Be Careful What You Wish For (3 page)

Which leaves me in charge. Officially I’m supposed to be his assistant, but I usually end up taking most of the pictures. Despite the unwritten rule in society that decrees women have to goo-goo over new-born babies, puppies, cuddly toys and – the
pièce-de-résistance –
weddings, they just don’t have that effect on me. It doesn’t mean I’m against marriage. On the contrary, I love the idea of falling madly in love and living happily ever after. Doesn’t everyone? But just recently I’ve begun to wonder if ‘ever after’ really exists. I mean, maybe it should be more a case of ‘happy for the moment’ or ‘happy until I get bored’. Or, in the case of me and my ex, ‘happy till he starts shagging the girl in Marketing’. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

Violent nose-blowing zones me back in and I see Brian sniffing into his handkerchief. His eyes are all red and puffy and he’s trying to focus on the bride and groom who are saying their vows. Patting him reassuringly on the back, I pass him a dry tissue and ease the camera out of his hands. I look down the lens and zoom in on the happy couple.

‘Priscilla Klein, I want you to know that even though I’ve been married eight times before, this marriage to you will last for ever . . .’

‘David Wolstenhume, I promise I will always love and honour you, even if you do have to go back inside . . .’

Which brings me on to my next wish.

The flash pops as I take their picture.

See? There I go again . . .

When it’s all over we pack up the cameras and Brian offers me a lift to the tube. Only there are roadworks, the traffic is backed up all the way along Marylebone Road and we end up stuck in it.

Sticking my bare feet up on the dashboard, I wind down the window. Brian’s driving the minivan, which has Together Forever painted down the side in swirly weddingy writing. Originally he wanted it to be on a background of confetti, but the sign painter charged by the hour and apparently confetti is fiddly and time-consuming, so he opted for a silver horseshoe and a couple of bells instead.

Brian hasn’t always been a wedding photographer. He used to be a one of the big paparazzi photographers, travelling the world, snapping celebrities at flashy film premières, but the death of Princess Diana changed everything. Brian’s a big royalist. He’s got all the royal weddings on video, drinks tea from his beloved Silver Jubilee mug and actually cried when the Royal Yacht
Britannia
was decommissioned. When Diana died he was devastated. As part of the paparazzi he felt he was partly to blame so he jacked it all in, hung up his zoom lenses and his stepladders, and set up Together Forever.

Which was where I came in.

I’d just finished a photography course at college and I replied to his ad for an assistant. It wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind – at the time I was wearing head-to-toe black and taking moody shots of graffiti-covered walls – but I figured it would only be temporary. Just long enough to get some experience, pay back my student loans and give myself time to build up a portfolio before I turned freelance. Six years later I’m still here.

Six years! It’s unbelievable. Not that I haven’t applied for other jobs, but it’s all about networking and contacts and getting your big break. I’m still waiting for mine. I keep telling myself it’s going to happen. That one day I’m going to be the new Annie Leibovitz, that I’m going to have exhibitions in swanky galleries in Soho, that I’m going to make the front covers of magazines and newspapers . . .

Er, hello, Earth calling Heather.

‘So what did you think of the wedding?’ Brian is asking.

I look at him across the handbrake. Covered with confetti and puffing a cigarette, he’s flicking through the
Evening Standard,
which he’s strewn across the steering-wheel.

‘It was interesting,’ I begin cagily, a bit like you do when you first come out of the movies and you’re not sure if the other person liked the film. ‘What about you?’

Flicking ash out of the window, Brian nods. ‘Hmmm . . . different . . .’ he answers noncommittally.

‘Though I wasn’t sure about the dress . . .’ I venture cautiously.

‘I think she forgot her castanets.’

I giggle, which sets off his smoker’s laugh.

‘Now, come on, we’re being rotten.’ He tries to compose himself. ‘It wasn’t that bad.’

‘Yes, it was.’ I smile, which lets him off the hook: the floodgates open. It’s a sort of a tradition of ours – like when you’ve been to a party with your boyfriend and you spend the journey home in the car gossiping about everyone.

‘Did you see the bridesmaids? They were gorgeous.’

‘Especially the little blonde one who insisted on wearing her bunny-rabbit ears.’

‘But what about when the best man lost the rings? He looked gutted.’

‘And broke out in that nervous rash.’

‘And started scratching all over.’

‘I saw him with his hands down his pants.’

‘No, you did not.’

‘I swear to God. I’ve got it on film!’

‘Eugghh, that’ll make a nice photo.’

Brian and I both crack up. The absurdity of our job provides us with the best in comic entertainment.

‘So, what time’s our job tomorrow?’ I wipe my streaming eyes. ‘I promise I won’t be late for this one. I’m going to get myself a new alarm clock.’

‘Don’t worry about it. Have a lie-in. Catch up on your beauty sleep.’

I pull a face. ‘But it’s the weekend,’ I remind him. For people in the wedding business, weekends are always manic.

‘I know. And I’m giving you the day off.’

‘A day off?’ I repeat incredulously. ‘On a Saturday?’ As Brian’s words register, I’m hit with the kind of high you get when you realise you don’t have to go to work the next day. I can’t remember the last time I had a whole weekend to myself. How fantastic. I can sleep late. I can laze around in the back garden reading trash mags. I can even spend the entire weekend in bed watching videos and eating takeout pizza
. . . By myself.

Abruptly, my day off loses its appeal. Weekends are for couples. It’s like the city suddenly turns into Noah’s ark – people walking two by two round parks, sitting at tables for two in cafés, sharing buckets of popcorn at the movies. Usually my best friend Jess and I hang out together. Most of our old gang have long since paired off and as we’re single we figure it’s safety in numbers. But she’s an air stewardess and this weekend she’s on a back-to-back to Delhi.

‘Are you sure? Saturdays are always our busiest days,’ I start backtracking.

‘Were,’ corrects Brian. ‘Things have been slow for a while.’

True. I’d noticed that things had eased off over the past few months but I hadn’t given it much thought. Now, I see that Brian’s shoulders have slumped forward and there’s a big furrow running down his forehead like the Grand Canyon. Something’s up.

‘You’re going to be having a lot more weekends off in the future,’ he adds.

‘The business is doing okay, isn’t it?’

There’s an ominous pause. ‘Well, that’s what I was going to talk to you about . . .’ Sighing, Brian turns to me and I get a horrible sinking feeling. Something is definitely up. ‘Now I don’t want you to panic . . .’

I panic.

‘. . . because you’re a wonderful assistant and a really talented photographer . . .’

Oh, God, I’m being fired. ‘. . . and I’ve enjoyed working with you.’

Enjoyed? Did he say
enjoyed
? As in past tense? My stomach dives towards my blistered toes. Until now I’ve never entertained the thought of losing my job. I’ve been too busy complaining about it and wishing something better would come along. Now, faced with unemployment, I see all the great things about it. Going to work in floaty dresses and strappy sandals, eating smoked-salmon canapés and wedding cake for lunch, having a boss like Brian . . . ‘Please don’t fire me,’ I blurt.

‘Fire you?’
he gasps, his voice high with astonishment. ‘Lord, no! Why would I fire the best assistant I’ve ever had?’

‘I thought . . .’ I begin in confusion.

‘But I might have to let you go.’

My heart sinks. Brian’s doing that thing boyfriends do when they break up with you and try to make you feel better by saying it’s not you, it’s them. It doesn’t matter how they say it, the outcome is exactly the same: you’re still being dumped.

‘What I’m trying to say is that I’ve been looking at the books. The business isn’t doing very well –’ He concertinas his cigarette into the ashtray and reaches into the glove compartment for a can of air-freshener. ‘– and, well, to be honest Heather, it might be wise to start looking for another job.’ He glances at me, trying to gauge my reaction.

‘It’s that bad?’ I say quietly.

‘Worse.’ He gives the van a vigorous squirt of Ocean Breeze. Satisfied, he pops the can back into the glove compartment, and turns to me. ‘The bank’s calling in my loan.’

Suddenly Brian looks like a man with the world on his shoulders. The bags under his eyes seem heavier, the lines etched down his cheeks are like ravines, and he has a defeated air about him that I’ve never seen before. ‘Things might pick up.’ I attempt to inject a note of optimism. I’d no idea the business was so close to bankruptcy and I feel terrible – not for me, for Brian. I might lose my job, but he stands to lose everything, including his home, which he’s remortgaged for the business.

