Be Careful What You Wish For (26 page)

Fuck.

My hangover thumps dully and, cradling my throbbing head in my hands, I take a few deep breaths. I say
supposed
because we slept past the alarm and now it’s already lunchtime.

‘Can’t you be more specific?’ Ed is demanding impatiently.

‘Oh, you know me,’ I laugh lightly in a ooh-silly-me kind of way. ‘I’m terrible with directions.’

Actually, that’s not true. I have an inbuilt compass, but I can’t tell Ed my real whereabouts, can I? He’s assuming I’m somewhere on the M4, not crawling around on my hands and knees on my bedroom floor hunting for my hairdryer.

‘What’s the nearest town?’

‘Erm . . . Brighton.’ It’s the first place that pops into my head.

‘
Brighton?
But that’s miles away!’ Ed’s bleating. ‘What have you been doing all this time?’

Shagging, I’m tempted to say, but instead I spot my hairdryer under the wardrobe and drop the phone, grunting, ‘Hang on, I need to change gear.’ Lying flat on my stomach I reach under the wardrobe and resurface to hear him complaining at the other end of the line, his voice muffled by my duvet: ‘. . . you’re talking and driving at the same time? Don’t you have a hands-free? Surely you know it’s illegal to use your mobile in the car . . .’

As he launches into one of his lectures I have a quick root through the tangled mess that it my underwear drawer, then give up. Sod it. Too hung over to attempt to find anything that matches I pull out the drawer and tip the whole lot into the holdall.

‘. . . the police are really cracking down on offenders and it’s a large fine, and points on your licence, and I really don’t think . . .’

In the background I can hear Ed getting himself all worked up. I decide to put him out of his misery. And mine. ‘OK, OK, Ed, calm down,’ I say picking up the phone. ‘You don’t have to worry. I’m not really driving.’

‘Is this your idea of a joke?’ he gasps. ‘Are you on a train?’

Oh dear, I should never have started with these stupid fibs. Fibbing only gets you into trouble, Heather, warns a voice in my head. I get a flashback of last night. In bed with James. Telling him I loved him. Regret grips me like a vice. Oh, God, I wish I hadn’t said that. But I did, and I can’t wish for something to
un
happen –
can
I?

‘No, I haven’t left yet,’ I confess.

It takes a moment to sink in. And then: ‘I can’t believe it,’ he thunders. ‘You haven’t left yet? But it’s nearly two in the afternoon! You know you’re going to hit appalling traffic now, don’t you?’

‘I know,’ I murmur, feeling suitably chastised and peering at the piles of clothes that still surround me. I wonder if I should take my bikini or if it’s going to rain. Maybe I should, just in case.

‘And you’ll miss dinner. Rosemary’s going to be very upset.’

Oh, I very much doubt it, I think grimly, imagining her delight when she discovers I’m not going to be there to spoil her hostess-with-the-mostest routine. ‘I’ll buy her some flowers on the way,’ I say, to appease him. Now, what about another pair of jeans? I grab another pair from the pile. Just in case.

‘Just in case’ is the curse of packing. It’s the reason why I always end up going away with far too much stuff that I don’t wear and why on the last three occasions I’ve flown I’ve had to pay excess baggage. I should learn from Jess and ‘capsule pack’. As a stewardess she’s a professional at it. Apparently all you need are two white T-shirts and a pair of black drawstring pants.

Despairingly I look at my overflowing suitcase. I’m only going for the weekend and I’ve already packed a dozen tops and four pairs of trousers. Oh, and my baby blue cords, combats and a pair of white jeans that I’ve never worn as I’m not sure they’re particularly flattering. I try to shoehorn them into the tiny space left in the corner next to my sponge bag. Hmmm, I haven’t quite got the hang of it yet.

‘. . . and I hope you’re going to hire a car and not take your own. It’s completely unreliable, Heather. Why don’t you just be sensible and sell it? I mean, why you need a sports car in London when you can manage perfectly well on the bus, I have no idea . . .’

‘Actually, I’m going in my boyfriend’s car,’ I interrupt, before I can stop myself. Gosh, how weird. It’s the first time I’ve referred to James as my boyfriend and it feels a bit strange – like new shoes the first time you put them on. But I’m sure I’ll get used to it. I mean, look at the satin stilettos. Now the novelty’s worn off, they’re just like a pair of old slippers.

