Be Careful What You Wish For (10 page)

‘Um, I guess so.’

‘Well, if you insist. Any more wine,
Gabe
?’

The three of us are outside in the garden. It’s one of those rare warm summer evenings when there’s not a breath of wind. The air is scented with a cocktail of jasmine, lavender and sausages from my next-door neighbour’s barbecue, and Norah Jones is playing on the little portable stereo balanced on the window-ledge. I’ve even lit all the little tealights I got from IKEA and placed them round the shrubbery. It took for ever as they kept going out and burning my fingers, but it’s worth the effort as they’ve transformed my garden into a fairy grotto.

I glance round it now and feel a glow of pleasure. In retrospect I don’t know why I was so nervous: everything’s turned out just as I wished it would.

Well, not everything.

As my eyes rest on Jess, who’s wiggling round the table like a Playboy bunny, I feel a lump of irritation in my throat and flick my eyes over her shoulder – all shimmery with body glitter – and watch as my flatmate lights another cigarette.

He’d turned up with his ‘things’ – a motorbike helmet and one teensy-weensy rucksack that would barely accommodate my toiletries – a couple of hours ago. When he’d dumped it on his bed he’d kicked off his flip-flops and dug out a packet of American Spirit cigarettes from his biker’s jacket.

‘Mind if I have a smoke outside?’ he’d asked, padding barefoot into the back garden.

‘Er, no . . . please, make yourself at home,’ I’d called after him. Somewhat redundantly: he had already stretched out on a sun-lounger, Billy Smith purring in his lap.

Well, I couldn’t just leave him there, could I? As his landlady, wasn’t I supposed to be welcoming him into my home and making him feel at ease? I say
supposed,
because for some reason my ability to make small-talk deserted me – I’m not used to having barefoot American men in my garden – so I’d hovered around a bit, fiddled with things that didn’t need fiddling with and groped, like a man in a blindfold, for something to say.

‘Wonderful weather we’re having.’; ‘Umm, gosh, look at my feet, I really must get a pedicure.’; ‘Oh, I saw the funniest thing on
Ali G
the other night . . . erm, but I’ve forgotten what it was’ until Jess had tottered into the garden, greeted Gabe as if he were a long-lost lover, then pulled two bottles of Pinot Grigio, a corkscrew and a Norah Jones CD out of her fake Louis Vuitton bag, and taken control of the conversation in full air stewardess mode.

‘So, what brings you to London?’ she’s now asking flirtily. ‘Business or pleasure?’

‘A bit of both, actually,’ he answers, in such a way that either he hasn’t noticed Jess is flirting, or if he has he’s politely ignoring her. ‘But before I bore you with the details you’ll have to excuse me a moment.’ He turns to me and asks shyly, ‘Heather, remind me where your bathroom is?’

‘Second on the left,’ chimes Jess, before I can answer.

‘Thanks.’

As soon as he has disappeared, I turn on Jess. ‘What are you doing?’ I hiss furiously.

‘Breaking the ice,’ she says simply, all wide-eyed and innocent.

It doesn’t fool me for a minute. ‘Breaking the ice is asking someone about the weather,’ I gasp. ‘What happened to “Trust me, Heather, you won’t even know I’m there”?’

Taking a slug of wine, she sloshes it around her mouth for a moment, swallows, then looks at me sheepishly. ‘OK, so I admit I’ve been a bit flirty.’

‘A
bit
 ?’

‘Oh, c’mon, hon, I just thought in case Greg doesn’t work out. You know, it’s always a good idea to have Plan B.’

‘My flatmate’s Plan B?’ I say indignantly, feeling suddenly protective of Gabe – and something that is weirdly like possessiveness.

‘Well, why not? You don’t fancy him.’

True. But—

‘Oh, shit. You don’t, do you, Heather?’ Jess’s face freezes. ‘I didn’t have any idea. If I’d thought for a moment—’

‘No, of course I don’t,’ I protest hotly. ‘It’s just . . .’ I trail off sighing, as I don’t know what it just is.

She squeezes my hand. ‘I know. I’m sorry. Maybe I have come on a bit strong.’

‘A
bit
strong?’ I grin ruefully. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t bring your scented candles and aromatherapy oil.’

‘Who says I didn’t?’ She laughs and, despite myself, I can’t help giggling.

‘What’s so funny?’ Gabe reappears as Jess is topping up our glasses.

‘Not Big Dave Desmond, that’s for sure,’ says Jess, referring to the stand-up comedian who was on stage when we first met.

