Be Careful What You Wish For (9 page)

It does the trick. Both Brian and Maureen fall silent.

‘A seat on the tube?’ echoes Maureen.

‘That’s it?’ groans Brian, visibly disappointed. As the only gay man in the whole of London whose sex life went into retirement when people were still wearing leg-warmers, Brian tends to exist on whatever scraps other people throw as him from theirs. ‘No hanky-panky? No kissing? Not even a little hand-holding?’

For the first time ever it seems that Brian and Maureen agree on something.

‘Sorry.’ I shrug, flicking on my computer. ‘That’s it.’

There’s no point in explaining. I know Brian and Maureen are never going to understand the huge relevance of what happened to me this morning after I’d gone down the steps on to the platform and waited for the next approaching train. How everything had felt pretty much the same as always – same film poster of Kate Hudson with one front tooth blacked out, same chocolate vending machine to tempt me, same routine of watching the train pulling into the station, doors sliding open and me climbing aboard, scanning the carriage and wishing for an empty seat.

At first I hadn’t been able to see a thing for jostling commuters filling the carriage, but then slowly, imperceptibly, people had shifted to the sides until, like the parting of the Red Sea, the aisle was wide open. And there, directly opposite, was – believe it or not – an empty seat.

‘That’s it?’ repeats Brian. ‘That’s the reason for your good mood?’

‘Yep, that’s it.’ Well, OK, that’s not
exactly
it. I suppose it’s also got
something
to do with waking up early, there being no queue in Starbucks, no traffic on my way back from Bath at the weekend, a parking space outside the flat. And then, of course, there’s Gabe, my new flatmate who just so happens to be moving in today.

My stomach flutters. Not that I’m excited or anything. It’s probably just hunger pangs because I haven’t had any breakfast. ‘Toast anyone?’ Leaving Brian and Maureen staring at me, I disappear into the kitchen and dig out the bread from the fridge. Humming, I unravel the packaging, ‘Hmm . . . hmm . . . hmm . . . hmmmm,’ I take out two slices and suddenly realise I’m humming the Boomtown Rats. Only I’m sorry Sir Bob, I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind. Popping the bread into the slots I push down the lever.
I love Mondays.

By late afternoon the phone hasn’t rung once and Brian’s early joviality has turned sour, a bit like a pint of milk left out in the midday sun. I know he’s worried about the business and after looking at the diary, which is practically empty, I don’t blame him. Taking his advice, I spend my lunch-hour updating my CV, then leave him chain-smoking in the office to make a start on developing the last wedding in the darkroom.

I usually listen to music while I work but today when I turn on the CD player I discover Brian’s replaced my Gorillaz album with
Phantom of the Opera.
Much to my shame, I make the alarming discovery that it’s actually rather catchy. In fact, just as I’m getting carried away thinking that maybe Michael Crawford has a better voice than Damon Albarn, I hear knocking and turn down the volume.

‘Hang on a sec . . .’ I finish swishing a photograph of the beaming newlyweds in a tray of fixer, then clip it to the washing-line strung over my head and open the door expecting to see Brian.

It’s Jess. Air stewardess, fellow Zara-shopper and general all-round best friend. She’s wearing her uniform and has her wheelie suitcase with her. ‘Guess what!’

‘Aren’t you supposed to be in Delhi?’ I usher her and her suitcase inside the tiny red-lit room. There’s no need for hi-how-are-you between Jess and me. We dive straight in, change topics without warning, offer no explanation to random comments. It’s like we’ve been having one never-ending conversation since we met. Which I suppose we have, really.

‘I was. We just flew back.’ She plonks herself on to a stool, turns to me excitedly – then cocks her head to one side, frowning. ‘Heather, are you listening to
Phantom of the Opera
?’

I blush. ‘Oh, that . . .’ I turn it off. ‘One of Brian’s CDs,’ I explain, as Jess stares at me suspiciously.

‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you that men and musicals don’t mix?’ She takes off her hat and hangs it on the back of the chair. ‘Actually, correction, straight men and musicals.’

Closing the door, so as not to let in any light, I squeeze past her.

‘And I should know. Every steward I fly with is in love with Michael Ball.’ She sighs regretfully. ‘Which is such a waste – some of them are gorgeous.’

