Be Careful What You Wish For (12 page)

‘Erm, no,’ I reply, and glance down to see that not only am I cradling the shoe in the crook of my arm, but I’m also
stroking
it. ‘I was just . . . er . . . looking.’

‘Fabulous, aren’t they?’ she says conspiratorially, in a hushed voice. ‘And seventy-five per cent off.’ She rolls her eyes as if she can’t quite believe it.

‘Oh, er, yes . . . fabulous,’ I agree. The shoe has now become
The Shoe,
the definitive shoe, the most gorgeous, beautiful, perfect shoe you’ve ever seen in your life.

‘Would you like me to bring you the other one so you can try them both?’

I put the shoe back on the wire shelf and smile regretfully. ‘I’m afraid you don’t have my size.’

‘And that would be?’

As with most sales assistants on commission, she isn’t giving up easily. But even she can’t perform miracles, I think resignedly. ‘Five.’

It’s instantaneous. No sooner have I uttered the fateful number than her face crumples and her commission-hungry eyes go dull. ‘Oh dear, that’s our most popular size.’

‘Never mind.’ I shrug nonchalantly. ‘It always happens.’

‘But have you seen these adorable boots? We have these in a five . . .’ She picks up a grotty pair of pirate boots from three seasons ago and dangles them in front of me hopefully. ‘Um, no, thanks,’ I say, insulted, and turn to walk out of the shop. Oh, well, it’s only a pair of shoes, Heather. Reaching the door I try ignoring the window display, but at the last moment I can’t help giving it one last glance and sighing wistfully.

I wish they had a pair in my size.

‘Excuse me, madam.’

I spin round. It’s the same assistant, but now her face is flushed with excitement. ‘You’re in luck. I found the very last pair. They’d been put in the wrong box.’ From behind her back she produces the shoes, thrusts them at me and gasps triumphantly, ‘Size five!’

‘Oh, wow . . .’ I splutter. I can’t believe it.

But even on sale you still can’t afford them,
whispers that voice.

I feel a crush of disappointment. It’s true. My credit card’s been cut up and I’ve only got twenty-five pounds in cash. Damnit, I wish they were cheaper.

I’m about to give them back when I become aware of her talking in the background,

‘. . . but I’m afraid there’s a tiny mark on the heel, nothing anyone would notice and, rest assured, you won’t see it when you’re wearing them. Of course we’ll discount them further . . . Another fifty per cent off from the sale price.’

Hang on a minute. Is she saying what I think she’s saying? ‘You mean they’re only . . .’

‘Twenty-four ninety-nine,’ she announces breathlessly.

A few minutes later I’m standing at the cash register, watching as she wraps them in tissue paper, and overhear someone whispering, ‘Oooh, the lucky thing, really wanted the shoes . . .’ and feel a burst of pleasure as the assistant hands me a pink bag the size of a billboard.

‘And a penny,’ she trills, holding out my change.

But I’m already half-way out of the shop. And as I walk on to the street, the huge bag swinging jauntily on my shoulder and a huge smile plastered over my face, I almost have to pinch myself. I’m not superstitious, but I’m beginning to think that heather really is lucky.

 

‘
W
oooooaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh.’

Pushing open the door of the Wolsey Castle I’m greeted by a roar of testosterone. Talk about going from one extreme to another, I muse, remembering the frenzy of oestrogen I’ve just left behind in Sigerson Morrison.

I duck inside, under a builder’s armpit, and head through the fog of cigarette smoke towards the bar. The place is jam-packed with men, drinks in hand, jaws open, eyes glued to the portable TV fastened to the wall in the corner. I tut loudly. Of course. I might have guessed.
Football.

‘Thought as much.’

I turn to see Ed looming down on me, all six foot five of him. Having come straight from work he’s in his uniform of grey suit with pleated trousers, white shirt with button-down collars, and brown lace-up brogues. Actually, he wears that at weekends too.

‘Shopping again?’ Raising his thick, dark eyebrows he studies me disapprovingly, squashing my feelings of superiority. That’s the problem with my brother. He likes to spoil your fun.

‘Lovely to see you too.’ I give him a hug.

‘And you.’ He kisses me formally on both cheeks. ‘So, what did you buy?’

I swear, he’s like a dog with a bone.

‘Oh, this?’ I say lightly, raising one shoulder and looking at the bag as if I’ve only just noticed it’s there. Come on, think, Heather. I rack my brains for a feasible excuse. It’s either that or a lecture on saving for the future. Honestly, my brother should have been a bank manager, not an orthodontist. ‘It’s a present,’ I gasp, and I feel a rush of triumph. Brilliant, Heather.

‘For whom?’

Now, I don’t know if he’s just trying to catch me out or if he’s genuinely interested but, knowing my brother, I’ll go with option one.

‘Erm . . .’ I root around in my mental address book for someone suitable. Hmm, no birthdays, no anniversaries, but there is . . . ‘Rosemary.’

‘Really?’ Ed is suitably impressed. ‘That’s rather nice of you, little sis.’

I smile uncomfortably. ‘Well, it’s only a little something,’ I say, knowing full well I’m digging a hole for myself and wondering how I’m going to get out of it.

‘I’m glad you two are finally getting on better,’ he continues, folding his arms and gazing at me with brotherly approval. Ed has a completely different relationship with Rosemary from the one she and I share. Partly because he’s a successful orthodontist with his own business in Harley Street, which endears him to Rosemary’s snobbery, and partly because he’s always so busy with work that he rarely travels to Bath, and she refuses to come to London – ‘filthy, overcrowded place’ – so he never has to spend any time with her.

‘I know Lionel will be pleased,’ says Ed, and I feel a stab of guilt. The last thing I want to do is hurt my father.

‘Yeah, I went up to Bath last weekend. He was on fine form,’ I skirt round the issue and hope he won’t notice.

‘I don’t suppose he’s started his diet yet, has he?’

‘What do you think?’ I’m glad that I’m not the only one on the receiving end of Ed’s sermons. Lionel is always being nagged about losing weight but, of course, he never listens.

Frowning, Ed shakes his head. ‘He needs to consider cutting back on his saturated fat and going on a healthy-eating plan. I’m serious, sis.’ He looks at me as if, for some bizarre reason, I should think he wasn’t. When
isn’t
Ed serious? ‘With all the dairy products and red meat he gets through, his cholesterol must be through the roof.’

‘So, how’s Lou?’ I change the subject to his wife. Lou is six months pregnant and really cool. On the outside she’s a nursery-school teacher who wears bubblegum pink Birkenstocks and can recite
Harry Potter
from memory, but on the inside she’s a reformed Goth who still has her nose pierced and loves horror movies. How my brother managed to persuade this bright, funny woman to marry him, I have no idea.

‘Well, the sickness is finally over, thank goodness, but now Boris is kicking her black and blue,’ he says gloomily.

‘You mean you know it’s going to be a boy?’ I say excitedly. Then add, ‘and you’re going to call him
Boris
?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not,’ he snaps. ‘We want the baby’s sex to be a surprise, but Lou insists on calling it Boris – after Boris Karloff who played Frankenstein,’ he explains, then sighs. ‘Apparently all expectant mothers give their unborn babies a nickname, which, quite frankly, is as bad as people naming their car . . .’

Honestly, I love my brother, but sometimes I want to shoot him: he’s so bloody grumpy. I know that secretly he’s thrilled about the baby, but he’ll never admit it. He just loves to moan.

‘Drink?’ I say brightly, hoping to cheer him up with the lure of a G and T.

‘Huh, if you’re lucky,’ he grumbles, handing me a tenner. ‘I’ve been trying to catch the barman’s attention for the last twenty minutes.’

Like I was saying, a cheerful soul, my brother.

Despairing of him, I turn to the bar – I see what he means. It’s at least five men deep, all holding out empty pint glasses in one hand and notes in the other. At this rate it’s going to take for ever. Glumly I join the back of the queue.

After a moment a man behind me taps me on the shoulder. ‘Are you being served?’ he asks hopefully, waggling his empty glass at me.

‘I wish,’ I sigh, shaking my head.

And then the oddest thing happens.

In the middle of ringing up a round of drinks the barman turns and stares right at me. Not at the half-dozen men jostling in front of me, but
right at me.
I meet his gaze and go all goosepimply. Which is weird: he’s balding, overweight and fifty if he’s a day. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, what would you like?’ he says.

‘Erm . . .’ I smile uncertainly. ‘Two G and Ts with ice and lemon. Please,’ I add. I can’t believe my luck.

‘Coming right up,’ winks the barman and, grabbing two glasses, he turns to the optics.

A few minutes later when I return to Ed he’s engrossed in the football match, along with every other male in the pub.

