Be Careful What You Wish For (23 page)

It reverberates through my body at what feels like a hundred miles an hour and then – ooh – it’s gone. I open my watering eyes and sniff. Euggh, how disgusting. My beautiful bouquet is now sprayed with little flecks of snot. Hastily I wipe the Cellophane with my sleeve, but that’s even more disgusting.

Yuk. I’d better get a dishcloth.

I walk into the kitchen and see Gabe in a crumpled white T-shirt and Paisley boxers. He’s hunched over the toaster with a chopstick, poking around for something that’s got stuck and is emitting a strange smell. Almost like burning strawberries.

‘Lost something?’

‘Another darn Pop-Tart,’ he mutters, pushing his glasses up his nose. His face lights up when he sees me. ‘Secret admirer?’

Realising the bouquet, not me, is the reason for his smile, I feel curiously deflated. ‘Actually he’s not so secret.’

We exchange a look and suddenly I’m self-conscious.

‘Wow, that guy’s got a real habit.’ Gabe scratches his head, and his hair sticks up vertically in sandy tufts. ‘He needs Red Roses Anonymous.’

‘You’re not funny.’ I fish for my nasal spray in the pockets of my dressing-gown, then inhale deeply. With all these flowers I’ve spent a fortune in Boots this week – eyedrops, sprays, two boxes of antihistamine pills, and masses of tissues. Still, it’s worth it.

‘I’m not funny?’ Gabe is looking at me with genuine concern.

Of course I can’t go around telling stand-up comedians they’re not funny – even if it does happen to be true. ‘I was joking, silly,’ I lie hastily. ‘You’re hilarious.’ I rest the bouquet on the draining-board and start opening and closing cupboard doors to find something to put the roses in.

‘Are you looking for a vaize?’ he says, after a moment.

‘A what?’ I ask, crouching to bury my head among the saucepans.

‘A vaize,’ he repeats, only louder.

I reappear empty-handed from the cupboard under the sink and look at him in confusion. ‘What’s a vaize?’

‘You know, they’re made of glass or ceramic. They’re for flowers?’

‘Oh, you mean a
vase
.’

‘No, I mean a
vaize
.’

I laugh. ‘Now you’re just being stubborn.’

‘So are you.’

‘Well, I’m a Piscean. We’re meant to be stubborn,’ I say self-righteously.

He eyes me with amusement. ‘That’s Taureans, actually. And I thought you didn’t believe in astrology.’

I feel myself redden. ‘I don’t. But in England it’s pronounced vase.’

‘Well, in America it’s a vaize.’

‘But you’re in England,’ I insist.

Somehow, and I’m not sure how, I’ve found myself in the middle of an argument – which I’m determined to win.

‘So? I’m American.’

‘So are you going to go around calling pavements sidewalks, the tube the subway, dressing-gowns robes—’ I break off as I flail around desperately for something much more – I’ve got it. ‘Or bottoms fannies?’

Ha! That’s shut him up. Feeling very told-you-so I continue my search
for a vase.

‘You mean your fanny isn’t your ass?’ he asks, after a pause.

‘No, of course not.’ I laugh, examining an old jug.

‘So what is your fanny?’

‘My fanny?’ I echo distractedly.
Hmm, I wonder if I could squash a dozen roses in there or if the jug would topple over.
‘Well, that’s easy. It’s—’ Oh, fuck. I stop dead – like one of those cartoon characters who keep running even though the ground has disappeared beneath their feet until they stop to look down. And then they plummet to their doom. I can feel myself plummeting.

‘Erm, well . . .’ As blotches of colour prickle on my chest I pull my towelling dressing-gown closer. Now, come on, Heather, don’t be so ridiculous. You’re both adults, there’s no need to be embarrassed. ‘My fa—’ I begin, and grind to a halt.

I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. Call me a prude, but this is my vagina we’re talking about. Or not. I cross my legs.

‘You were saying?’ he asks evenly.

Honestly, I’m a dreadful loser but now, looking into Gabe’s blue eyes, magnified behind his glasses, I can’t help wishing this was one argument I
had
lost.

‘Oh, nothing,’ I say, and hurriedly change the subject to cover my embarrassment and the fact that, actually, I
have
lost this argument. ‘Can I ask you a favour? As you’re much taller than me, will you look on top of that cupboard?’ I gesture above the oven.
‘For a vaize,’
I add pointedly – surrendering.