‘So, what am I supposed to be guessing?’ I ask, changing the subject from men. Which, with Jess, is a bit like trying to get Jesus to talk about something other than God.

‘I’ve got a date,’ she announces.

‘With Simon?’ Simon is the architect Jess met on the Internet and had dinner with last week. Jess loves the Internet: when she’s not flying all over the world, she’s bidding for handbags on eBay and looking for love on findahusband.com, or whatever the dating site is called.

‘I’ve already got one arsehole, I don’t need another,’ she deadpans.

‘I’ll take that as a no, then.’

‘His name’s Greg.’

‘Who’s Greg?’ I find it hard to keep track of the men in Jess’s life. She tends to date a few at once. It’s an averages thing.

‘A banker. Thirty-five. Hobbies include mountain-biking and eating sushi. Not at the same time.’ She chuckles at her joke – although I fear it may have been his. ‘I met him on the Internet while I was in Delhi – not that he lives in Delhi, of course. He lives here in London. Because of the time difference we’ve spent the last few days emailing . . .’

‘But I thought you were really into Simon?’ I bleat. Now I know how my dad must feel when he’s watching a movie. For some reason he can never keep track of what’s going on and spends the entire film asking questions and being shushed. Usually by me.

‘He never called,’ she says, wrinkling her nose.
‘C’est la vie.’

‘I take it you’re not heartbroken.’

‘Honey, I’m thirty-six. I don’t have time to be heartbroken.’ She kicks off her shoes and rubs the heels of her stockinged feet. ‘Time is men.’

Jess is remarkable. In the last few years she’s taken a supremely practical approach to meeting the right guy. Forget all the stuff about fate and soulmates and butterflies, she’s interested in ticking all the right boxes. For Jess, finding the right man is like finding a second-hand car. Year of make? Nice body? Number of previous owners? Reliable?

I used to think her attitude to love was
too
practical – after all, it’s the heart you’re dealing with, not a two-litre engine – but after my disaster with Daniel I’m beginning to think she might have the right idea. Butterflies in the stomach might feel lovely, but they’re lethal – my heart was broken by those goddamn butterflies.

‘And so far there’s been no red flags,’ she boasts proudly. ‘No ex-wife, no fear of commitment, no drug problem, no deeply held religious beliefs . . .’

I take a moment to wonder if this is the time to point out that she said that about Simon. And Dennis, the advertising executive who’d turned out to be a complete cokehead. And Reuben, the editor, who was Jewish and whose mother (or I should I say ‘smother’) insisted she convert.

‘I think this could be it.’

On second thoughts, perhaps not.

‘When are you meeting him?’

‘Saturday. He’s taking me somewhere special.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know. He said it was to be a surprise.’

‘A surprise?’ I enthuse. ‘Wow, how exciting.’

I’m lying. If there’s one thing I hate it’s surprises. Maybe I’m weird, maybe I’m the only person who feels like this, but I like to know what to expect so that I can be prepared. Take surprise birthday parties, for example. I can’t think of anything worse than arriving home from work and someone jumping out from behind the sofa yelling, ‘Surprise.’ I mean, can you imagine? There you are, about to make yourself look fabulous and spend the evening at a swanky restaurant, and suddenly you’ve got to be all pleased and thrilled that a party’s in full swing in your living room and that fifty of your nearest and dearest are crammed in spilling vodka and cranberry on your new cream carpet. Meanwhile, you’re standing there with ratty hair and a spot that’s crying out for cover-up, wishing you could hide in the bathroom with your hair serum and Estée Lauder Doublestay foundation.

‘I just hope it’s not London Zoo.’ Jess’s voice breaks into my thoughts.

‘London Zoo?’

‘Phil Toddington took me there on our first date.
Our only date
,’ she adds pointedly.

‘Was it that bad?’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Heather, I was at the penguin enclosure for three hours. In the middle of February. In a pair of snakeskin slingbacks and my backless dress from Karen Millen. I nearly froze to death.’

‘But penguins are really comical.’ I smile affectionately.

‘Not for three hours,’ she says bitterly. ‘I was bored stiff. Unlike Phil, who was transfixed. He kept going on about their funny clockwork waddle, the way they waggled their stumpy wings.’ She shakes her head. ‘I swear he fancied those goddamn penguins more than me.’

She looks so anguished I can’t help laughing.

‘And the smell . . .’

‘Bad?’ I venture.

