Be Careful What You Wish For (13 page)

‘Ed, I’m being serious.’ I’m perplexed as to how his example has any relevance to what’s been happening to me these past couple of days. ‘It’s much more than that.’

He peers at me from under his dark eyebrows. ‘Are you feeling all right?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. And, no, it’s not the flu,’ I add impatiently.

He holds up his hands in surrender. ‘OK, I’m sorry, but come on, how can you expect me to be serious? I mean,
really
,’ he scoffs. ‘Wishes coming true?’

My jaw clenches. Right, that does it. ‘OK, dare me to wish for something,’ I retort tartly.

‘Heather, please, stop this nonsense. You’re being ridiculous,’ sighs Ed, who’s now annoyed.

‘You see? You’re worried,’ I snap.

‘Worried?’ he jeers. ‘Why on earth would I be worried? Because my sister has suddenly discovered she has magical powers?’

And as he says it he lets out a taunting little laugh. The same taunting little laugh I remember from when I was little when he would hold both my wrists in one of his hands and tickle me until I cried for mercy. And now, just as I was then, I’m infuriated. ‘OK. Well, if it’s so funny, play along with me then,’ I demand. ‘Or are you scared you’ll be proved wrong?’

Now, one thing I know about my brother is how competitive he is. Years of playing Monopoly with him have taught me how much he loves to win. Probably as much as he loves to be always right. But then again, so do I.

‘Well, if you insist . . .’ he says immediately. Exactly as I’d thought. He thinks for a moment, then clicks his fingers.
‘The match,’
he says triumphantly.

‘What about it?’ I ask.

‘Well, at the moment the score’s one-all, and there’s less than five minutes to go . . .’ He motions towards the TV screen. ‘We need to score another goal against France to win the championship.’

‘Oh, right,’ I say, without a flicker of enthusiasm. ‘Who’s we?’ Like I said, I have no clue when it comes to football. Which is the way I like it.

‘England,’ huffs Ed. ‘Who do you think?’

‘So?’ I prompt.

‘So if all your wishes come true, why don’t you wish England scores before the final whistle?’ he continues.

‘Because I don’t really care,’ I say.

‘Would you care if I said I won’t mention to Rosemary that you’ve bought her a present . . .’ He looks at me and I realise I’ve been busted. ‘And you get to keep it yourself?’

‘That’s blackmail.’

‘And this is madness,’ he says wearily.

‘OK, OK.’ I turn to face the screen and try to concentrate on the men running up and down the pitch. Sorry, the teams. Screwing up my forehead, I focus on a man in a blue shirt who’s got control of the ball. ‘Are we in the white shirts or the blue?’ I whisper.

‘White,’ hisses Ed, impatiently.

‘Oh . . .’ Disappointed, I concentrate as the French player deftly passes the ball to someone else on his team while England can only watch helplessly. He begins to charge towards the goal. I hold my breath, straining forward to see what’s happening, suddenly aware of the tense atmosphere around me.

I catch myself as I hear a voice inside my head. Hang on a minute, is this me? Watching a football match? In a pub? And enjoying it? I’m white-knuckling my glass – the tension is unbelievable. I can barely watch. France are going to score another goal, England are going to lose. I feel my heartbeat quicken.

‘For Godsakes, come on, England, come on,’ I hear Ed say.

Even though it seems hopeless, he’s chanting the mantra under his breath, willing them to win. And suddenly I’m wishing the same thing. ‘Come on, England,’ I yell, joining in.
‘Win.’

And then, out of the blue, England intercepts and scores.

The bar erupts with shrieking, whooping, yelling, whistling. Everyone’s hugging each other in celebration. A chorus of ‘Would you believe it?’, ‘What a miracle!’, ‘Bloody magic!’

But I can’t hear it. It’s as if I’m watching a movie with the sound turned down. An unexpected blast of wind bangs the door open, and when I turn to Ed he’s staring at me, jaw dropped in shock.

‘Bloody hell, Heather,’ he stammers, when he finds his voice. ‘But that can’t be . . .’ He’s looking backwards and forwards between me and the TV set that’s showing the score: 2–1 to England. ‘I mean, it’s impossible . . .’ He falls silent and, wordlessly, we exchange a look of amazement.

And then it hits me.

I feel a flurry of exhilaration, excitement . . .

 

‘Excuse me, do you sell lottery tickets?’ I smile broadly at Mrs Patel, who is standing behind the counter of my local corner shop stacking Marlboro Lights. Her tiny hands are heavily decorated with henna patterns.

Surprised, she stops what she’s doing to stare at me. Ever since I moved to the neighbourhood I’ve been a regular in Mrs Patel’s shop for everything ranging from my monthly PMS fix of trash mags and chocolate, to emergency loo-roll and Billy Smith’s cat litter. But in all this time I’ve never once bought a lottery ticket.

Until now.

‘Yes, of course,’ she says, tossing her bright orange sari over a plump shoulder. ‘By the window.’ Her gold dangly earrings rattle as she motions with her head.

‘Thanks.’ I try to hide my flutters of excitement and hurry past her. Tucked away in the corner I find a red plastic lectern that I’ve never noticed before, grab the pen lying on it and I eagerly help myself to a ticket. Right, let’s see. I gloss through the instructions. ‘Choose six numbers and mark with a line.’ Hmm, well, that bit should be easy. My age, my address . . . Merrily I cross them off. Actually, this is rather fun. Number of years I’ve worked at Together Forever, my mum’s birthday . . .