A wicked grin threatens to spread across his cheeks and Gabe shrugs. ‘Sure,’ he says, standing on tiptoe. But that’s not good enough with my eleven-foot-high Victorian ceilings so he climbs on to the counter. After a few minutes’ rummaging, he says, ‘What about this?’ He’s holding an empty spaghetti jar.

‘Nope.’ I shake my head. ‘Too skinny.’

He puts it back and grabs the next object: the glass jug from the coffee percolator I never use – which is next to the blender, the ice-cream maker, the pop-corn popper and the pasta-machine that I never use either. ‘Or this?’

I look up, almost cricking my neck. ‘Nah. Too small.’ Shrugging, he roots around until finally he finds ‘This?’

‘Oh, wow! I’ve been looking for that everywhere.’ He’s holding out the orange plastic watering-can I bought in IKEA months ago. ‘But no,’ I add, taking it from him and setting it on the counter, ‘it’ll clash with the red of the roses. Anyway, it’s too big.’

‘Jeez, who are you? Goldilocks?’ he grumbles.

I watch him grope around on top of the cupboard until my neck aches and I look down. And come face-to-face with his hairy calf muscles splayed on the counter. I’d never noticed them before but Gabe has really nice calves. They’re covered with pale brown hair and from a distance they seem really tanned, but if I peer closer – I move my face so that my nose is just inches away – I can see that they’re covered with millions of tiny freckles that have sort of joined up to give the impression of a tan. It’s a bit like squashing your face against a TV screen and seeing the picture disintegrate into tiny little dots.

Brandishing a filthy object, Gabe is looking down over his shoulder at me. ‘Guess what I . . .’

Which is when I realise my head is stuck between his legs and jump back.

‘. . . found.’

Oh, shite.

Trying to appear innocent and not like a pervy old landlady, I reach up to take it from him. It’s an ugly ceramic vase Rosemary once gave me and which I’ve kept stuffed in the cupboard ever since. Still, beggars can’t be choosers. ‘Great, thanks,’ I gush enthusiastically, hot with embarrassment. I dunk it in the washing-up bowl and try to look all busy, busy, busy – turning on the tap, grabbing a pair of yellow Marigolds from under the sink, squeezing Fairy Liquid in frantic, green wiggles.

‘Hey, I can do that. You’ll be late for work.’

‘No, it’s OK,’ I cut him off. ‘It’s my day off.’ I grab the cloth and lather the vase.

‘Cool,’ he says cheerfully, and for a joyful moment I think he’s going to leave the kitchen.

Instead he loiters behind me.

Out of the corner of my eye I see him turn back to the toaster. This time he succeeds in spearing an unrecognisable charred object on the chopstick. He takes a bite and chews thoughtfully as he walks across the kitchen. ‘By the way, about your fanny,’ he says matter-of-factly, pausing by the doorway.

I freeze. ‘Er, yes?’

Our eyes meet, and just as I feel myself teeter on the edge of humiliation, he winks. ‘I was just kidding with you.’

He grabs his Marlboros and, as I watch him disappear into the garden for his morning cigarette, a thought strikes me—

I got my wish. Without a doubt, this was one argument I definitely lost.

 

O
K, now what?

After I’ve chucked away the broken roses, stuck the rest on the windowsill, made myself another cup of instant coffee and finished off what’s left of a packet of liquorice allsorts for breakfast, I sit down at the kitchen table and wonder what to do with the rest of my day off. Normally I like to lie in till noon, but I’m already up and wide awake, courtesy of my new alarm: the man from Interflora. I drum my fingers on my mug.

I know! I’ll watch a bit of morning telly.

I feel a rush of joy. I love morning telly: it’s such a guilty pleasure, like wearing big knickers or fancying Enrique Iglesias. Gleefully I reach over to flick on the portable TV stuffed next to the microwave and happen to glance at the digital clock. My heart sinks. It’s not even nine a.m.
Trisha
’s not on for ages.

Thwarted, I drain my coffee and wonder what Gabe’s up to. I pinch open the slats of the window blind and peer out into the garden. Surrounded by piles of joke books, he’s lying belly down on a sun-lounger, scribbling into the notepad he takes everywhere with him. Better not disturb him: he looks busy.

