Be Careful What You Wish For (30 page)

Brian appears and hangs over my shoulder to see what I’ve just written. ‘Tits?’ he says loudly.

Flapping my hand at him to be quiet, I strain to hear what she’s saying, which isn’t easy as she has a nasal sort of voice.

‘Mummy and Daddy have just spent a fortune on my breast augmentation – it’s their wedding present to us. As I said to my fiancé, Daniel, which would you prefer? Dreary old china or perfect titties?’

‘Daniel?’ I repeat, before I can stop myself. After all this time that name still gives me a twinge.

‘Yes, Daniel Dabrowski. He’s a sculptor.’

It’s as if someone’s kicked me hard in the stomach.

‘He’s from Russia,’ she continues.

‘Actually he’s Polish,’ I say before I can stop myself. It’s too much of a coincidence. There can’t be two Daniel Dabrowskis who are sculptors. ‘He was born in Krakow.’

‘What?’

The indignation in her voice is like a slap in the face, and I pull myself together. I
can’t
endanger this wedding. ‘I once saw an exhibition of his . . .’ I fib, voice wavering, ‘and there was some information about him.’

How can I tell her that he’s my ex-boyfriend and I know every last thing about him? Or I did, I think, as his fiancée snappily informs me that her manicurist has arrived and rudely hangs up. Because now, I realise, I know nothing about him.

‘So,’ says Brian, reappearing with two steaming mugs of instant coffee and a couple of berry bran muffins from the deli round the corner. They’re my favourite, but my appetite has now deserted me. ‘What did Bridezilla want this time?’ Perching on a stool and crossing his legs, he eyes me with a mixture of sympathy and amusement.

I gulp some coffee. ‘It’s all written down in the book,’ I say, passing it to him. It’s the shock more than anything. Daniel? Getting married? And not to just anyone but to a twenty-one-year-old heiress?

‘What is this? A wedding or a glamour shoot?’ grumbles Brian, tearing off a piece of muffin.

I can’t believe it. I wished for a miracle to get the business out of trouble and we got one. But I never wanted that miracle to be my ex-boyfriend’s wedding.

‘Heather? Are you OK? You’ve gone white.’

‘Me, yeah, I’m fine.’ I force myself to tune back in, but it’s a struggle.

‘I was saying, what will she think of next time?’

‘You mean there’s going to be a next time?’ For a split second I consider explaining to Brian that I can’t do this, but then I see the post lying on the side. Bills, bills and more bills. I file them with the rest in the overflowing tray next to the computer. I can’t tell Brian. I’ve got to do this.

‘Of course,’ Brian is saying, as he glances over my shoulder at the clock on the wall. It’s an official Prince Charles and Lady Di wedding souvenir and has a painted portrait of them on the face and the words
‘A Fairytale Romance’.
‘And I’d say, in less than an hour.’

‘I heard her leave two messages on the machine before either of you arrived,’ chimes in Maureen, the cleaner, appearing from the kitchen in her checked overalls and brandishing her beloved Dustamatic. She flicks the switch with her trigger finger and hoovers round the windowsill. ‘If you ask me, she sounds like a right madam.’

‘Nobody did ask you, Maureen,’ mutters Brian, into his coffee.

Fortunately she can’t hear him over the noise of the vacuum.

‘Well, this time it’s your turn to answer the phone. I’m going into the darkroom. There’s a dozen rolls of film from the mock-Tudor wedding that still need developing.’ I head into the back. I need time and space to collect my thoughts.

‘Actually, I might have to pop out.’

‘Pop out?’ I stop dead in my tracks.

‘Only for half an hour,’ he protests. ‘I need to sort out my costume for tonight.’

Of course. Tonight’s
The Rocky Horror Show.
I’d forgotten. Unlike Brian, who’s been looking forward to it for months.

‘You know what it’s like,’ Brian is saying. ‘I’ve got absolutely nothing to wear . . .’

‘Hark at him,’ snorts Maureen, nudging me with a bony elbow.

‘Well, some of us like to make a bit of an effort,’ barks Brian, then jumps backwards as Maureen lunges at him with the Dustamatic. Only it’s not a big enough jump and the nozzle attaches itself to his jacket. A small – yet aggressive – battle ensues between him and our cleaner.

‘Brian . . .’ I plead, but he’s busy freeing his gilt buttons from the machine’s powerful suction, then making for the door.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back in a jiffy,’ he says, lying blatantly. I know Brian. He does nothing in a jiffy. Everything takes hours of indecision.

