA than for us to start a new life together?
I pause to watch a family of ducks bobbing up and down on the water. Every so often one tips completely upside-down, its feathery bottom sticking up. It’s quite incredible. Just as incredible is the fact that usually in February I’m in cold, drizzly old London, fighting my way through the rush-hour on the Piccadilly Line.
Not that it hasn’t been without its scary moments. Letting my flat, applying for a visa, turning freelance – it was as if my life suddenly speeded up. Before I knew it I was packing up my Le Creuset pans, saying my goodbyes and promising to email. And then, of course, there was Lionel.
At the thought of him there’s a tug at my heartstrings. As much as I love my new life here with Gabe, I hate being so far away from my father. It’s silly, really. I know he’s in good hands, and he’s only at the other end of the phone, but I do miss him. Sometimes I almost feel like wishing . . .
But obviously I don’t, I remind myself, feeling a little burst of righteousness. The lucky heather taught me a lesson and I’m a changed person. Take the other day, for example. Gabe and I were on the beach when I saw this girl wiggle past in a bikini: even Cameron Diaz would have died for her bottom, and just as I was about to wish it was mine – I stopped myself. Which wasn’t easy, as it really was a very nice bottom, and one that was obviously no stranger to lunges. But I’m so glad I did because five minutes later Gabe told me I had the most perfect bottom he’d ever seen. Which proves you really do have to be careful what you wish for.
Although now, with hindsight, I’m not so sure any more if the lucky heather really was lucky. Maybe I did just let my imagination run away with itself. Maybe it really was all just a string of coincidences . . .
In the weeks following its disappearance a few things happened that made me think it might have been. The scales in Boots suddenly sported an out-of-order sign, and when I asked a sales assistant what was wrong, she told me it had been giving the incorrect weight. By five pounds.
And then a dog-walker found my wallet tossed into a ditch on Hampstead Heath and handed it in. As expected, all the cash and cards were missing – except for my organ-donor card, which was how the police traced me. And the lottery ticket, was tucked safely into the inside pocket, where I’d put it. As for the million-dollar question, did I win?
Yes, I did.
Well, sort of.
I got four numbers and won a tenner, which OK, didn’t buy me an Aston Martin Vanquish, but it did pay for a cab home from the movies. And, as slushy as this might sound, snuggled up on the back seat with Gabe I felt as if I had won the lottery.
But to be honest, the more I think about it, the more I don’t think I’ll ever know the truth about the heather. Part of me wants to believe it was magic, that all my wishes really did come true. But, of course, the rational, reasonable, sane side of me knows that’s impossible. Things like that happen in fairytales, not in real life. Don’t they?
Finally reaching a large wooden house painted baby blue, I wheel my bike up the path and lean it against the steps, where a large ginger cat is lazing contentedly on the porch in a patch of fading sunlight. I bend down to stroke him. ‘Hey, Billy Smith,’ I whisper, tickling him behind the ears. He gives a rasping purr and stretches out like a draught excluder, his small white paws flexing. I smile to myself. I’m not the only one to be enjoying the Californian lifestyle.
I push open the screen door and walk inside. The house is still and quiet. I kick off my sandy flip-flops, pad through the living room and pause to turn on the lamp on the little side table. Next to it is a photograph I took of Gabe. He’s standing in front of the Laugh Factory on Sunset Boulevard, and on the sign above him ‘Angel Gabriel Live’ is spelled out in big black letters, alongside ‘SOLD OUT’.
Proudly I rub my thumb across the wooden frame. I’ll never be a fan of stand-up comedy, but I’m learning to appreciate it. A bit like beer, I muse. Thinking how a chilled one might be rather nice right now. I go on into the kitchen.
‘SURPRISE!’
I freeze in the doorway.
Ahead, the patio doors have all been flung open and I’m looking out into my little garden. Strung with tiny fairy-lights, multi-coloured balloons and a huge party banner that reads, ‘Happy Birthday,’ it’s crammed with people, whooping and screaming, yelling and shrieking.
Oh, my God.
I steady myself against the fridge.
It’s a surprise birthday party.
My first impulse is to run. I hate surprises. I’m not prepared. I’ve come straight from the beach. I have sand in my hair and a spot on my face that I picked. I look like shit. I need a shower. And at least half an hour to do my hair and makeup.
But, like a rabbit caught in headlights, I’m too stunned to react.
Then I see them. Familiar smiles. ‘Lionel . . . Ed . . . Jess!’ I gasp, and now a whoosh of sheer joy is rushing up inside me like a firework, and I’m suddenly finding my feet and running out into the garden, flinging my arms round everyone.
‘Lionel! I can’t believe it . . . And Rosemary! wow! Jess! You sod! Keeping this a secret from me! Oh, and this is your new boyfriend Dominic? Hi, nice to meet you, Dominic! Ed and Lou and – oh, my gosh – is this Ruby? She’s so beautiful – Hey, Ruby, I’m your auntie Heather! Brian! It’s so great to see you . . . Oh, and Neil, lovely to see you too!’
Breathless with excitement I hug them all, laughing as Brian snaps away, taking dozens of pictures. Lionel looks so healthy, and my little niece is adorable, and Jess seems really happy with her new man and – crikey! I take it all back. I love surprises. Bloody love them.
‘Sssh.’
In the middle of all this commotion there’s shushing.
What’s going on? What have we got to be quiet for? Why are we . . . ?
Then I see Gabe. He’s carrying a birthday cake. It’s all lit up with dozens of candles and as he walks towards me, down the little crazy-paving path, everyone starts singing ‘Happy Birthday’.
Oh, my gosh, I’m going to cry. My eyes are pricking with tears and I feel a lump of happiness in my throat. I’m so lucky. Gabe was right. There doesn’t always have to be a but.
He puts the cake on the little patio table, turns to me and kisses my lips. ‘Happy birthday, gorgeous,’ he whispers, giving me a mischievous wink.
I laugh and as everyone gathers round me with their cameras ready, I go to blow out my candles.
When he stops me.
‘Hey! Don’t forget to make a wish,’ he laughs.
Goosebumps prickle. I feel a familiar tingle in my fingers and toes. No, Heather. Remember, you promised. I look back at the shimmering candle flames, take a deep breath and close my eyes.
But then again . . .
What’s one little wish?
About the author
Alexandra Potter was born in Bradford. She has lived in the USA and Australia and worked as a features writer and subeditor for women’s glossies in the UK. She now writes full-time and lives in Los Angeles. Her previous novels are Do You Come Here Often?, What’s New, Pussycat?, Going La-la, and the widely acclaimed Calling Romeo.
Alexandra Potter, Be Careful What You Wish For
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