Be Careful What You Wish For (14 page)

I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle. Then I hear that voice again in my head:
What if all your wishes were granted?

Only this time I don’t ignore it. Finally I’m convinced. As weird, inconceivable and mindboggling as it might be, that it’s got to be magic. And then – I don’t know what comes over me but before I know it I’m putting my fingers into my mouth and letting out a long, liberating wolf-whistle. I watch with satisfaction as a couple of bricklayers blush beetroot with embarrassment. It’s abso-fucking-lutely fantastic.

And it gets better.

It’s like the floodgates have opened and I spend the rest of the week in a whirl of pleasant surprises. Abandoned pots of wrinkle cream that have never before made a blind bit of difference now, on closer inspection in the mirror, actually seem to be working. Earrings I thought I’d lost, hunted for on my hands and knees, suddenly appear from out of the back of the sofa like rabbits from a magician’s hat. Even my hair, which I can never do a thing with despite a daily forty-minute battle, suddenly looks glossy, kink-free and – dare I say it? – in an actual style.

One by one, the dozens of inconsequential wishes I make every day, without thinking, begin to come true. At first it’s just the little things. My fake tan doesn’t go streaky round my ankles. They don’t sell out of my favourite sandwich at Marks & Spencer. When I flick on the TV, there’s been a last-minute change and, instead of the advertised programme on turbine engines, a film I’ve wanted to see for ages is just starting.

But it doesn’t stop there.

In fact, this is when the fun really starts. Instead of
accidentally
wishing for things, I test it out by
deliberately
wishing for all kinds of things. Nothing major – to be honest I’m a bit nervous because it’s not like this sort of thing happens to me every day. I don’t wish Benicio del Toro was coming round later to give me a shoulder massage (maybe I’ll work up to that later), but I still get some pretty amazing results.

Take ice-cream, for example.

My whole life I’ve never been able to eat just one or two spoonfuls, then put the tub back into the freezer. I always polish off the lot, then wish I hadn’t because I feel sick and have to undo the top button on my jeans. But yesterday, when I tried out my theory by scoffing a whole pint of Häagen Dazs Belgian Chocolate while I was watching
Breakfast at Tiffany’s,
I didn’t feel even a teensy bit nauseous. Furthermore, my jeans weren’t tight! It was as if I’d never eaten it. It was truly astonishing.

But even more astonishing is that today, when I went to buy a fresh tub, I didn’t feel like ice-cream. It’s weird, but now I know that I can eat it guilt-free, it’s as if the fun’s gone out of it. I ended up buying some bananas instead.

Then it was the weather. Whenever I blow-dry my hair it always rains. Without fail. But not this week: this week it’s been warm and dry and my hair hasn’t gone frizzy once. It’s looked fabulous every day.

But best of all has to be the traffic-lights. From Little Venice to Hampstead to Elephant and Castle, I haven’t had a red light. For the last few days every single one has been green and I’ve just whizzed through them all. Driving around London has been so much fun. Well, apart from the fine I got for speeding along the Embankment (I’m used to sitting in traffic and didn’t realise how fast I was going until the policeman pulled me over) but it’s only three points on my licence and a sixty-pound fine . . .

‘. . . and I’ve saved myself some money already because – would you believe it? – a traffic warden let me off a parking ticket!’ I exclaim.

Jess is staring at her reflection in the mirror, pulling a face. It’s Friday evening after work and we’re both squashed into a changing cubicle at Zara. I was planning to go straight home and get an early night, but then I got the phone call: she was begging me to help her find an outfit for her first date with Greg tomorrow night. It’s a quest that’s beginning to take on epic
Lord of the Rings
proportions.

She pushes up her ample chest with her hands and frowns. ‘Wouldn’t it look better if I had smaller boobs?’

‘You’re not listening, are you?’ I say sulkily. I’ve just spent the last hour telling Jess everything and she’s not impressed. As I stand knee-deep in halter-neck tops and coat-hangers, my excitement takes a nosedive. First Ed, now Jess. Why will no one believe me?

‘Yes, I am,’ she protests, tugging the dress over her shoulders. ‘Something about not getting a parking ticket . . .’ There’s a muffled grunt as she gets the waist wedged at her shoulders. And some wriggling. ‘Heather, can you help? I’m stuck.’

I’m tempted to leave her there, arms flailing, head trapped inside the tulle netting, but I give in and tug sharply. There’s a loud ‘ow’ and then her head pops out, hair all mussed up, lipgloss smeared across her face. And, no doubt, all over that dress.

