Be Careful What You Wish For (45 page)

Blushing, I glance round the room. There’s a lot of smiling and nodding, and I see men nudging their girlfriends, who are giggling with embarrassed recognition.

‘I know we stand-ups lead a pretty wild life. Sometimes we cracked and hit the liquorice allsorts!’ There’s a wave of laughter.

‘But Billy Smith?’ On stage, Gabe raises his eyebrows. ‘There was me thinking he’d be curled up in a basket, purring away, but uh-uh.’ Shaking his head, he pulls an expression of astonished awe and respect. ‘That cat is an
animal.
You wouldn’t believe the traffic that went through that kitty-flap. I swear, he was getting booty calls every night.’

Suddenly I remember our conversation in the kitchen. Gabe is a genius.

‘You know what a booty call is, right?’

Gabe smiles conspiratorially into the audience. There’s a few sniggers, some puzzled looks, and a lot of people whispering explanations. Until, as people start to get it, there’s a swell of rowdy guffaws.

He grins. ‘Hmm, thought so.’

People are crying with laughter now and as they wipe away the tears in their eyes Gabe just keeps coming with his all most wide-eyed innocent delivery,

‘. . . Strays, tabbies, a couple of Persian blues . . . they were in and out all night long . . .’ He pauses and looks out into the audience. At first I presume he’s waiting to deliver his punchline but it’s almost as though he’s searching for something.
Or someone.

Then he sees me. And as his eyes meet and hold mine, my breath stops at the back of my throat and holds itself tight with anticipation. And in that moment everything around me seems to disappear, the lights, the chatter, the smell of cigarettes and spilled beer, and there’s just me and Gabe. Back in my kitchen in London with Billy Smith and his ridiculous booty calls.

His face crumples into astonishment. ‘You’re laughing,’ he mouths silently.

Thinking he’s talking to them, the crowd responds with hoots and yells. But it’s me he’s looking at.

‘I know,’ I mouth back, a smile on my face as a giggle rises inside me. And then, before I know it, I’m laughing. Would you believe it? For the first time in my life
I’m actually laughing.
At a comedian. In a stand-up comedy club. And as Gabe goes for the punchline I lift my camera, take a photograph and capture the moment for ever.

The next morning, up and down the country, thousands of
Sunday Herald
readers open their newspapers to see the black-and-white image of Gabe on stage at the Tavern staring up at them from the arts pages. Underneath is the heading ‘Comedians Taking the Festival by Storm’ and an article about the top ten newcomers and their acts, of which Gabe is one. Turns out the journalist was in the audience too, and was so impressed that she rewrote her article to include him, and emailed it just before the paper went to print.

I was pretty busy myself. After Gabe came off-stage there was a lot of apologising and explaining to do on both sides and we stayed up for hours, talking about everything. There were a few revelations. His confession that he’d broken up with Mia being the one that caught my attention particularly. But there were others. How when he’d left the flat early that morning he’d circled the block three times before he could find the strength to drive away. How, after much soul-searching, he’d decided to follow my advice and change his act. It all came pouring out.

And then it was my turn. I told him about Lionel’s heart-attack, making up with Rosemary, Victor Maxfield’s message. I told him everything. Well, not
everything.
I didn’t mention the bit about his uncle calling him an idiot and saying he was in love with me.

But I didn’t need to as he told me himself.

Just before we kissed.

‘So what do you think?’

Snuggled up in a warm tangle of feather duvet, camberwick bedspread and naked limbs, I look at Gabe across the pillows. It’s the morning after the night before and we’re in my hotel room indulging in breakfast in bed and the Sunday papers.

I wriggle my toes against his and allow my gaze to drift across his mussed-up hair and eyes all puffy with sleep behind his glasses, and can’t help wondering what was I thinking, wanting to read the papers alone without interruptions. I love interruptions. My mind wanders deliciously back to only a few minutes earlier . . .

‘Hmmm, let me see . . . “fresh new talent” . . . “sheepish, almost whimsical humour” . . . “one of the funniest comedians to hit Edinburgh”.’

I swat him with my half-eaten croissant.

‘Ow,’ he yelps, rubbing his naked shoulder as if he’s hurt. ‘That’s a mean right hook you’ve got.’

