Be Careful What You Wish For (16 page)

‘The corn’s going to be another fifteen minutes and as for the carbs . . .’ He jabs a knife inside one. ‘How do you like your potatoes, madam, hard or hard?’

‘In that case I’ve got time to pop to the corner shop for a bottle of wine.’

‘Beer too gassy, huh?’

I wrinkle my nose.

‘I’ll apologise now for later,’ he says. Then, seeing my confused expression, he explains: ‘We share a bathroom . . .’

‘Oh . . .’ There’s a pause and then, ‘Eeuggh,’ I groan. ‘Too much information.’ I swat him affectionately.

‘Sorry. Another Jewish trait, I’m afraid – food and bodily functions.’

Laughing, I slip on my flip-flops, scoop up my hair and tie it back in a knot. ‘Won’t be a minute. Red or white?’

‘You choose.’

I go to leave, then stop and turn. ‘Gabe?’

‘Yeah?’

I look at my new flatmate, standing in my apron, which clashes terribly with his orange Mr T T-shirt, and feel an unexpected fondness for him. It’s strange, but somehow I feel as if I’ve known him a long time. ‘I love the barbecue. It was really sweet of you.’

‘Hey, don’t mention it.’

‘And about earlier, with the water . . .’

‘Is that how you English say thank you?’ He gives me his big cockeyed smile.

‘No. This is how we say thank you.’

Impulsively I lean over and kiss his whiskery cheek. And before either of us has time to think about what just happened, I hurry inside.

 

B
arbra Streisand is wailing from the tape deck as I enter the corner shop and set off the electronic jingle. Mrs Patel looks up from the unidentifiable purple object she’s knitting and squints at me over the top of her glasses with the same look she gives everyone – forehead furrowed, kohl-rimmed eyes scrunched, tiny mouth pursed in distrust. She can make her entire face pucker round the edges, as if someone was pulling a drawstring on a bag.

I smile, give a little nod, then head to the back of the shop where she keeps the wine. When I first moved into the neighbourhood, I remember thinking it was going to be a limited selection – a dusty bottle of Liebfraumilch or an overpriced Chianti in a straw basket. But I was wrong. That might be the case with most local corner shops, but this isn’t just any corner shop, it’s
Mrs Patel’s
corner shop, and although I’d never have guessed it, this tiny Indian lady, with her brightly coloured saris and passion for Barbra Streisand and Barry Gibb, is something of a sommelier.

Now, in the depths of the shop, I ponder over a bottle of sauvignon blanc. It’s always my preferred choice, but perhaps this time I should get something different. I swing back to the reds. No, too heavy, and red wine stains my teeth. I zigzag back to white. But, then, white is a bit tacky, isn’t it? With its Bridget Jones overtones.

I sigh impatiently. Gosh, this is harder than I thought. I’m not normally so indecisive. I’ve bought wine here a hundred times and never without the slightest hesitation . . . What’s different? Gabe’s different, I realise, remembering the damp American back in my garden. He told me to choose, but I don’t want to pick something naff. I want to make the right impression, especially after the vase incident.

I sigh despairingly. Crikey this is tough. I just can’t decide. And then I have an idea.

Closing my eyes I begin muttering under my breath: ‘Eeny, meeny, miny,’ my eyes firmly closed I let my finger choose a wine, ‘mo.’ But instead of prodding a hard, cold surface, I feel something soft, warm . . . alive? My eyes snap open and I stare at my finger, which is embedded in someone’s shoulder. A man’s shoulder.
My neighbour’s shoulder.

Cue stomach dropping as if I’m in an aeroplane and we’ve just gone through clear-air turbulence and plummeted three hundred feet. I catch my breath just long enough to stammer. ‘Oh . . . sorry . . .’

Think Hugh Grant on-screen. Now make him female, red-haired and thirty. Well, that’s me. Only this isn’t a movie, it’s real life. My life. My hideously embarrassing life.

‘I . . . erm . . . sorry . . . I was just . . .’

Fuck, this really is terrible. Why do I always have to look like such an idiot around him? No wonder he ignores me. I turn away and pretend to stare fixedly at the shelves. I just wish I could have a normal conversation with him for once. If only to prove I’m not a raving lunatic.

‘Choosing wine is never easy, is it? You spend ages reading all the labels, and when you get it home it hardly ever tastes like you expect.’

