Be Careful What You Wish For

  ‘A bit strong?’ I grin ruefully. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t bring your scented candles and aromatherapy oil.’

  ‘Who says I didn’t?’ She laughs and, despite myself, I can’t help giggling.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Gabe reappears as Jess is topping up our glasses.

  ‘Not Big Dave Desmond, that’s for sure,’ says Jess, referring to the stand-up comedian who was on stage when we first met.

  Gabe is evidently confused, but she doesn’t bother to explain and instead leans over to top up his glass. ‘So, where in America are you from?’ she asks.

  OK, so the fuck-me shoes are a bit much but I’m glad Jess is here. And, I have to admit, she and Gabe seem to be getting on pretty well.

  ‘Los Angeles.’

  ‘Oooh,’ gasps Jess. ‘I’ve flown there a few times with work. I lurve LA.’

  ‘Yeah, it has it’s good points. I live in Venice, just a few blocks from the ocean.’

  ‘Venice?’ I repeat, my ears pricking up with interest. ‘What a coincidence.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Weird, huh? Venice, California, to Little Venice in London.’ Sipping his wine, he fixes me with those large blue eyes.

  ‘I guess you could call it home from home,’ pipes up Jess, giggling.

  ‘Or lucky,’ smiles Gabe.

  ‘Yeah, lucky Heather.’ Jess winks at me.

  Now, it’s not the first time I’ve been called that – in fact, I must have heard it a million times – but as soon as Jess says it I see an image of the gypsy outside the station, her eyes like tiny glittering emeralds, and hear her words: ‘Trust me, the heather will work its magic. Your luck will change. All your wishes will come true . . .’

  Slipping my hand into the back pocket of my jeans my fingers brush against a wad of notes. It’s Gabe’s first month’s rent. A whopping six hundred pounds. I’ll be able to pay the mortgage this month, maybe even make the minimum payment on my Visa bill. I feel a surge of happy relief – it’s like a wish come true.

  Barely has the thought popped into my head when a gust of wind appears from nowhere, rustling through the leaves of the trees and causing the flames of the tea lights to flicker and dance like tiny jewels sparkling in a sea of inky darkness. The cascade of metal discs on the windchime begin jingling, and the garden seems almost enchanted. A shiver scurries up my spine and goose bumps prickle on my arms. What the . . . ?

  ‘More wine, Heather?’

  I snap back to see Jess holding a bottle of pinot grigio and staring at me. Spooked, I fidget in my seat. ‘Oh, erm, yeah, great,’ I say. When I hold out my glass my hands are all trembly. ‘Fill her up,’ I joke and plonk it on the table.

  So she does. And as I watch her I realise the wind has dropped as quickly as it blew up. That the flames of the tea lights are now as motionless as the stars in the sky and the windchime is silent. Everything is as it was before. My goosebumps have disappeared too. I feel warm. And a little ridiculous. What’s got into me? Gypsies? Magic? Enchanted gardens? Honestly, Heather, you’re letting your imagination run away with you. Grabbing my wine glass I take a glug. Any minute now I’ll start believing wishes really can come true.

  ‘Do you ever go to Muscle Beach?’

  Twenty minutes and another bottle later, Jess is still chatting animatedly about Venice Beach. I had no idea she was such an expert.

  ‘Oh, all the time.’ Gabe pretends to flex his biceps. ‘Do you think a body like this comes naturally?’

  I catch him grinning at me and I can’t help grinning back, unlike Jess, who’s all flushed with alcohol and flirtation and misses the sarcasm. ‘Oooh, no, I can tell you lift weights, not like Englishmen,’ she says, wrinkling her nose. ‘All they’re interested in is lifting pints. Aren’t they, Heather?’

  ‘Well, not all of them,’ I say loyally, trying to think of one man I know who actually does some form of exercise instead of lying spreadeagled on the sofa watching other people do it on telly. It’s a struggle. ‘What about Ed?’ I suggest remembering my brother. ‘He plays rugby.’

  But Jess isn’t listening. She’s too busy reminiscing about Muscle Beach: ‘Oh, Heather, you’d love it. It’s this outdoor gym by the sea and you can watch all these big, bronzed bodybuilders pumping iron . . .’

  As she gushes on about coconut-oiled men posing with six-packs and dumbbells I haven’t the heart to tell her I can’t think of anything worse. So instead I do what I usually do when I don’t know what to say: I say something stupid. ‘Is it true everyone in LA has fake boobs?’

  Well done, Heather. Ten out of ten for tact and diplomacy.

  But Gabe doesn’t look offended, more amused. ‘No, I wouldn’t say everyone.’ He tugs down his Mr T T-shirt and peers at his chest. ‘Mine are real.’

  ‘Really? Let me check.’ Jess giggles and, without missing a beat, lunges for his right pec. ‘Mmm, nice and firm,’ she slurs approvingly, squeezing it as if it’s a melon.

  Oh, shit. My body stiffens. Jess, I realise with horror, is pissed. In less than a few minutes she’s leapfrogged from tipsy to hammered, bypassing the middle bit. Or, to put it another way, if you’re looking at a map of the world it’s like going from London to LA without crossing the Atlantic.

  ‘So, are you an actor?’ I ask, trying to cause a diversion.

  ‘I love acting,’ butts in Jess, loudly. ‘Maybe I should have been an actress. I was once in this play at school but I can’t remember the name . . .’ Her eyelids have gone all droopy and she’s having difficulty keeping them open.

  ‘Me? An actor?’ Gabe gives a pretend shudder. ‘No way.’

  My eyes flick from Gabe to Jess and back to Gabe. As far as I can tell he doesn’t seem to have noticed Jess edging towards him across her sun-lounger.

  But I have. I feel a spasm of fear. She’s sleepy. Drunk. And single. It’s a lethal combination. Any minute now she’ll be trying to spoon him.

  ‘But my girlfriend is, and she says it’s pretty tough.’

  I hear a muffled mumble from the sun-lounger. ‘Girlfriend?’ Enveloped in a blurry haze of alcohol, Jess might not be able to drive, operate heavy machinery, or undo her own bra strap, but she can still recognise words like—

  ‘Girlfriend?’ she repeats.

  ‘Yeah, she’s back in LA. She just got a small part in a movie.’

  ‘A movie?’ Jess sits bolt upright on the sun-lounger, like a parrot on a perch. Which isn’t a bad description, considering she repeats everything Gabe says in a high-pitched squawk.

  ‘Mmm, it’s a big break for her,’ enthuses Gabe. ‘Mia’s really talented, but so far she hasn’t been in anything major. Give it time, though. One of these days I’m pretty sure we’ll be seeing her nominated for an Academy Award.’

  ‘Wow, how exciting,’ I gush, attempting to cause a diversion from Jess. ‘I’m really impressed.’ And I am. An actress in Hollywood? It’s a lot more glamorous than being a wedding photographer, isn’t it? An assistant to a wedding photographer. Reminded of my current career status, I feel a painful stab of ambition. This happens to me a lot. For days I trundle happily along in a my little work bubble, doing my job, getting paid, not really thinking about it, and wham – I hear a story of someone else being incredibly successful and, boom, I remember I’m thirty, earning less than most graduates and my dream of a flourishing career as a freelance photographer, is just that. A dream. At which point I usually end up feeling like a great big frizzy-haired failure.

  Unlike Mia, who is, no doubt, a shiny, swingy-haired success with the kind of thighs that look great in a string bikini on the beach . . .

  ‘I think I’ll catch a cab.’

  My slow-motion Baywatch montage is interrupted by Jess standing up and hoisting her bustier under her armpits. ‘Well, it was lovely meeting you.’ She holds out a hand to Gabe.

  ‘Oh, er, yeah. You too.’ He’s nodding, a little ruffled by her sudden departure. As am I.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want a coffee?’ I suggest. It might sober her
up, although Gabe’s mention of his girlfriend seems to have done that already.

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow,’ she says, and gives me a quick hug before she disappears through the patio doors.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to phone for a minicab?’ I call, hurrying after her. I hear the door slam and glance out of the window just in time to see her jump into a black cab.

  ‘Your friend left early.’

  Back in the garden I see that Gabe is gathering up the glasses. ‘Erm, yeah.’ I nod. ‘She’s tired. She has to get up early for work.’

  I’m sure from his expression that he knows I’m fibbing, so, feeling awkward now that it’s just the two of us, I fake a yawn. ‘Talking of which, I think I’m going to go to bed too.’

  ‘Got to get your beauty sleep, hey?’ I’m not sure whether I should be pleased or offended by that comment. But before I can make up my mind he lets out a roaring yawn, so wide I can see two perfect rows of incredibly white molars. ‘I know how you feel. This jet lag’s killing me.’

  We go inside and hover in the kitchen.