‘Rotten fish and penguin shit.’

‘Mmm, very romantic.’ I giggle, and despite herself she joins in.

‘Oh, bloody hell, Heather, it was awful,’ she says, between snorts of laughter. ‘I remember thinking, This is it. This is my love life. Can it get any worse?’

Well, you could have fallen in love with him, bought a house together, then discovered he’d been shagging a girl at work for the past six months, I muse, as an image of Daniel pops into my head. Determinedly, I block it out.

‘He could have taken you to a comedy club,’ I say instead.

Immediately we stop laughing and exchange a look.

Stand-up comedy is our pet hate. That was how we met. Imprisoned in the Laugh Factory in Covent Garden by my then-boyfriend, unable to escape to the loo for fear of being picked on by the comedian on stage, I’d been bored to tears and gazing round the audience when I’d seen an attractive black girl, chin cupped in her hands, mouth wide open in a yawn. We’d caught each other’s eye across the cigarette smoke and raucous laughter. I don’t know which of us was more miserable, me or her, but we had both burst out laughing.

Well, something had to.

‘So, how do you fancy a trip to Zara after work? Help me buy something to wear for my date?’

‘’Fraid I’m busy.’

‘Too busy for Zara?’ Jess is incredulous. ‘But there’s a sale on.’

‘I know, but my new flatmate’s moving in,’ I explain.

‘Ooh, tell me more.’ Immediately perking up, she tucks tufts of short dark hair behind her ears and folds her arms, priming herself for info.

‘He saw the room on Saturday and was going to move in yesterday but he had to spend the day with his uncle or something.’

‘It’s a he?’ She raises her eyebrows with interest.

‘You can’t test-drive my flatmate,’ I warn, stopping her in her tracks.

She looks at me indignantly. ‘The thought never crossed my mind.’

Now it’s my turn to raise my eyebrows.

‘Oh, OK, so it crossed, but now it’s crossed back again,’ she protests. ‘I’m going to have my hands full with Greg anyway.’ She’s fiddling with her rings as if they’re beads on an abacus. A sure sign that something’s brewing. ‘So what he’s like?’ she asks, trying to be nonchalant. And failing.

‘He’s American.’

‘Oooh, really?’ Her eyes open wide. ‘Let me guess. He’s an actor.’

‘Actually, I don’t know,’ I confess, realising I told him not to leave the loo seat up, but didn’t ask him anything about himself. ‘I guess I’ll find out tonight.’

‘Do you need me as a chaperone?’

‘No, I’ll be fine, thanks.’ I do a mental time-check. Maybe I should skip the gym tonight and go straight home – that way I’ll have time to blow-dry my hair straight. I catch myself. This isn’t a date.

‘Is that really safe, Heather?’ warns Jess. ‘He could be a crazed serial killer.’

What she really means is he could be a
single
crazed serial killer. ‘I doubt it, he seems really nice,’ I say, having seen right through her concerned-friend act. ‘He’s a bit of a hippie.’

‘That’s what they said about Charles Manson.’

I throw her a look.

She perseveres. ‘I think I should come over, safety in numbers and all that.’

‘And two’s company, three’s a crowd,’ I add.

‘Well, it’s up to you. If you want to risk being chopped into little bits and pieces and buried in your geraniums . . .’

I give in. ‘OK, OK. My place. Eight o’clock.’

Her face splits into a huge grin and she gives me a hug.

‘But no making a fuss,’ I warn, opening the door to waft her and her suitcase out of the darkroom.

‘A fuss? Me?’ She clutches her ample chest and looks at me in hurt astonishment. ‘Trust me, Heather, you won’t even know I’m there.’

 

‘
A
ny more wine?’

Sucking in her stomach, Jess reaches for the bottle of white she brought over. She’s wearing her new black satin Alexander McQueen bustier she bought on eBay, hipster jeans and a pair of vertiginous pink stilettos, otherwise known as her ‘fuck-me’ shoes. When she leans over the table you can see the tattoo of a butterfly etched into the bottom of her spine, and her G-string. It’s got a little diamanté heart on it. I have an urge to twang it, like a catapult.

‘It’s, Gabriel, isn’t it? Like the angel’ She pouts, lips slick with lipgloss.

‘Friends usually call me Gabe.’

‘As in, rhymes with “babe”?’ she teases.