Which is what I should be, I tell myself guiltily, letting the blind snap back. There’s a million things that need doing.

No sooner has the thought popped into my head than I glance at the fridge door, which is wallpapered with Post-it notes, bills that need paying, and a pair of tickets for
The Rocky Horror Show
on Monday night. I’d forgotten about that. Jess arranged it with a bunch of her gay steward friends and I’ve got a ticket for James. Though I’m not sure if suspenders are his thing, I muse, grabbing a pen and a notepad and sitting down at the kitchen table.

OK. I need to write a list. I flick open the pad to find a dozen lists I’ve already made and forgotten about.

OK, I need to write a
new
list.

Well, that’s easy. I dial his number but he’s not there so I leave a message thanking him for the roses and telling him how lovely they are.

One of the downsides of having sex. Before James, I wore comfy old knickers that I could throw in the washing machine, but now it’s all about scraps of frilly lingerie that don’t fulfil any of the roles of underwear (support, comfort, protection) but act simply as decoration. Expensive, uncomfortable decoration that’s a complete faff to wash.

Fuck.

Initially I think of skipping this one and going straight to ‘Buy a new shower curtain’ as I quite fancy a trip to IKEA, but I can’t ignore it. Not only have I just underlined it twice, but it’s made the top five on my list for the past six years, and while everything else gets crossed off eventually, it stays there. Staring at me.
Taunting me.

Which is why, hours later, I’m sitting at my computer Goo-gling ‘photography jobs’.

‘Hey, how’s it going?’

Gabe has stuck his head round my bedroom door with two steaming mugs of peppermint tea and a fresh bag of liquorice allsorts.

‘Wonderful,’ I say dolefully, as I take a mug. Blowing on it I take a large slurp. ‘I’ve spent nearly four hours and so far the only thing I’ve found is an ad for a staff photographer on
Farm Machinery Monthly
.’ I shuffle through the stuff I’ve printed out ‘Here it is.’ I clear my throat and I read, ‘Exciting opportunity for an experienced photographer. Knowledge of tractors and silage equipment an advantage. Must like cattle and being outdoors in all-weather conditions . . .’

Gabe throws me a puzzled look and offers me a liquorice allsort.

‘I’m trying to find a job,’ I explain, nibbling off the yellow fondant.

Propping his bum on the edge of my unmade bed, Gabe chews slowly as he strokes Billy Smith who’s curled up on the duvet. ‘But I thought you said your job was safe now you’ve got this fancy royal wedding.’

I smile, despite my gloom. ‘It’s not a royal wedding. It’s the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Hurley,’ I explain, entertained by Gabe’s confusion. ‘Which means she isn’t a princess, just a lady.’

‘Not necessarily,’ he quips.

‘I know it’s all rubbish,’ I admit, smiling weakly, ‘but it’s good for business. They’re paying my boss a fortune, and one of the big celebrity magazines has offered to buy our pictures, which means we’ll be credited as photographers.’ I pause.

‘But?’ Gabe has sensed I’m unhappy about something.

I’m about to pretend there isn’t a but, that everything’s fine, then change my mind. He looks genuinely concerned.

‘But when I dreamed of having my photographs published, it wasn’t in a magazine with Jade from
Big Brother
,’ I confess.

‘Who’s Jade from
Big Brother
?’

‘Exactly.’

Unfazed, he waggles the bag of liquorice allsorts at me. ‘You’ve got me addicted to these things,’ he confesses. ‘Especially the blue and pink jelly ones.’

‘Yuk. They’re my least favourite.’

He’s astounded. ‘Jeez, I can’t get enough of them. It’s the coconut ones I hate.’

As he speaks, I pluck one out and wave it at him teasingly. ‘Mmm, my favourite,’

‘I guess that makes us the perfect people to share a bag of these, then?’

Chewing, I nod happily. ‘I guess so.’

We smile at each other for a moment, my bad mood forgotten. That’s the annoying thing about Gabe: he’ll never let me wallow in a bit of self-pity, or dissatisfaction, or good old-fashioned British negativity. He’s always so positive. Must be something to do with being American and having a nice day and all that.

‘So what’s this dream of yours, then?’ he says. ‘Where do you want to get your photographs published?’

I blush. No one’s every asked me that before.