Er, hello? Is he talking to me? My eyes travel up from his feet, past the cleft in his chin to his mouth. It’s smiling at me. One of those kind, benevolent smiles you give to old people when their memory is befuddled, or children when they tell you they want to marry their hamster. It’s the type of smile Meryl Streep always does so well.

My heart sinks. He probably doesn’t recognise me.

‘We’ve never been introduced. I’m James. We live opposite each other.’ He holds out his hand.

‘Oh, yeah . . . Hi, I’m Heather.’ I try smiling back, but mine’s all wobbly and nervous, like a kid on a bicycle without stabilisers. I go to shake his hand and I could swear he seems to hold mine for just a smidgen too long. But maybe that’s wishful thinking.

‘You know, I had a wonderful white from here a few days ago. What was it now? Oh, look, it’s here.’ He drops my hand and reaches for a bottle. I watch him lustfully. He’s probably come here to choose some wine for him and his girlfriend to share, I muse, thinking of the pretty brunette I saw him with last week. Gosh, she’s so lucky. I wish he was my boyfriend.

Suddenly aware that I’m gawping at him open-mouthed, I snatch the bottle from his hands. ‘Erm, great . . . thanks for the recommendation,’ I say quickly, and turn to go before I make an even bigger fool of myself.

‘On the other hand there’s also a great chablis . . .’

I’ve taken barely two steps before his firm, deep voice comes after me. I’m half tempted to keep walking, to pretend I haven’t heard, but he’s as irresistible as a family bag of Maltesers. You want it. You know you’re going to regret it later. But you still eat the whole thing anyway.

I give in to temptation and look over my shoulder to see him holding an amber-coloured bottle. ‘Maybe I can tempt you?’ He smiles at me again, but this time it’s not the befuddled-old-people smile, it’s more like a . . . ‘Listen, I’m sorry, I’m not doing this very well, am I?’
Rueful smile?
Standing there with a bottle of wine in each hand, he shrugs. ‘You probably think I’m some kind of idiot going on about wine the whole time . . .’
Embarrassed smile?
‘. . . when really I’ve been wanting to ask you . . .’
Nervous smile?
‘. . . if you’d like to go out for a drink some time.’
Chatting me up smile?

The whole time he’s been speaking I’ve been standing still, frozen in a this-can’t-be-happening to me way as his words string themselves out in front of me, one by one, like clothes on a washing-line. And now they’re just hanging there, waiting for me to do something. But I can’t: I’m in shock. After two and a half years of never even speaking to each other, my gorgeous, handsome neighbour, who just so happens to be the living embodiment of Mr Perfect, has asked me out on a date.

In a daze I start unpegging the words. For. A. Drink. Some. Time.

‘Well?’

I zone back in: he’s waiting for my answer. But isn’t it obvious? Why on earth wouldn’t I want to go out for a drink with him? Give me one good reason.
The brunette.

I feel a kick of disappointment: he seems so lovely. Followed by resignation: I knew it was too good to be true. Followed swiftly by indignation: the two-timing slimeball. ‘I have no respect for men who cheat on their girlfriends.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘My last boyfriend was unfaithful,’ I explain.

I’m expecting an admission of guilt, a blush of embarrassment, but instead I get an expression of concern: ‘Oh, er . . . really? I’m sorry to hear that.’ There’s a pause as he stares at me quizzically. ‘I’m sorry, but am I missing something?’

Respect, honesty, integrity, I feel like saying, as I’m reminded of Daniel. But instead I smile tightly and say casually. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say your girlfriend’s name was?’

‘
My
girlfriend?’

‘The pretty brunette.’

‘Oh, Christ.’ Finally grasping that he’s been rumbled, he rubs his clean-shaven chin and looks at me. Though not with the slightest guilt, I’m indignant to see, but –
could it be relief
? ‘For a moment there I wondered what on earth was going on. I thought maybe you had me confused with someone else.’ He smiles, then says, ‘That’s Bella, my little sister.’

Sister?
I feel a jolt of surprise. I don’t know whether to jump for joy or howl with embarrassment.

‘Did you want her to come for a drink as well?’ His mouth twitches with amusement.

I stifle a nervous giggle. ‘No, just you is fine.’

‘Great,’ he replies, looking relieved. It’s then that it strikes me:
he’s nervous.
‘When are you free this week?’

