Be Careful What You Wish For (11 page)

On catching sight of myself in the wardrobe mirror, I freeze. Oh, my God. It’s like seeing myself for the first time. What have I been thinking? Night after night I’ve been cheerfully putting on this outfit to potter round my flat. I spend eight hours a night sleeping in it. I sit in my garden drinking tea in it. I’ve even – God forbid – stood on the doorstep and signed for packages from the postman in it.

I do a slow twirl. I’m almost terrified to see the back view. Slowly . . . slowly . . . Argghh. It’s worse than I thought. Folds of faded tartan hang loosely from my buttocks like two humungous saddlebags. Think M. C. Hammer. Think Gandhi.

Think new flatmate.

Stripping them off and chucking them on to the floor, I yank open my drawers and reach for my Snoopy nightie – then recoil. A Snoopy nightie? I can’t wear a Snoopy nightie. I forage for another pair of pyjamas that I know are in there, but I can only find the top. Three of its buttons are missing
and
it’s got a granddad collar.
A fucking granddad collar.
Why had I never noticed it before? In fact, why have I never noticed that I have appalling nightwear? What on earth did I wear when I lived with Daniel?

Nothing, I remember, thinking back to my old sexy life when I went to bed wearing eyeliner and Thierry Mugler’s Angel. That was before I turned into the single, celibate thirtynothing cliché who sleeps with her cat and wears socks, big period knickers and intensive anti-wrinkle night cream.

Shuddering, I grab hold of myself. There’s the nightgown that Rosemary bought me two Christmases ago, still in its Marks & Spencer carrier-bag. I hold it against my naked body. It’s floor-length, decorated with rosebuds and frilly. Very, very frilly.

But I’m desperate. Next door I can hear taps being turned on and off, teeth being brushed, the loo flushing, a plug being pulled out and the basin draining. Any minute now it will be my turn. I’m going to have to try to make it from my bedroom to the bathroom without being seen. I strain for the noise of the lock. Nothing. A cough. Silence. Then I hear it. The sound of the key turning, the soft click of the door . . .

I press my cheek against the doorframe to peer through the crack between the wall and the door. I see a letterbox of light, floorboards, my fern, which needs watering. Like a learner driver I look left, right and left again. All clear. With a flush of relief, I ease open the door and tiptoe bravely into the hall. Tiptoe, tiptoe, tiptoe. I hold my breath, clutching my nightie between finger and thumb like Wee Willie Winkie. Nearly there, nearly there—

‘Argggh,’ I shriek.

‘Wow, sorry, did I frighten you?’

Gabe is still in the bathroom. I mean, he’s just standing there. On my shagpile mat. In the middle of my goddamn bathroom.

‘Oh my God, yes – I mean, no – no, it’s okay.’ Clutching my embroidered lacy chest, I try to catch my breath. Which is when it dawns on me that (a) he’s naked but for a pair of white, rather snug boxer shorts (not that I mean to look, I just can’t help it), and (b) I look like someone’s granny in a full-length nightgown that comes up to my neck in a fluted ruffle.

‘Oh, by the way, you never did say why you’re visiting,’ I blurt, in an attempt at casual chit-chat. I say ‘attempt’, as it’s not easy when he’s standing there, all naked flesh and tufts of chest hair and snug white pouch.

Oh, my God, I’ve done it again. Eyes straight ahead, Heather. Eyes straight ahead.

‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ He squeezes out a facecloth that I hadn’t noticed he was holding. Just as I hadn’t noticed that the bathroom is spotless. No loo seat left up, no soggy towel on the floor, no bristles on the soap. For all my good intentions, my eyes flick quickly round the avocado suite, a souvenir from the seventies that Daniel and I had planned to rip out when we did up the flat. Only he left and I tried mending a broken heart with retail therapy – which means I still have the hideous avocado suite but I also have lots of lovely candles from Diptyque. ‘I’m putting on a show at the Edinburgh Festival.’

‘Oh, really?’ I say vaguely, throwing him my best smile of approval. I catch sight of our toothbrushes standing side by side in a mug with a tube of Colgate Extra and notice its top is firmly screwed on. I get the warm glow of satisfaction that comes with knowing I’ve made a right decision. We’re going to get on great. ‘What kind of show?’

Picking up his clothes he walks out the bathroom. Then he goes and spoils it all by telling me something I
really
don’t want to hear.

 

‘
H
e’s a stand-up comic.’

