Be Careful What You Wish For (19 page)

I have to say, that when Gabe isn’t in stand-up comedy mode, he can be rather funny and I’m swatting him playfully with the
Style
section when someone bangs into the back of my chair, knocking my coffee, which slops into my lap. ‘Hey! Can’t you watch where you’re going?’ I yelp as I jump back in my seat.

‘Sorreee!’ There’s a chorus of yelling from a crowd of boys as they rush past down the high street.

‘You OK?’ Gabe asks, passing me a napkin.

‘Fine.’ I begin to blot my lap.

‘The youth of today, huh?’

There’s a pause as I continue rubbing at my clothes, and Gabe digs into the paper, pulls out the magazine and flicks straight to the back. The actions of a seasoned horoscope reader. ‘Shall I read you your horoscope?’ he asks brightly.

‘Oh, those things are a load of nonsense,’ I say dismissively, and put the soggy napkin on the table.

‘OK, suit yourself.’ Gabe shrugs and begins to read to himself.

For a moment I sit there, watching him absorbed in Jonathan Cainer, but then I’m curious. I crick my neck and try to read upside-down. I wonder if mine will say anything about new relationships. Damn it’s useless. I can’t see a bloody thing. ‘Oh, go on, then,’ I say, as if he’s been twisting my arm for the past ten minutes. ‘I’m Pisces,’ I add, after a beat.

‘Pisces, huh?’ Gabe raises his eyebrows, as if this means something significant, but I resist asking. After all, it’s nonsense, right?

‘“With all your planets aligning this is an important time for Pisceans in the areas of your career, family and love. Major changes will be happening. You’re on a winning streak, so watch out for a sudden windfall.”’ He looks up. ‘Wow! Sounds like you’re going to win the lottery.’

‘Me? I never win anything,’ I laugh, then suddenly remember my lottery ticket. My heart starts to beat very, very quickly. ‘Quick, Gabe, pass me the papers. I want to see something.’

‘Don’t you want to hear the rest of your stars?’

‘In a sec.’ I fumble with the different sections until I find the one I need, and start flicking through it. No, not there . . . My eyes scan the pages. Then I see them: last night’s lottery numbers.

I zoom in for a close-up.

I take a moment to remember to breathe. 30 my age; 14, my address; 6, number of years I’ve been working at Together Forever. Cautiously I edge my eyes along the page: 27, Mum’s birthday was 27 April . . . I try to remember the last two numbers I chose hastily at random. I’m pretty sure one was 13 . . . Bloody hell! Sure enough, it’s there in black and white. My stomach flips, half excitement, half terror. Now for the last one. It’s 41 – did I pick 41? I rack my brains. Come on, Heather, think, think—

‘Heather?’

I jump. I’d forgotten about Gabe.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘Fine . . .’ I’m trying to calm my jittery nerves.

‘That’s a very serious look you’ve got on your face,’ he says, peering at me as if I’m an exhibit in a museum.

‘Really?’ Unscrewing my forehead, I force a smile.

‘You don’t look too good. You’ve gone pale.’

‘Honestly, it’s nothing.’

‘Maybe we should go home. I’ll get the check.’ He beckons the waiter.

‘Wait a mo. I just want to check my lottery ticket.’

‘So, horoscopes are a pile of nonsense, are they?’ he laughs, waving his arm in the air.

I reach feverishly for my bag. Wow, can you imagine how exciting it’s going to be? What everyone’s going to say? Though perhaps I should be anonymous, refuse the publicity – I don’t want loads of begging letters and people trying to kidnap me for a huge ransom.

Er, hang on a minute. I run my hand along the back of my chair, feeling for the leather strap. A tiny flame of panic ignites in me and I glance over my shoulder to where I’d slung my bag earlier.

It’s not there.

‘It’s been stolen,’ I whisper, almost frozen with shock.

‘’Scuse me?’ I hear Gabe’s voice but it doesn’t register.

‘It’s gone.’ As the reality kicks in, I jump up in horror, eyes darting under the table, around the side of the chair, along the pavement.

‘Hey, what’s up?’

‘My bag!’ I wail desperately, wondering how on earth it had happened. Then I remember the gang of boys banging into my chair. Realisation dawns as anger surfaces. With them and myself. Jesus, Heather, it’s the oldest trick in the book. ‘Those kids must have stolen it,’ I jabber wildly, still looking up and down the pavement as if a brown leather bag from Nine West is going to jump out from behind a chair leg. ‘I’ve been robbed.’