Gabe is evidently confused, but she doesn’t bother to explain and instead leans over to top up his glass. ‘So, where in America are you from?’ she asks.

OK, so the fuck-me shoes are a bit much but I’m glad Jess is here. And, I have to admit, she and Gabe seem to be getting on pretty well.

‘Los Angeles.’

‘Oooh,’ gasps Jess. ‘I’ve flown there a few times with work. I lurve LA.’

‘Yeah, it has it’s good points. I live in Venice, just a few blocks from the ocean.’

‘Venice?’ I repeat, my ears pricking up with interest. ‘What a coincidence.’

‘Yeah, I know. Weird, huh? Venice, California, to Little Venice in London.’ Sipping his wine, he fixes me with those large blue eyes.

‘I guess you could call it home from home,’ pipes up Jess, giggling.

‘Or lucky,’ smiles Gabe.

‘Yeah, lucky Heather.’ Jess winks at me.

Now, it’s not the first time I’ve been called that – in fact, I must have heard it a million times – but as soon as Jess says it I see an image of the gypsy outside the station, her eyes like tiny glittering emeralds, and hear her words: ‘Trust me, the heather will work its magic. Your luck will change. All your wishes will come true . . .’

Slipping my hand into the back pocket of my jeans my fingers brush against a wad of notes. It’s Gabe’s first month’s rent. A whopping six hundred pounds. I’ll be able to pay the mortgage this month, maybe even make the minimum payment on my Visa bill. I feel a surge of happy relief – it’s like a wish come true.

Barely has the thought popped into my head when a gust of wind appears from nowhere, rustling through the leaves of the trees and causing the flames of the tea lights to flicker and dance like tiny jewels sparkling in a sea of inky darkness. The cascade of metal discs on the windchime begin jingling, and the garden seems almost enchanted. A shiver scurries up my spine and goose bumps prickle on my arms. What the . . . ?

‘More wine, Heather?’

I snap back to see Jess holding a bottle of pinot grigio and staring at me. Spooked, I fidget in my seat. ‘Oh, erm, yeah, great,’ I say. When I hold out my glass my hands are all trembly. ‘Fill her up,’ I joke and plonk it on the table.

So she does. And as I watch her I realise the wind has dropped as quickly as it blew up. That the flames of the tea lights are now as motionless as the stars in the sky and the windchime is silent. Everything is as it was before. My goosebumps have disappeared too. I feel warm. And a little ridiculous. What’s got into me? Gypsies? Magic? Enchanted gardens? Honestly, Heather, you’re letting your imagination run away with you. Grabbing my wine glass I take a glug. Any minute now I’ll start believing wishes really can come true.

‘Do you ever go to Muscle Beach?’

Twenty minutes and another bottle later, Jess is still chatting animatedly about Venice Beach. I had no idea she was such an expert.

‘Oh, all the time.’ Gabe pretends to flex his biceps. ‘Do you think a body like this comes naturally?’

I catch him grinning at me and I can’t help grinning back, unlike Jess, who’s all flushed with alcohol and flirtation and misses the sarcasm. ‘Oooh, no, I can tell you lift weights, not like Englishmen,’ she says, wrinkling her nose. ‘All they’re interested in is lifting pints. Aren’t they, Heather?’

‘Well, not all of them,’ I say loyally, trying to think of one man I know who actually
does
some form of exercise instead of lying spreadeagled on the sofa watching other people do it on telly. It’s a struggle. ‘What about Ed?’ I suggest remembering my brother. ‘He plays rugby.’

But Jess isn’t listening. She’s too busy reminiscing about Muscle Beach: ‘Oh, Heather, you’d love it. It’s this outdoor gym by the sea and you can watch all these big, bronzed bodybuilders pumping iron . . .’

As she gushes on about coconut-oiled men posing with six-packs and dumbbells I haven’t the heart to tell her I can’t think of anything worse. So instead I do what I usually do when I don’t know what to say: I say something stupid. ‘Is it true everyone in LA has fake boobs?’

Well done, Heather. Ten out of ten for tact and diplomacy.

But Gabe doesn’t look offended, more amused. ‘No, I wouldn’t say everyone.’ He tugs down his Mr T T-shirt and peers at his chest. ‘Mine are real.’

‘Really? Let me check.’ Jess giggles and, without missing a beat, lunges for his right pec. ‘Mmm, nice and firm,’ she slurs approvingly, squeezing it as if it’s a melon.

Oh, shit. My body stiffens. Jess, I realise with horror, is pissed. In less than a few minutes she’s leapfrogged from tipsy to hammered, bypassing the middle bit. Or, to put it another way, if you’re looking at a map of the world it’s like going from London to LA without crossing the Atlantic.

‘So, are you an actor?’ I ask, trying to cause a diversion.

‘I love acting,’ butts in Jess, loudly. ‘Maybe I should have been an actress. I was once in this play at school but I can’t remember the name . . .’ Her eyelids have gone all droopy and she’s having difficulty keeping them open.

‘Me? An actor?’ Gabe gives a pretend shudder. ‘No way.’

My eyes flick from Gabe to Jess and back to Gabe. As far as I can tell he doesn’t seem to have noticed Jess edging towards him across her sun-lounger.

But I have. I feel a spasm of fear. She’s sleepy. Drunk. And single. It’s a lethal combination. Any minute now she’ll be trying to spoon him.

‘But my girlfriend is, and she says it’s pretty tough.’

I hear a muffled mumble from the sun-lounger.
‘Girlfriend?’
Enveloped in a blurry haze of alcohol, Jess might not be able to drive, operate heavy machinery, or undo her own bra strap, but she can still recognise words like—

‘Girlfriend?’
she repeats.

‘Yeah, she’s back in LA. She just got a small part in a movie.’

‘A movie?’
Jess sits bolt upright on the sun-lounger, like a parrot on a perch. Which isn’t a bad description, considering she repeats everything Gabe says in a high-pitched squawk.

‘Mmm, it’s a big break for her,’ enthuses Gabe. ‘Mia’s really talented, but so far she hasn’t been in anything major. Give it time, though. One of these days I’m pretty sure we’ll be seeing her nominated for an Academy Award.’

‘Wow, how exciting,’ I gush, attempting to cause a diversion from Jess. ‘I’m really impressed.’ And I am. An actress in Hollywood? It’s a lot more glamorous than being a wedding photographer, isn’t it? An
assistant
to a wedding photographer. Reminded of my current career status, I feel a painful stab of ambition. This happens to me a lot. For days I trundle happily along in a my little work bubble, doing my job, getting paid, not really thinking about it, and
wham
– I hear a story of someone else being incredibly successful and,
boom,
I remember I’m thirty, earning less than most graduates and my dream of a flourishing career as a freelance photographer, is just that. A dream. At which point I usually end up feeling like a great big frizzy-haired failure.

Unlike Mia, who is, no doubt, a shiny, swingy-haired success with the kind of thighs that look great in a string bikini on the beach . . .

‘I think I’ll catch a cab.’

My slow-motion
Baywatch
montage is interrupted by Jess standing up and hoisting her bustier under her armpits. ‘Well, it was lovely meeting you.’ She holds out a hand to Gabe.

‘Oh, er, yeah. You too.’ He’s nodding, a little ruffled by her sudden departure. As am I.

‘Are you sure you don’t want a coffee?’ I suggest. It might sober her up, although Gabe’s mention of his girlfriend seems to have done that already.

‘No, thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow,’ she says, and gives me a quick hug before she disappears through the patio doors.

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to phone for a minicab?’ I call, hurrying after her. I hear the door slam and glance out of the window just in time to see her jump into a black cab.

‘Your friend left early.’

Back in the garden I see that Gabe is gathering up the glasses. ‘Erm, yeah.’ I nod. ‘She’s tired. She has to get up early for work.’

I’m sure from his expression that he knows I’m fibbing, so, feeling awkward now that it’s just the two of us, I fake a yawn. ‘Talking of which, I think I’m going to go to bed too.’

‘Got to get your beauty sleep, hey?’ I’m not sure whether I should be pleased or offended by that comment. But before I can make up my mind he lets out a roaring yawn, so wide I can see two perfect rows of incredibly white molars. ‘I know how you feel. This jet lag’s killing me.’

We go inside and hover in the kitchen.

‘Night, then,’ I say eventually.

‘Yesh, night.’

Another pause.

‘You can use the bathroom first, if you like,’ I offer politely.

‘No, it’s OK, you go ahead. Ladies before gentlemen,’ he replies, equally politely.

‘No, please, you’re the guest.’

‘Honestly, it’s cool.’

Backwards and forwards it goes, like ping-pong, until finally I win and he disappears inside the bathroom with a sponge-bag no bigger than a pencil case. I go into my bedroom and start to undress, pulling off my T-shirt and jeans and tugging on my old tartan pyjamas, the ones whose elastic has perished at the waistband so my arse is all baggy and it looks as if I’m wearing a nappy.
Wearing. A. Nappy.