‘Erm, let me think . . .’ I don’t want him to know that the only date I’ve got lined up is with Blockbuster, do I?

‘Tomorrow?’ he suggests.

For a moment I consider playing it cool, which means I’ll end up spending Saturday night on the sofa with a video. Then change my mind. ‘Perfect,’ I reply, grabbing his suggestion with both hands. Sod playing it cool. I’d rather be drinking martinis with James.

‘Great,’ he says again.

And then, for a moment, we just stand there, facing each other, smiling, until we’re interrupted by a middle-aged man in a pinstriped suit who dashes, red-faced and gasping, into the aisle, grabs a bottle of Moët from the fridge, muttering, ‘Bloody anniversary,’ as he squeezes past us and hurries up to the counter.

We exchange a look.

‘Of course, that’s always another choice. Champagne.’ James grins, finally relieving himself of the bottles. ‘If you’ve got something to celebrate.’

Now, funny he should say that . . .

By the time I reach my flat, say goodbye to James, who’s accompanied me to the doorstep and kissed my cheek, I’m walking on air. Closing my front door, I lean against it and take a couple of deep breaths. I still can’t believe it. James has asked me out. James is taking me out for dinner – oh, yes, I nearly forgot: on the way back from the corner shop, it progressed from a drink to dinner. James is picking me up tomorrow at eight.

I run through every way of saying it, partly to see how it sounds, partly to allow my brain to absorb the information. And partly because I want to shout it from the rooftops.

I, Heather Hamilton, have a date.

Delighted, I kick off my flip-flops and pad down the hallway into the kitchen. ‘Hey, Gabe, you’ll never guess what . . .’ I hurry through the patio doors and into the garden. He’s not there.

‘Gabe?’ I glance at the empty sun-lounger, at the empty beer bottles on the wooden table, at the barbecue that looks as if it’s gone out. I walk over to inspect it. The grill’s bare and most of the coals have turned to powdery grey ash. Already? I check the time on my watch and do a bit of mental arithmetic. If I left at . . . and now it’s . . . Crikey, I’ve been gone for well over an hour! Wow, talk about time flying when you’re enjoying yourself.

Then, abruptly, I remember. I said I’d be a couple of minutes, that I was just popping out for a bottle of wine. I feel a stab of guilt. In all my excitement I forgot about Gabe and the barbecue we were supposed to be having. I go back inside and knock softly on the door of his room.

‘Gabe? Are you there?’ I can’t hear anything, not even the low hum of a CD. I’m about to look out of the living-room window to see if his motorbike is still parked there when he opens the door.

‘Hey.’ He’s holding a book entitled
How To Be Hilarious.
‘I was thinking of sending out a search party.’

‘Hi . . . Look, I’m sorry,’ I apologise. ‘I lost track of the time . . .’

But he won’t let me finish. ‘Don’t worry about it. I ate already, but I put your food in the oven to keep warm.’

‘Actually, I’m not hungry . . .’ Then I can’t help blurting, ‘I’ve just been asked out on date. It’s someone I’ve had a bit of a crush on.’ I add this hastily in case he thinks I always go out on dates with complete strangers I meet on the street.

‘Oh . . . cool.’

There’s a pause.

‘I bought champagne instead of wine,’ I say. ‘Would you like a glass?’

‘Thanks, but not for me. It’s been a long day and I’m going to hit the sack.’

‘Oh, OK . . . Look, about the barbecue.’

‘Hey, forget about it.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah, of course.’ He smiles. ‘Night, Heather.’

‘Right. You too, Gabe.’

Giving him a little wave goodnight with the champagne bottle, I head back into the kitchen to put it into the fridge. My thoughts turn back to James and I’m so absorbed that when, a few moments later, I hear Gabe’s door click softly behind me, it occurs to me only vaguely that he must have remained standing there after I left him. But I’m too caught up by the evening’s events to take much notice. Smiling happily, I pop the Moët on ice. For later.

 

O
utside the ivy-clad walls of Kew Gardens, a dozen or so wedding guests are congregating. With no sign of the bride as yet, and with half an hour or so to go before the ceremony is due to start, they’re taking the chance to have a last-minute cigarette and fiddle awkwardly with their outfits. They look to be mostly in their early twenties, fresh out of university judging by their woven ethnic bracelets and liquid black eyeliner, and are wearing an assortment of mismatched suits and Friday-night dresses that are too short and revealing.