The next morning as soon as Gabe leaves the flat I phone Jess to tell her my terrible news. Despite the hangover that’s imprisoning her under the duvet with a blister-pack of ibuprofen, she summons the energy to be as horrified as I am. A sign, if ever there was one, of a true friend. ‘You’re joking!’

‘No, he’s the one joking.’ I wedge the phone under my ear. With one hand I hang on to my bowl of cereal, while with the other I grab the milk from the fridge. ‘He’s a stand-up-bloody-comedian.’

There’s muffled laughter. ‘Knock knock,’ she teases weakly.

‘Oh, please, don’t.’ I plonk myself down at the kitchen table, which is littered with magazines, unopened mail and God knows what else. Balancing my bowl on top, I begin munching on a mouthful of All Bran. ‘It’s not funny,’ I say, my voice muffled with horrid-tasting little brown sticks. God, I wish I could hurry up and lose those few pounds. I hate having to eat this stuff.

‘They never are.’ She laughs throatily. ‘That’s the problem.’

‘So, is he still your Plan B?’ I ask, still munching.

‘No, he’s not what I’m looking for.’ She sounds as if she’s talking about a lamp at IKEA. ‘He’s too American.’

‘So what?’

‘Heather, I’m looking for a serious boyfriend. I don’t want a long-distance relationship. Haven’t you seen
Green Card
 ?’

‘But didn’t Gérard Depardieu play a Frenchman in that?’

‘He plays a Frenchman in every film,’ yawns Jess. ‘Like Hugh Grant’s always a stuttering English toff. But that’s not the point. The point is I’m into ticking boxes, not creating new problems like having to deal with all that immigration crap. And then there’s the culture clash.’

I love Jess. Ever the romantic. ‘Well, now you put it like that,’ I murmur, contemplating another mouthful of cereal and wishing I could have a
pain au chocolat
instead.

‘What are you going to do?’ she persists.

‘About what?’ Curiously I eye a little leather notebook lying on the table among the mess. It looks like the one I’ve seen Gabe scribbling in. I wonder what’s in it.

‘Gabe being a stand-up comedian,’ she says, barely able to keep the laughter out of her voice.

I’m beginning to think Jess is enjoying this. ‘Isn’t there a saying about how you’ve got to laugh or you’ll cry?’ I say absently, stretching out my arm and flicking open the notebook. Well, one little peek won’t hurt.

‘Absolutely,’ agrees Jess, supportively. ‘You’ve got to laugh.’

On the first page, in curly blue handwriting are the words:
‘My Top Ten Mother-in-Law Jokes’.
I snatch my hand back. Actually, on second thoughts . . .

As it turns out I’m spared any mother-in-law jokes over the next few days as I barely see my new flatmate. In fact, apart from the occasional ‘Hi, how’s it going?’ when I’m arriving and he’s leaving, it’s almost as if he never moved in. Almost, but not quite.

Little things begin to appear. A collection of spices in the kitchen, a carton of soya milk in the fridge, a new loofah the size of a French baguette in the shower. But there’s something else – and it has nothing to do with his Wilco CD that I found by the stereo, or his brightly patterned beach towel neatly folded next to the sink. It’s a feeling.

For weeks I’d been dreading the thought of having a stranger in my flat, hated the idea of a man who wasn’t Daniel soaking in my bath, but all my fears were unfounded. It’s fine having another person around. In fact, it’s more than that: it’s
nice.

Somehow the flat feels different,
I
feel different. And not just because I no longer lie awake at night any more worrying about flat-repossession and being turfed out on the street with Billy Smith and those bloody Le Creuset pans. It’s as if Gabe’s presence has exorcised the ghosts of the past. Despite the shock discovery that I’m sharing my home with a stand-up comedian, I feel happier. More positive.
Thinner.

It’s Thursday evening after work and I’d popped into Boots to buy some cotton-wool balls when I noticed one of those electronic weighing machines. Impulsively I decided to weigh myself. Which is why I’m now staring at the digital display in astonishment.

No, that can’t be right. I peer closer, forehead furrowing. I’ve lost five pounds? For the past couple of months I’ve been trying vaguely to shift the weight I put on at Christmas. I’ve been jogging – twice – I’ve bought a yoga video that I’ve got every intention of watching, and I’ve been sacrificing my breakfast
pain au chocolat
from the French
pâtisserie
on the corner for All Bran, which tastes like cardboard. It’s hardly a major lifestyle change but now suddently – poof – those few pounds have gone. It’s amazing. Unbelievable.
Weird.