‘Well, in that case I’ll leave the answering-machine on,’ I threaten, playing him at his own game. ‘That way you can call her when you get back.’ Pleased with my quick thinking, I lean back against the filing cabinet.

‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? I gave her your mobile number, just in case.’

He ducks as I throw a muffin at him, but I’ve got a pretty good aim. It hits the back of his head, showering him with a confetti of berry bran crumbs as he dives, laughing, out of the door.

Several minutes later I’m in the darkroom, tugging the cord that switches on the special developing light. Immediately, I’m bathed in a crimson glow and flop on to a stool to absorb the shock of discovering that Daniel is soon to marry Lady Charlotte.

After a moment, I pull myself together. OK, so he’s getting married. So bloody what? If he got down on one knee and asked you to marry him right this minute, Heather, would you? No, you wouldn’t. And why not? Because he’s a liar and a cheat, because you have a perfectly lovely new boyfriend called James and because . . .

Well, just because. I stand up and turn my attention to the mess that is our darkroom filing system. From now on I’m going to block Daniel out of my mind. Now where did I put those films?

After a good fifteen minutes I unearth them and flick on the CD player. This time it’s
Chess
and, glad of the distraction, I hum along as I prepare the developing trays. I’m getting to like these musicals and feel a little burst of happiness as I recognise the opening chords of the duet between Elaine Page and Barbara Dickson. I lean over to turn up the volume and hear the jingling ring of my mobile.

My heart sinks. Lady Charlotte?
Already?

I pick up my phone and stare at the caller ID. ‘Private Caller.’ Usually I don’t answer withheld numbers: they’re either credit-card companies demanding money or Blockbuster wanting to know the whereabouts of
Swept Away.
But now all that’s changed. I made the minimum payments this month and the video appeared a few days ago on top of the telly, completely out of the blue.

Well, not completely, I correct myself, thinking about the lucky heather with a sense of satisfaction. These days, things have a habit of happening to me out of the blue.

‘Hello?’ Wondering what Lady Charlotte is going to demand this time, I grab a piece of paper, then rummage around for a pen.

‘Hi, is it possible to speak to Heather Hamilton?’

I’m surprised to hear a male voice, oldish-sounding and very well spoken. Probably the butler.

‘Speaking,’ I grunt, tugging out a drawer and rifling through it. Bloody hell, how am I supposed to find anything in this mess?

‘Oh, hello, Ms Hamilton, this is—’

‘Sorry, can you hang on a minute.’ I press my shoulder against the drawer, reach deep inside, right up to my armpit, and grope around. God, you’d think there’d be a biro in here somewhere!

‘If this isn’t a good time . . .’ In the background I can hear the voice on the phone still talking.

Damnit. I give up. I’ll have to use my eyeliner.

‘. . . perhaps I can call back later.’

I bring my hand out of the drawer and stare at the mouthpiece. Did he say
later
?

A wicked thought pops into my head. Well, it
is
Brian’s turn, I tell myself, sorely tempted to tell the butler to call the office later. But then the sensible assistant takes over. Lady Charlotte might be Bridezilla, and she might be marrying my ex, but her wedding is bringing Together Forever back from the brink of bankruptcy. And saving my job.

‘No, now’s fine,’ I say resignedly, pulling my kohl pencil out of my makeup bag. ‘OK, so what are Charlotte’s latest demands . . . I mean, thoughts?’

‘Charlotte?’ repeats the voice at the other end of the line. It sounds rather snappy.

‘Sorry,
Lady
Charlotte,’ I correct myself quickly. Honestly, all this title business is ridiculous. I’m reminded of Gabe’s comment about her not necessarily being a lady, and smile.

‘Look, I think there’s been some mistake,’ says the voice. Now I detect the faint drawl of an American accent and feel a prickle of doubt. Perhaps it isn’t Lady Charlotte’s butler. In which case it must be someone from one of the credit-card companies after all.

Like American Express.

No sooner has the thought popped into my head than footage of me buying up half of Knickerbox begins playing in my mind like film from a CCTV camera. Oh dear, I’d forgotten about that. It was all the new sexy underwear I bought last week. ‘I’m sorry – is this about the three hundred pounds I spent on lingerie?’

‘No, it isn’t,’ says the voice impatiently. ‘It’s about a job vacancy.’