  ‘Night, then,’ I say eventually.

  ‘Yesh, night.’

  Another pause.

  ‘You can use the bathroom first, if you like,’ I offer politely.

  ‘No, it’s OK, you go ahead. Ladies before gentlemen,’ he replies, equally politely.

  ‘No, please, you’re the guest.’

  ‘Honestly, it’s cool.’

  Backwards and forwards it goes, like ping-pong, until finally I win and he disappears inside the bathroom with a sponge-bag no bigger than a pencil case. I go into my bedroom and start to undress, pulling off my T-shirt and jeans and tugging on my old tartan pyjamas, the ones whose elastic has perished at the waistband so my arse is all baggy and it looks as if I’m wearing a nappy. Wearing. A. Nappy.

  On catching sight of myself in the wardrobe mirror, I freeze. Oh, my God. It’s like seeing myself for the first time. What have I been thinking? Night after night I’ve been cheerfully putting on this outfit to potter round my flat. I spend eight hours a night sleeping in it. I sit in my garden drinking tea in it. I’ve even – God forbid – stood on the doorstep and signed for packages from the postman in it.

  I do a slow twirl. I’m almost terrified to see the back view. Slowly . . . slowly . . . Argghh. It’s worse than I thought. Folds of faded tartan hang loosely from my buttocks like two humungous saddlebags. Think M. C. Hammer. Think Gandhi.

  Think new flatmate.

  Stripping them off and chucking them on to the floor, I yank open my drawers and reach for my Snoopy nightie – then recoil. A Snoopy nightie? I can’t wear a Snoopy nightie. I forage for another pair of pyjamas that I know are in there, but I can only find the top. Three of its buttons are missing and it’s got a granddad collar. A fucking granddad collar. Why had I never noticed it before? In fact, why have I never noticed that I have appalling nightwear? What on earth did I wear when I lived with Daniel?

  Nothing, I remember, thinking back to my old sexy life when I went to bed wearing eyeliner and Thierry Mugler’s Angel. That was before I turned into the single, celibate thirtynothing cliché who sleeps with her cat and wears socks, big period knickers and intensive anti-wrinkle night cream.

  Shuddering, I grab hold of myself. There’s the nightgown that Rosemary bought me two Christmases ago, still in its Marks & Spencer carrier-bag. I hold it against my naked body. It’s floor-length, decorated with rosebuds and frilly. Very, very frilly.

  But I’m desperate. Next door I can hear taps being turned on and off, teeth being brushed, the loo flushing, a plug being pulled out and the basin draining. Any minute now it will be my turn. I’m going to have to try to make it from my bedroom to the bathroom without being seen. I strain for the noise of the lock. Nothing. A cough. Silence. Then I hear it. The sound of the key turning, the soft click of the door . . .

  I press my cheek against the doorframe to peer through the crack between the wall and the door. I see a letterbox of light, floorboards, my fern, which needs watering. Like a learner driver I look left, right and left again. All clear. With a flush of relief, I ease open the door and tiptoe bravely into the hall. Tiptoe, tiptoe, tiptoe. I hold my breath, clutching my nightie between finger and thumb like Wee Willie Winkie. Nearly there, nearly there—

  ‘Argggh,’ I shriek.

  ‘Wow, sorry, did I frighten you?’

  Gabe is still in the bathroom. I mean, he’s just standing there. On my shagpile mat. In the middle of my goddamn bathroom.

  ‘Oh my God, yes – I mean, no – no, it’s okay.’ Clutching my embroidered lacy chest, I try to catch my breath. Which is when it dawns on me that (a) he’s naked but for a pair of white, rather snug boxer shorts (not that I mean to look, I just can’t help it), and (b) I look like someone’s granny in a full-length nightgown that comes up to my neck in a fluted ruffle.

  ‘Oh, by the way, you never did say why you’re visiting,’ I blurt, in an attempt at casual chit-chat. I say ‘attempt’, as it’s not easy when he’s standing there, all naked flesh and tufts of chest hair and snug white pouch.

  Oh, my God, I’ve done it again. Eyes straight ahead, Heather. Eyes straight ahead.

  ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ He squeezes out a facecloth that I hadn’t noticed he was holding. Just as I hadn’t noticed that the bathroom is spotless. No loo seat left up, no soggy towel on the floor, no bristles on the soap. For all my good intentions, my eyes flick quickly round the avocado suite, a souvenir from the seventies that Daniel and I had planned to rip out when we did up the flat. Only he left and I tried mending a broken heart with retail therapy – which means I still have the hideous avocado suite but I also have lots of lovely candles from Diptyque. ‘I’m putting on a show at the Edinburgh Festival.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ I say vaguely, throwing him my best smile of approval. I catch sight of our toothbrushes standing side by side in a mug with a tube of Colgate Extra and notice its top is firmly screwed on. I get the warm glow of satisfaction that comes with knowing I’ve made a right decision. We’re going to get on great. ‘What kind of show?’

  Picking up his clothes he walks out the bathroom. Then he goes and spoils it all by telling me something I really don’t want to hear.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘He’s a stand-up comic.’

  The next morning as soon as Gabe leaves the flat I phone Jess to tell her my terrible news. Despite the hangover that’s imprisoning her under the duvet with a blister-pack of ibuprofen, she summons the energy to be as horrified as I am. A sign, if ever there was one, of a true friend. ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘No, he’s the one joking.’ I wedge the phone under my ear. With one hand I hang on to my bowl of cereal, while with the other I grab the milk from the fridge. ‘He’s a stand-up-bloody-comedian.’

  There’s muffled laughter. ‘Knock knock,’ she teases weakly.

  ‘Oh, please, don’t.’ I plonk myself down at the kitchen table, which is littered with magazines, unopened mail and God knows what else. Balancing my bowl on top, I begin munching on a mouthful of All Bran. ‘It’s not funny,’ I say, my voice muffled with horrid-tasting little brown sticks. God, I wish I could hurry up and lose those few pounds. I hate having to eat this stuff.

  ‘They never are.’ She laughs throatily. ‘That’s the problem.’

  ‘So, is he still your Plan B?’ I ask, still munching.

  ‘No, he’s not what I’m looking for.’ She sounds as if she’s talking about a lamp at IKEA. ‘He’s too American.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Heather, I’m looking for a serious boyfriend. I don’t want a long-distance relationship. Haven’t you seen Green Card ?’

  ‘But didn’t Gérard Depardieu play a Frenchman in that?’

  ‘He plays a Frenchman in every film,’ yawns Jess. ‘Like Hugh Grant’s always a stuttering English toff. But that’s not the point. The point is I’m into ticking boxes, not creating new problems like ha
ving to deal with all that immigration crap. And then there’s the culture clash.’

  I love Jess. Ever the romantic. ‘Well, now you put it like that,’ I murmur, contemplating another mouthful of cereal and wishing I could have a pain au chocolat instead.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she persists.

  ‘About what?’ Curiously I eye a little leather notebook lying on the table among the mess. It looks like the one I’ve seen Gabe scribbling in. I wonder what’s in it.

  ‘Gabe being a stand-up comedian,’ she says, barely able to keep the laughter out of her voice.

  I’m beginning to think Jess is enjoying this. ‘Isn’t there a saying about how you’ve got to laugh or you’ll cry?’ I say absently, stretching out my arm and flicking open the notebook. Well, one little peek won’t hurt.

  ‘Absolutely,’ agrees Jess, supportively. ‘You’ve got to laugh.’

  On the first page, in curly blue handwriting are the words: ‘My Top Ten Mother-in-Law Jokes’. I snatch my hand back. Actually, on second thoughts . . .

  As it turns out I’m spared any mother-in-law jokes over the next few days as I barely see my new flatmate. In fact, apart from the occasional ‘Hi, how’s it going?’ when I’m arriving and he’s leaving, it’s almost as if he never moved in. Almost, but not quite.

  Little things begin to appear. A collection of spices in the kitchen, a carton of soya milk in the fridge, a new loofah the size of a French baguette in the shower. But there’s something else – and it has nothing to do with his Wilco CD that I found by the stereo, or his brightly patterned beach towel neatly folded next to the sink. It’s a feeling.

  For weeks I’d been dreading the thought of having a stranger in my flat, hated the idea of a man who wasn’t Daniel soaking in my bath, but all my fears were unfounded. It’s fine having another person around. In fact, it’s more than that: it’s nice.

  Somehow the flat feels different, I feel different. And not just because I no longer lie awake at night any more worrying about flat-repossession and being turfed out on the street with Billy Smith and those bloody Le Creuset pans. It’s as if Gabe’s presence has exorcised the ghosts of the past. Despite the shock discovery that I’m sharing my home with a stand-up comedian, I feel happier. More positive. Thinner.