Puzzled, I prod my stomach. I don’t feel any thinner. But it’s difficult to tell and, admittedly, I have been under a lot of financial pressure recently. Isn’t that when you lose weight? Doesn’t stress gobble up calories, a bit like Pacman in those old computer games?

I take the computerised ticket, step off the scales and walk to the cash register. For once there’s no queue and, feeling a little ping of pleasure, I plop my cotton-wool balls on the counter. Yep, that must be it. I knew there’d be a sensible explanation. I mean, it’s not as if weight can disappear magically overnight, is it?

Beaming at the sales assistant, I pull my purse out of my pocket. The lucky heather drops out. How did
that
get there? I’m sure I left it at home.

‘That’ll be one pound twenty-five,’ prompts the assistant.

‘Oh, yeah . . . Sorry.’ Stuffing the heather back into my pocket I happily count out my change. Whatever the explanation for my weight loss, I get my wish: no more All Bran.

Leaving Boots in a cheerful mood, I cross the main road and walk quickly through Notting Hill. I’m meeting my brother Ed at the Wolsey Castle, a gastro-type pub just round the corner, and as usual I’m late. I speed up. Ed’s a real stickler for time-keeping and I don’t want one of his lectures before I’ve even had the chance to order a gin and tonic. Though to be honest, I’m anticipating a lecture. He called me yesterday and said he wanted to ‘talk about something’, which, translated into Ed-speak, means
give me a talking to,
his favourite starting-point being, ‘Why haven’t you got a pension plan yet?’ which probably gives you some idea about Ed.

But when I turn the corner into a street lined with shops and restaurants, I catch sight of something that stops me dead in my tracks. Pink, satin and with an adorable peep-toe: they are the most gorgeous pair of shoes I’ve ever seen, just sitting there in a window display, waiting for me to walk past.

I step back to see the name of the store – Sigerson Morrison. My heart soars. I adore this shop: it’s always chock full of the most exquisite shoes. Which are completely out of your price range, Heather, pipes up a stern little voice inside me. I feel a tug of disappointment. But, still, there’s no harm in looking. I lean closer. Which is when I see the sign. ‘75% OFF’.

My stomach somersaults. I’m not a shopaholic, although, yes, I sometimes get a physical urge to dive into the changing rooms at H&M with armfuls of clothes. And, yes, I often don’t
need
to buy anything, putting it on hold is enough. It’s the sense of ownership, the comfort of knowing that it’s yours if you want it – without the commitment. I guess it’s a bit like getting engaged.

But shoes are different. Shoes are my weakness. Clothes can make your bum look big, your boobs look small, your belly stick out, but a good pair of shoes always looks great, regardless of whether or not you’ve just eaten half a packet of chocolate digestives. However, there’s a hitch – all of this doesn’t come cheap. As Lionel says, there’s no such thing as a free lunch.

But there are sales,
whispers the voice inside my head.
Seventy-five-per-cent-off sales.

I look at the time on my mobile. I’m already late. Ed will be waiting. I hesitate, then reach for the handle on the red Perspex door. Oh, what the hell? I’ll only be five minutes.

Inside, it’s bedlam. A scrum of women are jostling for sizes, scrabbling around on their hands and knees, snatching, grabbing, pushing, shoving. Dozens of discarded flesh-coloured pop socks lie underfoot, empty boxes are scattered randomly with their paper, harassed assistants flit between women vying for the mirrors, huffing and muttering under their breath as they’re forced to wait for their turn.

Crikey! Women are so ruthless. Men might kill for their country, but a woman will kill for a pair of turquoise stilettos with a bejewelled ankle strap.

Squashing myself between the racks of shoes, I begin the hunt for those gorgeous pink satin stilettos in my size. When I finally reach the shelf marked ‘Size 5’, though, I see it’s empty but for a lime-green Mary-Jane that won’t go with anything. I feel a kick of disappointment. Especially since, over to my left, the shelf marked ‘Size 7’ contains a dozen pairs of the pink satin peep-toes. I pick one up, wondering if I could make it fit with an inner-sole, or maybe a couple . . .

‘Can I help you, madam?’

An assistant has swooped down on me. She’s one of the haughty types you get in designer shops who look you up and down and make you want to buy something, just to prove you can. Which, it suddenly occurs to me, is probably their sales tactic.