‘Damn, I’ve bust the zip.’ She looks at the dress in dismay, then chucks it on to the huge pile of discarded items on the floor. ‘I think Greg would have liked that dress. He said in his email he likes women to be feminine.’ In her bra and knickers she rifles through the other garments she’s smuggled in with her maximum of six items. She grabs a strapless boob tube.

‘But that’s just it! I didn’t get a parking ticket,’ I continue indignantly, determined not to be sidetracked. ‘That’s the whole point of what I’m saying. When I saw him the warden was punching all my details into one of those little computers and I was thinking, Oh, God, another fifty quid, I can’t afford it, and wishing he’d let me off. And guess what? He did! He just told me to be more careful next time.’ I smile triumphantly. ‘Don’t you think that’s amazing?’

‘I think it would be more amazing if Clive Owen had turned up on your doorstep, got down on one knee and proposed.’ She groans. ‘Just look at those mammaries, they’re ginormous. I look like I’m pregnant. Jesus, I wish I had smaller boobs.’

‘Clive Owen’s already married,’ I point out.

‘You know what I mean.’ She wrenches off the boob tube and stands there in her underwear. ‘A football match, some builders, a set of green lights and a parking ticket is hardly exciting, is it?’ she says, ticking them off on her fingers. ‘What about the big stuff we all wish for? You know. Success. Happiness.
Lurve
.’ Hands on her hips she gazes at me and I know what’s coming.

‘You’ve got to go out there again some time you know.’

I pick up a top and pretend to be fascinated by the embroidery on the cuffs.

‘Yes, you, Heather. You’ve got to get back in the saddle or it’s going to grow over,’ she warns, gesturing down below.

‘Euggh, Jess.’

‘It’s true,’ she protests. ‘I read an article about it once. Apparently the vagina . . .’

Suddenly I see that I’m wasting my time. In fact, what was I thinking of, telling Jess about the heather? She’s never going to understand. This is a woman for whom falling in love isn’t about magic, it’s about ticking boxes.

I change the subject. ‘What about this black off-the-shoulder T-shirt, and those three-quarter jeans?’ I suggest, picking up two items and waggling them at her.

‘Don’t you think they’re a bit, well, boring?’

I dangle the fashionista’s carrot. ‘I saw Sienna Miller in something similar.’ I cross my fingers behind my back.

‘Really?’ She snatches the items from me and pulls on the jeans. ‘Mmm, yeah, maybe if I wore them with that big low-slung belt I got in Greece – you know, the one with the amulets.’ She wriggles into the top and adjusts it off the shoulder. Jess is all boobs and butt and it looks amazing. ‘You’re a genius, Heather!’ She throws her arms round me. ‘This is perfect.’

I smile modestly. Hopefully she won’t find out that my inspiration wasn’t Sienna Miller but the mannequin in the window display.

She pulls away and begins getting dressed in her old clothes. ‘But as I was saying . . .’

Damn. I’d thought I’d got away with it.

‘You’ve got to forget about Daniel.’

‘I have forgotten,’ I reply defensively.

‘Denial is not a river in Egypt,’ she drawls.

‘I’m not in denial,’ I protest.

She pulls back the curtain and turns to me. ‘Well, then, what are you waiting for?’

‘The perfect man,’ I quip, hoping that’ll shut her up. She scoops up her huge pile of clothes and dumps them on the table in front of the sales assistant, who gives me a frosty six-items-maximum look.

Jess laughs ruefully. ‘I hate to be the one to break the news, honey, but he doesn’t exist.’

‘Maybe not.’ I follow her to the cash register. ‘But that doesn’t mean I have to stop wishing he did.’ I glance at the couple standing next to us in the queue. Arms wrapped round each other the woman is looking all doe-eyed at a man I wouldn’t notice in a crowd. To me he’s a balding, rather dull-looking chap who needs to buy himself a nasal-hair trimmer. But to her he’s the perfect man. ‘And, anyway, I think you’re wrong,’ I say. ‘I think the perfect man does exist.’

‘What happened to cynical and bitter?’

‘I’m just saying—’

‘That all men are bastards?’ interrupts Jess, doing rather a good impression of me. After Daniel left, that was pretty much all I could say, between drags of Marlboro Lights and tequila slammers.

‘I was heartbroken,’ I say, in my defence. ‘And, anyway, why is it that if men hate women they’re called misogynists, but if women hate men we’re just called bitter?’

‘Or a lesbian,’ says Jess, matter-of-factly.

There’s a brief silence as we absorb this fact, and then, ‘Bastards,’ Jess announces, glaring at the male sales assistant behind the cash register, as if he’s personally responsible for sexual inequality.

‘Anyway, as I was saying,’ I hastily change the subject, ‘I think the perfect man does exist. He’s just different for different people. I mean, look at Camilla Parker Bowles – sorry, Windsor.’ Well, now I’ve started I’ve got to try to back up this theory. ‘Her idea of the perfect man is Prince Charles.’