‘Crikey, that was quick,’ he comments approvingly, taking his glass without removing his eyes from the screen.

‘You’ll never guess what happened,’ I hiss. ‘I was served before anyone else.’

‘The female touch, hey?’ He sips his drink and continues to stare contentedly at the TV.

‘No, it wasn’t like that, it was really strange.’

‘What do you mean, strange?’ Scowling as the crowd shuffles to accommodate a new influx of people, he clutches his drink to his chest to avoid spilling it. ‘Bloody hell, it’s bedlam in here.’

I feel an elbow in my shoulder, and gasp sympathetically, ‘I know. I wish there was somewhere to sit down.’

No sooner have the words left my mouth than the couple next to me start to put on their coats.
No, surely not.
I watch in astonishment as the woman drains the last of her wine and reapplies her lipgloss, while the man tucks his cigarettes into his top pocket. They can’t be leaving.
Can they?

‘We’re going – would you like these seats?’ The man has turned to me. Not to Ed, but to me.

Suddenly I’m all light-headed.

‘Er, yes, thanks.’ I smile gratefully and glance at Ed, who’s astounded. He claims one of the empty stools hurriedly then hitches up his suit trousers to get comfortable. ‘What a stroke of luck.’

Wordlessly I slide myself on to the seat. My mind is whirling. All those niggly doubts about superstition and luck magnify as one episode after another unravels like frames on a reel of film: the empty seat on the train, no queue at Starbucks, the packet of razor blades, the parking space, Gabe replying to my small ad in
Loot
 . . . The images begin to muddle, thrown out of sequence, big things, little things . . . Driving back from Bath and there being no traffic, hanging my coat on an empty peg at work, finding my perfect pair of shoes
in my size.
And then discovering they were even further reduced. Getting served at the bar, being able to sit down . . . Faster and faster, everything blurs together until I can’t stop myself blurting, ‘Actually, no, it’s not.’ My heart is thumping like a piston. ‘It’s more than luck.’

I wait for him to say something, but Ed stares at me in confusion. ‘I’m sorry, Heather, you’ve lost me,’ he says eventually. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

I hesitate. Because that’s the problem. I’m not really sure
what
I’m talking about. Chewing my lip, I try anyway. ‘Ed, if I tell you something, promise you won’t laugh?’

‘Ah, now that’s easy,’ he quips wryly. ‘I have no sense of humour, remember?’ He’s referring to something I said to him in an argument years ago, which he’s never forgotten.

‘Well, maybe this is just me being daft but—’ I stop and exhale sharply. ‘No, forget it, I’m being crazy.’

‘My little sister? Crazy?’ His eyes return to the football.

I hesitate. He’s going to think I’m an idiot. But he thinks I’m an idiot anyway. ‘Well, you see, the thing is . . .’ I take a deep breath. Oh, sod it! Just say it, Heather. ‘Everything I wish for seems to come true,’ I say loudly.

But not loudly enough: my words are swallowed in another roar from the crowd that swells upwards in an arc, like a boomerang of yells, whistles and grunts, then crashes down in a groan of disappointment.

‘Damn! That was close,’ gasps Ed. ‘We nearly scored.’

‘Ed, did you hear what I just said?’

‘Sorry, sis.’ He places a hand apologetically on my knee. ‘A momentary lapse in concentration. You were saying something about wishful thinking . . .’

I can tell he’s only humouring me, but I persevere. It’s a relief to tell someone, to vocalise the suspicions that have been niggling at me for days. ‘No, it’s not wishful thinking. It’s more than that.’ Saying this aloud makes it sound even more preposterous. ‘Over the last few days every little thing I wish for seems to happen.’

‘Well, you know what they say, don’t you?’ he says, draining the last of his gin and tonic.

‘I do?’ I ask, puzzled.

Crunching ice, Ed looks at me solemnly. ‘Be careful what you wish for.’

‘Careful?’
I repeat in astonishment. The most amazing, fantastic, wonderful thing is happening and my brother is telling me to be careful? Actually, knowing him, why am I surprised?

‘Well, consider the implications. We think we know what we want, but we can never really know until we’ve got it. And sometimes when we have, we discover we never really wanted it in the first place – but then it’s too late.’ He raises a smile. ‘Like, for example, I remember once wishing for some time off work when Lou and I were planning the wedding. And then I went down with flu and had to spend my week off in bed with a hot-water bottle. Not much of a wish, eh?’