Be Careful What You Wish For (15 page)

Oh, my God, he’s
terrible.

Standing in the hallway, watching Gabe rehearse in his bedroom through a gap in the door, I clamp my hands over my mouth to suppress a groan.

He’s going to bomb at the Edinburgh Festival. He’s going to die on stage, in front of thousands of people. I mean, all that scowling and motherfucking and trying to be the angry, uptight comedian, it’s just not Gabe. He’s sweet and kind
and from California.
He drinks soya milk, wears flip-flops and does yoga. He’s not angry, he’s totally chilled out. And that outfit! A Ramones T-shirt under a suit? It’s such a cliché. What’s happened to his kooky shirts and flip-flops?

My heart goes out to him. I should do something. I should try to stop him. It’s like sending someone into battle in a chocolate kettle, or whatever that saying is.

A floorboard creaks, and I snap to.

Oh, shit, he’s going to come out of his bedroom and catch me here.
Spying.
You’re not spying, Heather, you just got home from shopping with Jess and happened to be walking past, I think frantically, as I dive into the bathroom to avoid being caught.

I lock the door and turn on the taps. There must be something I can do to help. OK, so I hate stand-up comedy, but I don’t hate Gabe. On the contrary, he’s a really nice bloke and he even puts the top on the toothpaste, I remind myself, with satisfaction.

‘Heather?’ There’s a polite knock on the door and Gabe’s voice. ‘Are you in there?’

‘Erm, yes . . .’ I reply, startled. ‘Sorry, are you waiting? I won’t be a minute.’ Worried my cover’s about to be blown I clank around with the soap-dish to add a bit of realism.

‘No, it’s fine, take your time. But when you’re finished come outside to the back yard.’

‘The back yard?’ I mouth at my reflection, wondering what he’s up to. Still, whatever it is, it can’t be any worse than his jokes.

Which will teach me to jump to conclusions.

‘I’ve gotta surprise,’ he adds.

Oh, bloody hell. What was I saying about hating surprises? It’s not my birthday, it’s not any kind of anniversary, so what on earth can it be? I emerge tentatively from the bathroom and pad barefoot down the hallway, racking my brains for a possible answer so that I can be prepared, when I’m distracted by a funny smell. I sniff the air curiously as I walk into the kitchen. It’s almost as if something’s burning. As the idea strikes I hurry across the lino and glance through the patio doors at the back garden. It’s full of smoke. Oh, Christ. Something
is
burning.

Panic sets in. Oh, fuck! My house is on fire! Did I remember to pay the household insurance? I know it’s on my list of things to do, but . . . Frantically I start looking around the kitchen, images of wet towels being thrown on flaming chip pans flashing back from age-old commercials.

But I don’t have any towels: they’re all in the wash. I need something like – something like that jug. A large glass jug of lilies sits in the middle of the table. I grab it, dump the flowers in the sink and dash outside, water slopping over the edge. Grey smoke is billowing from behind the shed.

Vaulting over a flowerbed, I spin round the side of the shed, my fingers slipping on the wet glass as I swing it back with all my might. Only there aren’t any flames.

‘Tad-daaahhh.’ He throws his arms wide and grins as he sees me, but it’s too late: like a pendulum, the vase has swung. Which means it has to swing back. Oh dear.

Suddenly everything is happening at once. But it’s as if someone has slowed the time right down and I’m watching it on film. The water swooshing out of the vase, soaring through the air like a huge wave, every droplet magnified as Gabe’s face comes into shot and begins its journey through a remarkable range of emotions – from happiness, to confusion, to open-mouthed shock as the water hits him square in the face.

Boom.
We’re back in normal time and Gabe, totally drenched, is standing there dripping, blinking, gasping. ‘Jeez, Heather, what’s going on?’

‘Oh. Shit,’ I mutter, as I watch him wiping his wet hair and face with his apron.
Apron?
He’s wearing my rose-festooned Cath Kidston pinny over his frilly, pistachio green shirt. At the same moment I notice he’s holding tongs in one hand, a packet of veggie sausages in the other and standing in front of a shiny metal object that looks suspiciously like . . .

‘A barbecue?’
I blurt.

‘It’s a housewarming present – well, for my housewarming. I thought you might like it. For the yard.’ As he’s speaking I glance down at his feet and notice he’s standing in a puddle of water. He wriggles his sunburned toes, which make a slippery squeak against his flip-flops. ‘But if I’d known I was gonna get that reaction I might have stuck with a scented candle.’