Jess grimaces.

‘She’s madly in love with him,’ I add as evidence.

Jess winces. ‘Oooh . . . and with those ears,’ she whispers, almost as if she fears His Royal Highness might hear her.

‘Exactly. It’s like the woman who’s married to Robin Williams. I think he’s the most unfunny man alive, but she must think he’s perfect.’

‘Robbie Williams is married?’ The teenage girl in front of us twirls round, shocked.

‘No, the actor. You know.
Mrs Doubtfire, Mork and Mindy . . .
’

‘Nanoo, nanoo,’ mimics Jess, making me giggle.

‘And what about Carrie and Mr Big?’ I say, through laughter. Now I’m really getting into the swing of things. ‘I never got it. She could have had Aiden!’

‘Mmmm.’ There’s a murmur of approval from women around us.

Signing the credit card slip, Jess takes her new purchase and stuffs her receipt in her bag. ‘So, c’mon, then,’ she says, linking her arm through mine. ‘If the perfect man is different for different people, what’s yours like?’ She steers me across the shop floor. ‘Just in case I should bump into him.’ She grins.

I play along. ‘Well, he’s handsome, obviously.’ I chew my lip thoughtfully. ‘Monogamous, of course.’ I run down my list of what the ideal man would be like if you could make him up, because of course I’ve got a list for everything. ‘He hates sport, but loves Dido . . .’ I can feel myself warming up. ‘He doesn’t just chuck his clothes on the floor, or leave the cheese unwrapped in the fridge so it goes all cracked and hard . . .’ Actually, this is rather fun. ‘He’s not scared of talking about his emotions, or frightened of commitment . . . or asking for directions if he’s lost . . .’ Everything I’ve ever wished for in a man comes rushing back. ‘He likes holding hands and candlelit dinners. He’s not just interested in getting into my knickers, he buys me flowers, and I’m not talking about those crappy bunches from the petrol station . . .’ I stop to think. Is that everything? ‘Oh, and he has to fall madly in love with me, of course.’ We walk out into the rush of Oxford Street.

‘You’ve forgotten the most important thing,’ says Jess, making eye-contact with a guy walking in the opposite direction and throwing him a flirtatious smile.

‘I have?’ I ask, puzzled. ‘What?’

She grins wickedly. ‘A ten-inch penis.’

 

‘
A
couple of hunters are out in the woods when one falls to the ground. He doesn’t seem to be breathing and, in mad panic, the other guy whips out his cellphone and calls the emergency services . . .’

Standing in front of the full-length mirror on the back of his wardrobe door, wearing a Ramones T-shirt under a black suit jacket with an unlit cigarette wedged into the corner of his mouth, Gabe pauses to study his reflection and runs through a variety of expressions: pensive (head tilted down, brow furrowed); shocked (eyes wide, jaw thrown open); upset (eyebrows knitted together, trembly bottom lip). Sighing, his shoulders slump forward and he jabs his glasses back up his nose. ‘Jeez, what a tough decision.’ He scratches his head. ‘What kind of look does this joke need?’

He runs through them again, then addresses his reflection: ‘OK, let’s imagine I’m the audience.’ He points to his chest. ‘And let’s imagine I’m Jerry Seinfeld.’ He grins sheepishly. ‘No, let’s say Dennis Leary.’ He scowls at his reflection. ‘You mother-fucking fucker,’ he swears, his body wound up like a spring, jaw jutting aggressively.

And then he lets out a gasp, slumping forward dispiritedly. ‘C’mon, Gabe, which is funnier? None of them? All of them?’ Angst-ridden, he scratches the bristles on his chin, then suddenly breaks into a huge smile. ‘Jesus, that’s it.
That’s the look!
’

His grip tightens on the hairbrush he’s holding as a microphone, he splays his legs in a sort of Elvis pose and continues: ‘He gasps to the operator: “My friend is dead! What do I do?” Calmly the operator replies, “Just take it easy. I can help. First, let’s make sure he’s dead.”’ Gabe’s mouth twitches. He’s trying not to laugh, but he bursts into a guffaw. Wiping his eyes, he reprimands himself: ‘Gabriel Hoffman, you are seriously funny, but this is a serious business. You’ve gotta be angry, tortured, deadly funny. C’mon, concentrate!’ He clears his throat and brushes back a chunk of sandy hair that’s fallen into his eyes. ‘There’s silence. Then a shot is heard, and the hunter’s voice comes back on the line.’ After a comic pause, Gabe goes for the punchline: ‘“OK, he’s definitely dead. Now what?”’