In the middle of this train of thought it suddenly occurs to me that instead of this idea being a comfort to me, it’s actually worrying to know that I’ll soon be thinking of James as a pair of old slippers – and that it’s a good thing.

‘And we’re going to share the driving,’ I add hastily. Straddling the battered old holdall I bounce up and down to squash everything in. ‘And it’s not a sports car, it’s a very reliable Range Rover.’

I wait for his reaction, but there’s complete silence at the other end of the line. ‘Ed, are you still there?’

I can hear a muffled whispering at the other end of the line. I can see him now, breaking the news to my family, who are gathered around, waiting to hear what crazy mess Heather has got herself into now. I feel myself prickle with annoyance. I can’t quite catch what he’s saying but no doubt it’s something along the lines of: ‘
NEWSFLASH
: Sister – single, feared spinster – has been found alive with boyfriend and top-of-the-range vehicle . . .’

‘Ahem, yes, we’re all here,’ he says hurriedly.

Just as I’d thought.

‘Well, I’m afraid I’m not,’ I say breezily, putting my feet into my glittery flip-flops. ‘Which is why I can’t stand here chatting to you all day, now can I Ed? Otherwise I’ll never get there.’ And grinning smugly because, for once, I’ve actually managed to get in the last word with my brother, I hang up.

Ten minutes later I’m not feeling so cocky. ‘You can’t come?’ I wail, as James tells me he’s discovered he has to fly to Paris for crisis talks with some big client and there’s no way he can get out of it.

‘I know. I’m disappointed too, darling,’ he says. ‘I was really looking forward to meeting your family.’

My family.

As he reminds me my heart sinks. Oh, God, my brother’s going to be insufferable all weekend. And as for Rosemary. I say goodbye to James and reach resignedly for the keys to the MG, which are lying on the windowsill, next to the sprig of lucky heather.

My gaze falls upon it, and I pause for a moment, my spirits lifting as I marvel at the shaft of sunlight coming through the wooden blinds, bathing the tiny white flowers in a bright light. It’s quite incredible how long it’s lasted. It might just be down to me looking after it – it’s in an eggcup now, which I refill with fresh water – but since every spider plant I touch turns brown and crispy and I murdered my orchid by placing it in direct sunlight, it’s evident that a stronger force is at work here than my not-so-green fingers.

Some might call it luck.

No sooner do I think this than the weirdest thing happens. I’ve been standing in a little spot of sunlight on the kitchen lino, enjoying its gentle warmth, when it suddenly intensifies into a searing heat and floods through me. And I get the strangest feeling. It’s almost as if . . . I’m being watched.

Automatically I glance up at the window, fully expecting it to be empty and to feel like an idiot. But there, peering through the slats in the blind, a pair of emerald eyes glitter hypnotically. I feel a jolt of shock. Swiftly followed by recognition. No – it can’t be.

‘Heather?’

My heart nearly jumps out of my chest. With a sharp intake of breath I twirl round to see someone standing in the doorway. For a second I’m so startled that I barely register it’s Gabe. He’s wearing another of his strange wardrobe manifestations – a bright orange boiler suit and flip-flops. ‘Oh . . . hi.’ My mind is falling around all over itself, desperse to make sense of what just happened. Was that . . . ? Could it have been . . . ? Struggling to grasp the incredible, I glance back nervously at the window. I hear a miaow and catch a streak of ginger as Billy Smith jumps from the ledge. Or was it just a trick of the light?

‘Going away from the weekend?’ Gabe is saying, as he pads over to the kettle and flicks it on.

‘We are going to Cornwall, to see my family,’ I murmur, feeling dizzy. Tucking my hair firmly behind my ears I try to concentrate. ‘I mean I am.’ I sit down at the kitchen table, resting my hands on its scratched wooden surface. It feels warm and solid beneath my fingers. ‘James was supposed to be coming with me,’ I say. ‘But he had a meeting.’

‘Oh.’ Gabe studies me for a moment, then asks, ‘Are you OK with that?’

I’d thought I wasn’t but now, thinking about it, my initial disappointment seems to have disappeared and it’s occurring to me that, actually, I’m fine with it. In fact, to tell the truth, the more I think about it the more I’m relieved that James and I are going to have a break from each other. Last night was lovely, but it’s left me uneasy.