‘Oh, Jeez.’ Gabe stands up and begins to look with me. ‘Was everything in it?’

I feel tears prickling. ‘My phone, house keys, wallet . . .’

‘Did you have a lot of cash?’

Even under the circumstances, the idea that I might have lots of cash in my wallet is vaguely amusing. ‘Not much, maybe a tenner,’ I murmur, and slump back into my chair. ‘But that’s not important.’

‘Hey, I know, it’s the sentimental stuff.’

‘No, it’s not that . . .’ I begin to sniff, then stop. I can’t tell him about the significance of the lottery ticket, can I? It would mean launching into the whole story about the gypsy, the lucky heather and how all my wishes have been coming true. He’ll think he’s sharing a flat with a fruit loop.

‘Is it the shock?’ Gabe squeezes my hand.

I nod mutely. Shocked? I’m bloody mortified.

One minute, there I was in my Holland Park pad, with my Italian villa and my new Aston Martin, and now –
poof –
it’s all gone. Along with my wallet, keys, mobile, Filofax – which has my address in it, which means I’ll have to change the locks. At this rate that ticket is going to end up
costing
me a fortune . . .

‘I know it sucks,’ Gabe is saying, ‘but there’s not much we can do here. We should head back to the flat, report it stolen to the cops.’

‘Actually, I might as well go straight to the police station,’ I say, trying not to think about how much I wanted to go for a walk on the Heath with Gabe and how it’s all been spoiled. ‘But you don’t have to come with me.’

‘Hey, of course I will.’

‘No, honestly, it’s fine. Enjoy the rest of the day, go fly a kite,’ I tease weakly, gesturing towards the Heath.

‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’

‘I’m sure,’ I say firmly. ‘The bank will need a crime reference number so I’ll have to fill in a report – might as well get the boring paperwork over with now.’ Great. Just how I wanted to spend my Sunday afternoon.

‘Oh, OK . . .’ There’s a pause, and then he adds shyly, ‘Look, I don’t know if you’re interested, but I’m meeting my uncle later at some comedy club he knows about. It’s open mike tonight and I could use a little practice . . . you’re more than welcome to join us?’

I’m flattered by his invitation, but the words ‘open mike’ are enough to bring me out in hives. Thankfully, however, I already have an excuse. ‘Thanks, but I’m seeing James,’ I remind him.

‘Oh, yeah, I forgot –
duh . . .
’ For a second I swear I see a flash of disappointment in his eyes, but now he’s smiling and saying, ‘Maybe next time, huh?’

‘Yeah, next time.’ I nod, trying not to think of how I’m going to get out of it.

‘Well, I guess I’ll see you later.’ Gabe moves towards me and, presuming he’s going to kiss my cheek I move my face to one side. Only it goes wrong and, bumping noses, our lips collide. We jump back as if we’ve been stung.

‘Oops! Sorry about that.’ I laugh uncomfortably.

‘Don’t worry, it’s the big schnoz.’ Gabe grins, but I’m sure he’s as embarrassed as I am.

‘Well, ’bye then,’ I say briskly.

‘Er, yeah . . . ’bye.’ He waves awkwardly.

Left behind on the pavement, I watch him striding out towards the Heath, mingling among the dozens of people heading for a lazy afternoon lying on the grass. Feeling a stab of envy, I curse the thieves who stole my bag. And then, completely out of the blue, I remember something Ed said that night in the pub:
Be careful what you wish for.
His words make me strangely uneasy. Did wishing I could win the lottery somehow cause my bag to be stolen? Was it because the ticket was in my wallet?

Or because my wish was about simply
winning
the lottery, not about
keeping
it?

As the thought strikes I feel a spark of panic. Of responsibility. Fear. But then I catch myself. Honestly, Heather, since when did you ever listen to anything your brother said? And feeling foolish for even considering his words, I march resignedly to the tube.

 

‘
S
o, what did you think of the film?’

It’s later that evening and James and I have just been on our second date – to the cinema – and are driving back in his Range Rover, him at the wheel, me in the leather passenger seat trying not to stare at his broad linen-coated shoulders, perfect Roman nose and a jawline that any leading man would kill for.