‘Shit.’ That’s all I can say. Not the best word to choose if you can only choose one but, then, saying and doing the wrong thing seem to be my specialities.

Gabe tips his head and shakes it, like a dog, spraying me with drops of water. Not on purpose I’m sure, I reason, stepping back so he doesn’t drench me. ‘I’m
soooo
sorry.’ I try to apologise as he dabs at himself with one of Brian’s Buckingham Palace tea-towels, which I stole from work. ‘I thought something was burning.’

‘It was the veggie sausages.’ With his shirt sticking to his chest in a sodden lump, the frills all wilting and his sandy hair sticking up in peaks like a meringue, he gestures towards the barbecue, which is defiantly emitting a faint spiral of smoke.

‘I bought them especially, with you not eating meat and all.’ He pauses. ‘Maybe this was a bad idea . . .’

‘No! No!’ I protest. ‘It was a
great
idea – I mean, it
is
a great idea.’ Enthusiastically I grab a fork and lean over him to pluck a charred object from the grill. For a moment my bravery wavers. Then I smile cheerily at Gabe. He smiles back interestedly.

Oh, fuck. You know how you feel when you’ve said you’re going to do something and then you change your mind but you still have to do it or you know you’re going to lose face and look pathetic? Well, that’s me with this sausage. Backed into a corner I force myself to take a bite. ‘Mmmmmm.’

Gabe watches me with what I could swear is a glimmer of amusement. ‘I wasn’t sure how long to cook them.’

‘Mmmmm. Mmmm,’ I continue as I begin to chew. Ouch. Pain shoots through a back molar as I bite down hard on a tough bit.

‘Good?’

‘Delicious,’ I reply, covering my mouth. With great difficulty I swallow. Thank God for that. Free of my penance, I breathe a sigh of relief.

It’s short-lived.

‘Cool. Have another.’ With the tongs Gabe pops a few more on to a plate and holds it out to me. ‘There’s plenty.’

‘Erm, no . . . Actually, that’s fine for now.’

But he’s insistent. ‘Hey, c’mon, it’s my treat.’

Treat? This is torture. I struggle to smile as I take the plate, wondering how to distract him so I can play hide-the-sausage in the shrubbery. ‘Erm, great, thanks,’ I stammer.

At which point Gabe bursts out laughing. A loud belly laugh followed by a bovine snort as he takes breath.

I’m astonished. Until I twig. This is his idea of a joke and I fell right for it.

‘Your face,’ he doubles up, clutching his stomach, ‘when you ate that sausage.’

I try not to smile but it’s impossible. ‘You bastard,’ I mutter, mouth twitching.

‘Hey, do you blame me? You threw a great big jug of foul-smelling water at me.’

At the memory I start giggling. ‘You should’ve seen
your
face.’

He stops laughing. ‘Well, I guess that just about makes us even.’ He holds out his hand for a high-five.

Oh, bloody hell, I hate this bit. I always feel like such an idiot. Feebly I bring my hand down against his. ‘For now,’ I can’t help adding.

Fortunately there are some veggie burgers lurking in the freezer and we put them on the grill, along with some corn-on-the-cob and baked potatoes wrapped in tinfoil.

After we’ve sorted out the food and he has changed into a T-shirt (I thought the pistachio-green shirt with the ruffle down the middle was bad, but his orange Mr T T-shirt, which I now notice has Velcro hair, is much worse), Gabe pulls out two ice-cold Sols from the fridge, carefully cuts up a lime, squeezes a sliver into each neck and offers me one. I’m much more of a wine person but I can’t refuse. I don’t want to look all English and uptight. Especially after the trouble he took in getting the barbecue and everything.

‘. . . And I’ve been doing my stand-up around LA, you know, open mikes, that kinda thing, but going to the Edinburgh Festival has always been a dream so I decided this year I was gonna go for it. I booked a venue, printed up some flyers and I’m taking my show up there for a whole week. Gonna take a shot at that Perrier Award.’

I’m sipping my beer as I listen to Gabe, who’s now manning the grill, flipping burgers like a pro and rearranging the tinfoil bundles.

‘So you just quit your job?’ I ask, from the comfort of the sun-lounger. Wow, this is the life. Having my dinner cooked, being handed beers, lying here not lifting a finger. Now I know what it must have felt like to be Daniel.