‘I’m not talking about the article,’ I protest. ‘I’m talking about the photograph.’

‘Oh, I see, the photograph,’ he repeats, as if he hadn’t noticed my credit in the left-hand corner, but his mouth is twitching. He studies it intently, eyes narrowed in concentration. ‘Och, he’s a bonny wee lad,’ he declares, in his best attempt at a Scottish accent. I shoot him a look. ‘And the photograph’s not too shabby either.’ He wraps his arm round me. ‘You’re very talented, Miss Hamilton.’ He kisses me. He tastes of pastry and orange juice, and just as I’m enjoying it I feel something.
Again?

‘You know, I’ve been wanting to do this from the first moment I saw you,’ he’s murmuring.

‘Hey, you had a girlfriend then,’ I reprimand him sternly.

‘Well, actually . . .’ He rubs his nose self-consciously. ‘When I told you we’d broken up I never said when.’

I look at him, puzzled.

‘It was actually months ago, before I came to London.’

‘So why on earth did you say you had a girlfriend when Jess . . .’ It dawns on me. That first night. In my back garden. When she tried to seduce him.

‘You were her plan B.’ I giggle.

‘Plan B?’ He looks wounded, then collapses into laughter. ‘I must remember that.’ He chuckles as he leans over to the bedside table to grab his dog-eared notebook. Untying it he takes the little pencil tucked inside and, as I watch him scribble it down earnestly, love swells inside of me.

‘Hey, I’ve got this great joke for you,’ he says.

‘Oh, God, please, no more.’ Groaning I try to bury my head under the duvet. I love Gabe, but one comedy show is enough.

Laughing, he smothers my hair with kisses. ‘Have you heard the one about the comedian who fell in love with a redhead called Heather?’

Peeping out, I snuggle up to him. ‘No, what happened?’

‘He couldn’t get out again.’

I smile ruefully. ‘That isn’t remotely funny.’

‘It’s not supposed to be,’ he murmurs, pulling me close and kissing me.

And closing my eyes, I kiss him back. Now that has to be the best punchline I’ve ever heard.

 

‘
T
hat’ll be three dollars and seventy-five cents.’

I place the magazine on the counter and pull out a five-dollar bill from the pocket of my shorts. The shopkeeper takes it from me and as I wait for my change, I pick it up and scan through the glossy pages. It must be here somewhere . . . I turn over a couple of advertisements. Then I see it. A black-and-white photograph of a woman peeling off her wetsuit, illustrating an article about surfing. My eyes flick to the credit, written underneath in small block capitals:

HEATHER HAMILTON
.

I feel a burst of pride.
Scene
is one of America’s best-selling magazines and it’s my first shoot for them. And, though I say it myself, my photo looks pretty good and that credit isn’t tiny. The letters must be at least nearly half a centimetre . . .

‘Miss?’ The man behind the counter is holding out my change.

‘Oh, thanks.’ I blush, and stuffing the change into my pocket, I close the magazine and walk outside into the scorching heat.

It’s late afternoon but the sunshine is still dazzling. I slip on my sunglasses and look across at the rows of impossibly tall palm trees, with the expanse of blue sky, yellow sand and glittery ocean.
Venice Beach, California.
I breathe in the scent of salt, coffee, and suntan lotion. It’s everything I dreamed it would be like and more. Filled with cyclists, girls in bikinis, dudes carrying surfboards, a roller-blading sitar player . . . Grinning to myself as he whizzes past on the busy sidewalk, I turn to my bike and plop the padlock into the little wicker basket. Climbing on to the seat I push off from the kerb. I’ve just been for a swim in the ocean and, feeling the salt on my skin and my bikini damp beneath my shorts, I pedal lazily, allowing myself to daydream, my mind spooling backwards with every revolution of the wheels.

Back to Edinburgh and that morning six months ago when I woke up in my frilly pink hotel room next to Gabe . . .

As Brian had predicted I stayed until the festival ended. Gabe’s show was a sell-out. In fact, he was such a hit that a much larger venue offered him a spot. As his audiences grew, so did the buzz. Before he knew it, all the judges of the comedy awards were coming to see him and he was being nominated for the prestigious Perrier Award.