‘They might,’ he agrees, forcing a smile. ‘Maybe by some miracle we’ll get a big wedding to pay off all our debts, hey?’

‘Yeah, maybe.’ I smile back determinedly.

He switches on the radio and as he turns back to his paper, I let the smile drop from my face. Worry scuds like a cloud across my forehead, casting a long dark shadow over the future. Mentally I dig out my list and scribble down another wish:

 

E
ventually the traffic is moving again and soon I’m standing on the pavement outside Baker Street station. ‘Well, I can’t let my assistant go home barefoot, can I?’ Brian is saying, leaning out of the minivan, a grin on his face. ‘I’ll just have to give golf a miss.’

‘I think, as my boss, you could have paid for a cab for me,’ I grumble, gazing at my feet. Where once there’d been a pair of stylish diamanté sandals, there are now Brian’s golf shoes. Caked with mud. In a size eleven.

‘There’s nothing wrong with catching the tube,’ Brian calls, pulling away from the kerb. ‘You’ll be home in no time. Think about poor old me, stuck in traffic.’ He hoots his horn and I watch him brake to let a group of handsome thirtysomething men cross the road. I can think of a lot of ways to describe Brian, but right at that moment, as he sits behind the wheel of his beloved minivan, his eyes flitting admiringly from one tight-T-shirted male to another, ‘poor old me’ isn’t one of them.

As I walk on to the platform the heat hits me. It’s like turning the oven up as high as it will go, opening the door and sticking your head inside. Excusing my way through the jostling scrum of pungent body odour, frayed tempers and tension headaches, I edge towards the yellow danger line.

Which reminds me of the ticket I got last week for parking on a double yellow line. I didn’t actually
park
there, I just
left
my car for a few minutes in an emergency. Unfortunately the traffic warden – a man – didn’t think that having to buy Feminax was an emergency (of course, he’s never suffered from agonising period pains) and gave me a ticket. Which I must remember to pay. I tug a pen from my bag. My memory’s like a sieve so I’m always making lists. I’ve got lists for everything. My fridge is covered with dozens of multi-coloured Post-it notes. The only problem is, half the time I forget to look at them. But I can’t write a reminder to remind me, can I?

Scribbling ‘
PARKING TICKET
’ on my hand, I hear the distant rumble of a train approaching. I step back and watch it thunder into the station, rattling alongside the platform, the faces in the carriages blurred as if they’ve melted in the heat. It’s packed as usual. My spirits sink. And then, like every other night of my commuting life, the same thought pops into my head: I wish there was an empty seat.

The doors slide open and, propelled forwards by the momentum of the crowd behind me, I pop, like a cork out of a bottle, into the carriage. Trying not to focus on the condensation trickling off the windows and down the other passengers’ faces, I work my way through the bodies vacuum-packed into the central aisle. ‘Oops, sorry . . . ’scuse me . . . sorry,’ I gabble, treading on toes until the train sets off with a lurch and I have to lunge for one of the overhead handrails.

I cling on as we move out of the station, manoeuvring myself sideways so my nose isn’t squashed into someone’s armpit. God, I wish I could sit down. I gaze enviously at those lucky enough to have a seat, eyes passing absentmindedly across unfamiliar faces. A man with a terrible comb-over, a pretty girl with an eyebrow piercing, an old lady with salmon-pink foundation. And freeze on a man with a distinctively strong jaw, a cleft in the chin and a thatch of black hair, underneath which lurks a familiar pair of hazel-brown eyes. Oh, my God, what’s
he
doing here?

My stomach does a little flip. It’s my neighbour. My exceedingly
handsome
neighbour. The one I always think is a dead ringer for Brad Pitt’s dark-haired younger brother. Not that I know whether Brad Pitt actually
has
a dark-haired younger brother, but if he does I’m sure he’d be just like this guy. Whatever he’s called. Because although I’ve lived across the street from him for the past year I still don’t know his name (which baffles my stepmother who takes it upon herself to know not just the names but the personal habits of every resident of Bath). That’s London, though. People live in the same buildings as their neighbours for years and nod in the communal hallway, but never speak to each other.