‘At American Express?’ I frown. How strange. It must be some weird promotion thingy they’re doing.

‘No, at the
Sunday Herald
.’

It’s a moment before the words register.

‘Did you just say the
Sunday Herald
?’ I whisper.

‘That’s right.’

My chest tightens a notch, as if I’ve fastened a button on my cardigan. ‘And you are?’

‘Victor Maxfield, the editor.’

‘Oh, my Lord, it is. It really is. I’m speaking to the editor of the
Sunday Herald.
Right now. On my mobile. And any minute now I’m going to pass out from lack of oxygen, I realise, as it dawns on me that I’m holding my breath. Crumpling on to a stool I inhale deeply. ‘Gosh, I wasn’t expecting this. You see, I thought you were somebody else.’

‘So it seems,’ says the voice, and although I can’t see Victor Maxfield, I could swear he’s smiling now. ‘But I wanted to call as I’m going to be out of the office from Wednesday. It’s my annual fishing trip up to Scotland, a little place called Loch Kulloch . . .’

As I listen to him I almost have to pinch myself – it’s so surreal.

‘Have you ever been to Scotland, Miss Hamilton?’

‘No, never . . .’ I stammer.

‘Well, you should, my dear. It’s a remarkable place. I’m American and we’ve got some beautiful scenery in the States, but having moved to this little island of yours over twenty years ago, I have to say Scotland beats it all, what with the mountains and the moors and, of course, your namesake.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Heather!’ he exclaims. ‘The moors are covered with it. Purple and white heather – as far as the eye can see.’

His deep voice resonates in my ear and I feel a tingle all over. Heather. Lucky heather. My lucky heather. All at once I get a dizzy sensation, as if I’ve been spun round quickly and made to open my eyes, and the room is swaying and blurring in the crimson light. I grip the stool to regain my balance but all I’m aware of is my heart beating in my chest, my ribcage moving up and down, a strange buzzing in my ears. It could be just nervousness, surprise or faintness, but it feels like something more. Like all my dreams are running up through my toes to my fingertips, and down the phone line. All the way to Victor Maxfield, the man with the power to make them come true.

‘So, are you free tomorrow morning for an interview? I know it’s a bit short notice, but no time like the present, hey?’

‘Yes, of course. Tomorrow sounds great.’

‘Grand. I’ll see you around nine, then. You know our address, I take it?’

‘Yes, thanks.’ How could I not? It’s imprinted on my brain.

And then he hangs up. An interview. At the
Sunday Herald.
It’s just like Gabe said. It’s just what I wished for.

‘Heather?’

A firm rap at the door startles me, and I jump. It’s Brian, back already.

‘Er, yes, hang on a minute.’ I stand up quickly, and stuff my phone into my bag. I feel guilty about my conversation with Victor Maxfield, as if I’m somehow being unfaithful to Brian, even though he’s always encouraging me to follow my dreams.

I flick open the lock and reach for the door handle. On second thoughts perhaps it’s best to be honest and tell him now about the interview. I don’t like keeping secrets from him and he’ll probably be delighted for me anyway. ‘Hey, Brian, guess what? . . .’ I open the door.

‘Ta-dah.’

My mouth opens and closes.

‘So, what do you think?’

Standing in the doorway is a vision in suspenders, fishnet stockings and a long curly black wig. ‘I’m a
trrrransexual
from Transylvania,’ pouts Brian, kicking his leg menacingly.

I stare at him wordlessly. I have to admit, Brian has exceedingly good legs.

Dropping the act, he smiles sheepishly. ‘Sorry, I was getting a bit carried away there. What were you saying?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ I say causally. Now no longer seems the right time to tell him about the interview. I reach out and twang a suspender. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

 

A
white minivan honks loudly, the driver hanging out of the window to shout something I can’t quite catch – and having seen what he’s doing with his tongue, I don’t want to.

As I walk through the grey concrete jungle of Hammersmith with Brian, I keep my head down and my eyes focused on the chewing-gum spotted pavement. Anything to avoid the gawps. It’s been like this all the way from the office: slack-jawed pensioners freezing with their shopping outside Marks & Spencer, groups of snickering teenagers elbowing each other furiously, boozy businessmen in the etched window of the Rat and Parrot draining their pints in silent disbelief. Earlier, some Japanese tourists even asked us for a picture. You’d think no one has ever seen a sixtysomething man in suspenders, a PVC basque and four-inch stilettos before.