When he won, I wasn’t surprised. Gabe, however, was astonished, as was the whole comedy circuit who’d never even heard of him, but since then he’s gone on to even bigger and better things. His win created a huge amount of publicity and he’s currently in talks about his own TV series, as well as performing a sell-out show in one of the biggest comedy clubs in LA.

I turn into the network of canals, dismount from my bike and begin to push it along the narrow path running alongside the water. As for me, Victor Maxfield loved my photographs from the festival (even though he was probably a bit biased, considering the subject matter) and it was the first of many assignments. Over the next couple of months I had the most amazing time, photographing all kinds of people, places and events.

Then I quit my job. Again.

Beams of sunlight are bouncing off the water, and I push my sunglasses further up my nose. I let my eyes drift out across the canals as my mind returns to the moment I made the decision to leave the
Sunday Herald.
Only this time it wasn’t because of a stupid misunderstanding, it was because of butterflies. All I have to do is look at Gabe and I feel them fluttering inside me. And what better reason could I find for moving to LA than for us to start a new life together?

I pause to watch a family of ducks bobbing up and down on the water. Every so often one tips completely upside-down, its feathery bottom sticking up. It’s quite incredible. Just as incredible is the fact that usually in February I’m in cold, drizzly old London, fighting my way through the rush-hour on the Piccadilly Line.

Not that it hasn’t been without its scary moments. Letting my flat, applying for a visa, turning freelance – it was as if my life suddenly speeded up. Before I knew it I was packing up my Le Creuset pans, saying my goodbyes and promising to email. And then, of course, there was Lionel.

At the thought of him there’s a tug at my heartstrings. As much as I love my new life here with Gabe, I hate being so far away from my father. It’s silly, really. I know he’s in good hands, and he’s only at the other end of the phone, but I do miss him. Sometimes I almost feel like wishing . . .

But obviously I
don’t,
I remind myself, feeling a little burst of righteousness. The lucky heather taught me a lesson and I’m a changed person. Take the other day, for example. Gabe and I were on the beach when I saw this girl wiggle past in a bikini: even Cameron Diaz would have died for her bottom, and just as I was about to wish it was mine – I stopped myself. Which wasn’t easy, as it really
was
a very nice bottom, and one that was obviously no stranger to lunges. But I’m so glad I did because five minutes later Gabe told me I had the most perfect bottom he’d ever seen. Which proves you really do have to be careful what you wish for.

Although now, with hindsight, I’m not so sure any more if the lucky heather really
was
lucky. Maybe I
did
just let my imagination run away with itself. Maybe it really was all just a string of coincidences . . .

In the weeks following its disappearance a few things happened that made me think it might have been. The scales in Boots suddenly sported an out-of-order sign, and when I asked a sales assistant what was wrong, she told me it had been giving the incorrect weight.
By five pounds.

And then a dog-walker found my wallet tossed into a ditch on Hampstead Heath and handed it in. As expected, all the cash and cards were missing – except for my organ-donor card, which was how the police traced me. And the lottery ticket, was tucked safely into the inside pocket, where I’d put it. As for the million-dollar question, did I win?

Yes, I did.

Well,
sort
of.

I got four numbers and won a tenner, which OK, didn’t buy me an Aston Martin Vanquish, but it did pay for a cab home from the movies. And, as slushy as this might sound, snuggled up on the back seat with Gabe I felt as if I
had
won the lottery.

But to be honest, the more I think about it, the more I don’t think I’ll ever know the truth about the heather. Part of me wants to believe it was magic, that all my wishes really did come true. But, of course, the rational, reasonable,
sane
side of me knows that’s impossible. Things like that happen in fairytales, not in real life.
Don’t they?

Finally reaching a large wooden house painted baby blue, I wheel my bike up the path and lean it against the steps, where a large ginger cat is lazing contentedly on the porch in a patch of fading sunlight. I bend down to stroke him. ‘Hey, Billy Smith,’ I whisper, tickling him behind the ears. He gives a rasping purr and stretches out like a draught excluder, his small white paws flexing. I smile to myself. I’m not the only one to be enjoying the Californian lifestyle.