‘I really enjoyed it,’ he replies, taking his eyes off the road and catching me staring.

‘I thought Renée was really funny, and that bit with the adorable little girl . . .’ He laughs faintly. ‘Hilarious.’

I feel like the cat that’s got the cream. Not only is this man drop-dead gorgeous he also loves romantic comedies. Can you believe it? A man who likes romantic comedies?
And he’s not gay.
Vague memories of Daniel and me arguing over
Bridget Jones
versus
The Thin Red Line
in Blockbuster begin to stir . . .

‘What about you, darling?’ James is saying, as he indicates left, then drives down our street. ‘What do you think?’

That we’re outside your flat and I’m wondering if you’re going to invite me in for coffee, I think lustfully. But instead I reply, ‘It was great.’

He swings into a parking space, switches off the engine and turns to me. It’s quiet now, without the radio or the noise of the four-cylinder engine, and I feel a flutter of anticipation. But instead of kissing me he says, ‘I’m afraid I’ve got a confession.’

‘Oh.’

‘Uh-huh.’ He’s holding my gaze. ‘I don’t have any coffee.’

‘Oh.’ The man has reduced me to monosyllables.

‘So I don’t have any excuse to invite you up.’

I feel crushing disappointment. Followed by tingles all through my body as he strokes the side of my face. I can feel his breath on my cheek and then, before I know what’s happening, he’s kissing me. Light feathery kisses behind my earlobe, along my collarbone, the nape of my neck . . .

‘Do I need one?’

He pulls away and my breath catches in the back of my throat. Struggling to find my voice, I smile shyly. And only then do I finally manage to squeak, ‘No.’

Which, of course, means yes to everything else. Yes, to kissing in his hallway, yes, to his hands running up the back of my T-shirt, yes, to him pushing me against the radiator and grinding his hard-on into my pelvis . . .

Well, it
would
be yes if any of this was happening.

But it’s not – unless you count my imagination. Instead he unlocks the door to his flat, takes my coat politely and offers me a nightcap.

‘Cheers.’ He passes me a glass of champagne and clinks his glass against mine. We’re standing by the fireplace in his living room, which I’ve glimpsed dozens of times from my bedroom across the street. Only this time I’m on the inside.

Surprisingly, his flat isn’t anything like I imagined. Instead of being modern, it’s traditional, with old-style standard lamps, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a gilt-edged mirror hanging over the fireplace. It’s also immaculate. I feel secretly pleased. I’ve always wished I could meet a man who’s neat and tidy. And, hey presto, here he is.

‘Cheers.’

I go to take a sip when James stops me with a hand on my arm. ‘You didn’t look me in the eye,’ he protests.

‘I didn’t?’ I presume he’s joking, then realise he’s serious.

‘No,’ he says, looking at me intently. ‘We’ll have to do it again.’

This time I meet his gaze and he holds it for just a moment longer than necessary, which, of course, is incredibly sexy, before we clink glasses and I take a gulp of champagne. To be honest, I’d have preferred coffee, but this is all very romantic, isn’t it? I watch James walk over to his rack of neatly stacked CDs.

‘What do you feel like listening to?’ he asks.

‘Whatcha got?’ I quip.

‘Is that a band or an album?’

‘Oh, no, I meant . . .’ I start to explain, then decide against it. ‘What about The White Stripes?’ I suggest.

He looks at me doubtfully. ‘Actually I don’t think I have anything of theirs,’ he says, running his finger along the spines of his CDs – in alphabetical order I notice, unlike mine, which are piled in a messy jumble on the shelves, minus their cases.

‘Oh . . . well, why don’t you choose something?’ I say brightly.

‘OK, let’s see . . .’ He begins to throw out names: ‘Billie Holiday, Bob Dylan, David Bowie, Coldplay, Sting, Madonna . . .’ As he reels off one name after another he could almost be reading out my own CD collection, minus the White Stripes and a few quirky entries such as my beloved Billie Jo Spears album. Mum adored her. I remember her singing along to ‘Blanket On The Ground’ at the top of her voice while she was doing the ironing. The memory gets me right in the throat, like a boxer’s jab, and I have to swallow to stop my eyes watering. It’s always the silly little things that remind me. Everyone assumes its birthdays and Christmas, but it’s in the everyday details that I miss her most.