‘Yeah, it’s just a long drive. And with the traffic . . .’ I add, and then, realising I sound exactly like my brother, joke feebly, ‘I’ll just have to make sure I take lots of chocolate to keep me company.’

‘You could always take me.’ He’s laughing when he says it but I’m so taken by surprise I don’t say anything. ‘I don’t have any plans for this weekend and you were saying the surf’s pretty good down there . . .’ He keeps talking, shuffling awkwardly and scratching his nose ‘. . . so I was kind of thinking . . .’ He trails off and waits for my reaction.

Only I’m not sure what it is.

Gabe? Spend the weekend with my family in Cornwall? I’m sure they won’t mind, but what about James? Well, what about him? Gabe and I are platonic, and he’ll love it there. He’ll be able to surf, eat Cornish cream teas and be a complete tourist. I mean, if he thinks Hampstead’s quaint, he’ll go nuts over Port Isaac.

But what about you, Heather? Forget everyone else.
What do you want?

I pause to think about it. Not because I need to, but because I think I ought to. I know the answer, though – I’d known it before I went through all this in my head. I want him to come with me.

‘The surf’s great.’ I smile shyly.

‘Awesome!’ he whoops, holding out his hand to high-five me. Feebly I high-five him back. Damn, I hate that bit.

‘Now can I make a suggestion?’

He lassoes his fingers through my car keys and drops them on the table. ‘Forget sitting in traffic. We’re gonna take the bike.’

 

I
’m going to die. Frozen with terror, I cling to Gabe’s leather jacket for dear life. We’re going to crash! We’re going to end up in some horrible, gruesome wreckage! We’re going to be so mangled up they’ll have to identify us by our dental records!

Racing down the M4, I squeeze my eyes shut inside my full-face helmet and tighten my already vice-like grip round Gabe’s waist. When we first set off he told me to hang on – so I threw my arms round his neck (well, he told me to hang on) – but when we stopped for petrol he said I’d probably find it more comfortable if I held on to the little metal thing at the back of the seat.

I ignored him. More comfortable? Is he mad? Forget trying to get comfortable – I’m travelling at nearly a hundred m.p.h. with no seat-belt, balancing on a skinny little leather seat and
trying to stay alive.

Alive but deaf, I scream silently, with the thundering roar of the engine blasting into my eardrums, making them ring painfully. This is sheer torture. I feel sick. My head’s spinning. My body’s jolting. My nerves are raw. This is terrifying. Petrifying.

Gabe revs the engine and we overtake a Jaguar in the fast lane.

And then I hear a siren.

I glance back over my shoulder and see a police car racing up behind us with its lights flashing. Oh, fuck. He’s pulling us over for speeding.

Gabe drives on to the hard shoulder and, we climb off. A grave-faced policeman clambers out of his Range Rover and stalks towards us. ‘Do you know what speed you were doing, young man?’ He glares at Gabe.

‘Hey, I’m really sorry, Officer. I’m visiting from California . . .’ Gabe begins his innocent-tourist act.

Unfortunately it’s not going to wash with a member of the UK traffic police, whose face sets even harder. ‘Well, in California, do they let you drive at ninety miles per hour? I think not.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Can I see your licence and insurance documents, please?’

Dutifully Gabe passes him his licence. ‘But I haven’t got my paperwork with me. You see, I’ve only had the bike a couple of weeks.’

The policeman’s expression is one of triumph. ‘Well, in that case I’ll have to ask you to follow me to the station.’

My heart sinks. Oh, Christ, a ticket would have been bad but this is worse. At this rate we’re never going to get to Cornwall.

Gabe gives me a woeful shrug, then turns back to the police officer, who switches on his radio.

I stare at the officer, wishing he’d let us off with just a caution.

‘Mr Gabriel Jefferson?’

‘Yes, sir?’

The officer is giving Gabe back his licence. ‘This time I’m going to let you off with a caution. In future, keep to our speed limits.’

‘Thank you, Officer,’ says Gabe, throwing me a sideways look of astonishment. I feign surprise. ‘I heard the British cops were somethin’ else and it’s true.’

The policeman walks back to his car, looking as if he’s about to burst with pride. Then he turns. ‘Are you one of them Hollywood actors? You look familiar.’ I stifle a giggle as Gabe reddens.

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ he shakes his head.