‘No, a friend and I have a clothes store on Abbot Kinney – it’s a street in Venice that’s got some real cool shops and cafés,’ he explains. ‘Oh, and a great Mexican that does the most awesome chilli
rellenos
.’ His eyes light up at the memory and he pauses, obviously reliving a chilli
relleno
moment. Then he realises that I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. ‘You’ve never had a chilli
relleno
?’

I shake my head.

‘Jesus, you’re not serious?’

‘’Fraid so.’

‘Wow, Heather, you have no idea what you’re missing.’ He drops his spatula in horror and wipes his hands on his apron. You’d think he was about to deliver a sermon. Which he is. ‘A chilli
relleno
is a feast of flavours. It’s a chilli, stuffed with grated cheese, which they deep-fry, then slather in salsa and sour cream. It’s awesome . . .’

‘I take it you like your food?’ I smile.

He’s shamefaced now. ‘It’s a Jewish thing.’

‘You’re Jewish?’

He turns sideways to show me his profile and runs his finger down his nose. ‘Can’t you tell by the schnoz?’

‘Hey, at least you have an excuse.’ I turn sideways and do the same with mine. ‘When I was little I used to look at drawings of princesses in fairy-tales and they all had those cute little button noses. It was the witches with the poison apples who had the big hooked ones.’

‘You have a great nose,’ protests Gabe. ‘It’s like a toucan’s beak.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ I pull a face. ‘But, anyway, about your job . . .’ Swiftly I move the conversation away from my nose. That’s something I’ve learned as I’ve grown older: don’t talk to men about the bits of your body you’re unhappy with. When I was with Daniel I used to go on and on about cellulite, thrusting my buttocks into his face whenever he insisted I didn’t have any. Until, eventually, I persuaded him I did have cellulite. From then on he went from thinking my bottom was like a peach to saying that, actually, I was right: it did look rather like porridge in a string bag. Well done, Heather.

‘Oh, yeah, well, let’s put it this way, my partner owes me a favour so he’s taken the reins for a while. It’s only going to be for a few weeks in any case.’

‘And what about your girlfriend, Mia – doesn’t she mind?’

Gabe blushes. ‘Nah – too many nights spent watching me on the open mike. She probably wanted to get rid of me.’ He’s smiling as he says it, as only a person confident that that’s not the case can. And, from what I’ve seen so far of Gabe Hoffman, I can’t imagine his girlfriend ever wanting to get rid of him. Even if he does tell terrible jokes.

‘So, what’s your story?’ He flips a burger and looks at me sideways, one eyebrow raised.

‘My story?’

‘Yeah, you know, relationship, job, family . . .’

‘Oh,
that
story.’ I drain the last of my beer and balance the bottle on the ledge next to me. ‘I’ve been single since last year when I discovered my boyfriend, whom I lived with at the time, was cheating on me.’

Gabe throws me a sympathetic look but I move on swiftly. ‘I’ve been working as a wedding photographer for the past six years but now I’m about to lose my job.’

‘Aha, I wondered what the pile of résumés was doing on the kitchen table.’

‘Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly dream of being a wedding photographer, so let’s just say I haven’t had my big break as yet.’

‘What about your folks?’

‘I’ve got one older brother Ed, and he’s married to Lou – they’re about to have a baby – and then there’s my father, Lionel, who’s an artist and married to my wicked stepmother Rosemary.’

‘And your mom?’

‘She died when I was twelve.’

There’s a pause. ‘Hey, I’m sorry.’

‘Me too,’ I say quietly, feeling my throat tighten as it always does when I think about Mum. Even now, nearly twenty years later. ‘Not much of a happy ending, I’m afraid.’ I smile ruefully.

‘Hang on a minute. Who’s talking about endings? You know what my old grandpa used to say to me? “Son, you’re still at once upon a time . . .”’ He mimics a southern drawl.

‘Well, you can tell your grandpa I’m thirty years old.’

‘Somehow I don’t think that’ll wash with him. He’s ninety-two.’

‘Is this one of those anecdotes with a moral about how we should be grateful because there’s always someone worse off in life?’

‘Hey, my grandpa has a great life. He’s just discovered Internet porn.’

I laugh and hoist myself up from the sun-lounger to walk over to the barbecue. ‘Mmm, that smells good. I’m starving.’ I look hopefully at the tinfoil bundles.