I grind to a halt. I need two more. I fiddle with my hair and concentrate on the numbers, hoping one will jump out at me yelling ‘Pick me! I’m a winner!’

Oh, wow, can you imagine it? The only thing I’ve ever won is a game of chess. But the lottery? The concept makes me feel quite giddy. Winning millions and millions of pounds, being rich beyond my wildest dreams, going on a shopping spree to end all shopping sprees . . .

Automatically I make one of my wish lists:

Abruptly I feel a familiar pang of loneliness.

‘Ahem.’ Someone clears their throat, interrupting my thoughts, and over my shoulder I see a queue of people waiting.

‘Oh, sorry, won’t be a minute. Just spending my millions,’ I joke, expecting at least a glimmer of a smile from someone. Instead I can almost hear the resounding thwack as my joke falls flat on their stony expressions.

‘C’mon, get a bloody move on,’ I hear someone grumble under their breath. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

Chastised, I choose the last two numbers at random, grab my ticket and beat a retreat to the counter.

Mrs Patel is waiting for me. ‘So, you’re feeling lucky, eh?’

I hesitate. Now I’m standing here at eight thirty a.m., in the cold, flickering fluorescent light of the shop it does all seem rather far-fetched. Last night I’d been sure that it wasn’t all coincidence. The only reason England won was because . . . Because what, Heather? Because you wished they would score a goal?

All of a sudden I realise how ridiculous I’m being. Of course it was coincidence, you idiot.

The machine whirs and spits out the printed ticket.

‘Maybe,’ I reply, smiling uncomfortably and trying to avoid eye-contact with Mrs Patel. Which is when I see the headline on the front page of the
Daily Mail:
‘England Magic.’

My stomach flips like a pancake. ‘Maybe you could say that,’ I murmur, taking the ticket. With trembling fingers, I fold it in half and tuck it carefully into my wallet.

I leave the shop in a state of nervous anticipation. Outside, the morning rush-hour is in full swing, the pavements thick with commuters in shirt-sleeves, enjoying yet another day of warm bright sunshine. But I’m so wrapped up in my own head it could have been raining Amazonian bullfrogs for all I’d notice.

I keep walking, eyes down, a million questions running around in my mind. Words like ‘impossible’, ‘preposterous’ and ‘amazing’ tumble over themselves as my mind wages an internal battle. On one hand the realistic, logical, sane me
knows
there has to be a rational explanation. Yet on the other, the part of me that surreptitiously reads horoscopes and avoids walking under ladders can’t help getting carried away.

Leaving the traffic behind I head along beside the canal. This is one of my favourite places in the city. It’s picture-postcard pretty and I never tire of looking at all the brightly painted narrow-boats, reading their weird and wonderful names,
Merlin’s Sea Legs, Storm in a Teacup, Lavender Mermaid,
and wondering what it would be like to live on a boat in the centre of London.
Sod the boats, what about the wishes?
interrupts a voice in my head.

Startled, I ignore it and gaze instead at the hanging baskets spilling down the sides of the boats in an explosion of colour. Look, they’re beautiful.
The dozens of little wishes I make without even realising?

And isn’t it ingenious how the owners of that barge over there have used old Wellington boots as plant pots? I frown at the wooden deck where they’re all lined up. They’ve got sunflowers growing out of them that must be about six foot tall. Squinting in the sunshine, I shade my eyes with my hand. Gosh, the sun really is bright. I wish I had my sunglasses.
Secret, silent, subconscious wishes that are part of everyday life.

Honestly, I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. My mind’s all over the place. I push my hands into my pockets – and stop. Hang on a minute. My fingers brush against something smooth like plastic. It can’t be . . . I’m positive I left them at home. With a flutter in my stomach I tug out my sunglasses.
What would happen if those wishes suddenly started coming true?

With trembling fingers I put them on, tinting the world a coppery hue. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself, but it’s no good. This is ridiculous. I can’t focus. I need a coffee.
If everything you wished for actually happened?

Oh, for God’s sake, shut up, why don’t you?

I spot a little café and abandon my tour of the canal. With my recent weight loss I can treat myself to a
pain au chocolat.
In fact, I’m toying with the idea of going a step further and making it an almond croissant when I notice a house covered with scaffolding and a skip parked outside. My heart sinks. It can only mean one thing.

Builders.

I hate builders.

Briefly I consider crossing back to the opposite side of the road and diving for cover behind a row of parked cars, but from the corner of my eye I see it’s too late. Two of them are sitting on a wall drinking flasks of tea and reading the tabloids. They look up as I approach.

I’ve been spotted.

‘Bollocks.’ I lower my head, but I feel indignant. I wish they’d mind their own business and leave us women in peace. I mean, it’s so unfair. I wish they knew how it felt to be leered at. Walking towards them I wait for the inevitable ‘Cheer up, love, it’ll never happen.’

And you know what?
It doesn’t.

They can’t have noticed me, I tell myself, walking past and not hearing a single wolf-whistle. Instead there’s just hammering and drilling. Puzzled, I look up, ready for eye-contact and a show-us-your-tits type greeting, but . . . there’s nothing . . . Nobody’s even looking in my direction.

Presuming it’s too good to be true I keep walking. Waiting. Expecting. Still nothing. I feel a burgeoning sense of confidence. I slow down and strut – yes,
strut
– past a bare-chested builder mixing cement without bothering to tug down the hem of my denim miniskirt. Not even a sideways glance.

Which is when I notice the front pages of the newspapers they’re reading. In large black capitals the headlines read: