Be Careful What You Wish For (35 page)

My heart skips a beat.

No, surely not, it can’t be . . .

With Michael Crawford reaching a crescendo on the CD player I stare at the photograph in horror. My eyes absorb the happy couple, the bride smiling at the camera, the groom smiling at her, rubbing his nose against hers. I glance again at the date: 8 June. Barely two months ago. I hesitate, not sure what to do. And then realise there’s only one thing I
can
do.

I pick up the telephone and start dialling.

 

‘
H
e’s married?’

Sitting in a hotel bar near Heathrow airport, I look at Jess in her uniform. She’s got a cigarette in one hand and in the other a black-and-white photograph of a smiling bride and groom: Mr and Mrs Gregory de Souza. Otherwise known as—

‘Greg?’
repeats Jess. ‘Greg is married?’

It’s nearly seven p.m. After discovering the photograph this morning, I called her saying I needed to see her, but she was with Greg, having breakfast in some little café, and said she was flying out to Cape Town this evening on a two-week trip. Couldn’t it wait till she got back?

No, it couldn’t. But I so wanted it to.

I wanted it to wait for ever. I wanted never to have found that photograph, recognised the pale silvery scar running up through the groom’s Cupid’s bow and realised that was why Greg’s smile had been so familiar. And I wanted never to have to tell her that the man she’d been busy falling in love with is married and that I had photographed his white wedding less than two months ago.

But I had to. So I spent the whole day wrestling with my conscience, working out how to break it to her. In the end, however, I just passed her the photograph. After all, a picture says a thousand words. Or in this case, just one.

‘Bastard.’

I flinch. ‘Maybe there’s been some mistake . . .’ But, of course, there’s no mistake. It’s there in black and white.

Jess’s jaw is rigid and I brace myself for an outburst. But then it seems to just dissolve away, as if the effort is too much for her. Slumping forward over the bar she puts her head into her hands. ‘I just can’t believe it.’

I watch her helplessly. I’ve never seen Jess so broken and upset. ‘Maybe it’s been annulled,’ I venture hopefully.

She lifts her head and shoots me a sideways look.

‘OK, maybe not.’

There’s a tense silence as she puffs her cigarette, then exhales two streams of smoke from her nostrils. ‘I thought this was a real relationship, but for him I was obviously just an affair. A sordid little extramarital affair.’ She grinds out her cigarette in the ashtray and takes a slug of red wine. ‘Christ, I’ve been sleeping with someone’s husband.’

I stir the ice in my gin and tonic wordlessly. I can’t think of a thing to say.

She misinterprets my silence for condemnation: ‘And don’t look at me like that.’

‘What? I wasn’t.’

‘I might have slept with a few men – OK, a lot of men . . .’

Across from us a middle-aged couple with suitcases, sipping coffee at the bar and waiting for the shuttle to take them to the airport, glance round. When they see a furious air stewardess chain-smoking and knocking back red wine, they look anxious.

‘. . . but I don’t sleep with married men,’ Jess is protesting loudly. ‘That’s my one rule, Heather, my one rule.’ She slams a hand on the bar and curls her fingers round a paper coaster. Crumpling it in her fist, she sniffs furiously. Her eyes are brimming with tears. ‘My one rule,’ she repeats, as a tear dribbles down her cheek and splashes on to the bar.

‘Oh, Jess, come here.’ Putting my arm round her shoulders, I pull her close. As I listen to her muffled sobs it occurs to me that I haven’t shed one tear over my break-up with James.

‘I feel like such a fool,’ she says eventually, sniffing into my lace blouse. I can feel the wetness of her tears on my shoulder. When she surfaces, she sweeps her index fingers under her eyes to wipe off her smudged eyeliner. ‘I thought I’d got it right this time. I was so careful. I made sure he ticked all the right boxes.’

‘That’s no guarantee,’ I say quietly, thinking of James.

‘I know that now.’ She lifts her glass to her lips. Swallowing another mouthful of wine, she stares into the middle distance, then says softly, ‘I never talk about my father, do I?’ But it’s as if she’s asking herself the question, not me, so I just listen as she talks.

‘That’s because I never knew him. I’ve seen a couple of pictures. He was a sax player in a band and really handsome. Mum said she fell in love with him the moment she laid eyes on him. He told her it was the same for him too.’ She pauses to light another cigarette. ‘He told her lots of things. That he was going to buy a house, and they were going to get married, and he was going to be the best husband and father in the whole wide world.’ She flicks ash and blows out smoke.

‘He left before I was even born. Just split. Did a runner. Never contacted her again. She was eighteen and six months pregnant. He broke my mum’s heart and I don’t think it’s ever really mended.’ Jess sniffs, and I think she’s going to cry again, but she smiles. ‘She’s a survivor, my mum. Being single, unmarried and a teenager – well, you can imagine the stigma in the sixties.
And
she was black. My mum’s had pretty much every insult you can imagine thrown at her at one time or another.’

She traces a pattern on her glass, and I can see her mind spooling backwards. ‘It was a struggle and she took on two jobs at a time, but she did it. She brought me up single-handedly. Honestly, she’s amazing, my mum. I never went without. OK, so we didn’t live in a big house, or have a car, or go on holidays abroad—’ She looks down at her uniform ruefully. ‘That’s why I took this job. When I was little I used to dream of growing up and seeing the world.’ Jess smiles, almost embarrassed at her confession, and takes a sip of wine. ‘And I swore that when I did I was never going to fall in love and let some lousy guy hurt me, like my dad hurt my mum.’

Her jaw set, Jess faces me. ‘I’m not like you, Heather. I’m not looking for butterflies in my stomach. I don’t want them. They’re dangerous. I want security, commitment, financial stability. Oh, and great sex,’ she quips as an afterthought. ‘Tell me. Why is it that the bastards are always great in bed?’

I smile despite myself. ‘But without those butterflies your mum wouldn’t have had you,’ I point out. ‘I bet if you ask she doesn’t regret a thing.’

‘But what about you and Daniel? You were heartbroken.’

‘It doesn’t mean I don’t want to fall in love again,’ I say evenly.

‘Why?’
Jess gasps.

‘Because it’s the most amazing feeling in the world. You’ll risk everything for it. Nothing comes close.’

‘But you’re so vulnerable.’

‘True,’ I agree. ‘It’s as scary as hell.’

‘I guess I’m not brave enough.’

I pause. I’d never thought of it like that, but maybe she’s right. ‘What’s that saying? “Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”’

‘Where did you get those pearls of wisdom? A fortune cookie?’

‘I dunno,’ I confess.

Jess smiles then shakes her head and wails in frustration, ‘Fuck! What’s wrong with me, Heather?’

‘Nothing.’

But Jess is hell-bent on beating herself up and, ignoring me, she starts shredding the coaster. ‘Yes, there is. Look at me, I’m thirty-six and still single. I’ve never been in love. I’ve never lived with anyone for longer than six weeks. And now I’m dating married men.’ Her dark eyes flash. ‘Believe me, when I was ticking those boxes one of them wasn’t “already has a wife”.’ She glances at the photograph on the bar and puts down her wine glass on it. ‘Everyone else manages to hold down a successful relationship. I mean, look at you and James . . .’

‘We broke up.’

She stops tearing up the coaster. ‘You’ve broken up with James?’

‘He broke up with me,’ I correct her.

Her amazement morphs into pity. ‘Crikey, Heather,’ she whispers. ‘I’m so sorry. Here’s me going on about stupid Greg and all the time—’

‘No, honestly, I’m OK,’ I say quickly.

‘If I hadn’t kept on at you about how you had to get over Daniel and start dating again . . .’ She’s stricken. ‘Oh, my God, I feel so responsible. It’s all my fault . . . you’ve lost weight, haven’t you?’

‘I have?’ I say, delighted that she’s noticed, despite the circumstances.

‘Yes – around the face. You look drawn. And your boobs are smaller,’ she says decisively.

I frown. When I wished I could lose a few pounds, that wasn’t what I’d had in mind. ‘Jess, I’m fine,’ I repeat firmly.

‘You are?’ she says doubtfully, as it dawns on her that perhaps I’m not just putting on a brave face.
‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously. No butterflies,’ I add in explanation.

‘Are they really as good as you say they are?’

‘Better.’ I smile.

She slides her elbow on to the bar and, resting her chin in the palm of her hand, tilts her glass and drains the last mouthful of wine.

The middle-aged couple stalk past with their luggage and throw her a couple of appalled glances.

‘She’d better not be on our flight, Margaret.’

‘I think she’s drunk, Leonard. I saw her smoking.’

Jess and I giggle.

‘I hope you’re not going to get into trouble.’

‘I’ll drink some coffee.’

‘But what if they’re on your flight?’

Jess waves dismissively. ‘I’ll keep the seatbelt sign on. They’ll be no trouble.’

‘You can do that?’

‘We do it all the time. Stops the passengers wandering around and annoying us when we want a bit of peace and quiet at the back.’ She catches my astonishment. ‘Aw, c’mon, Heather, you didn’t really believe all that stuff about clear-air turbulence?’

I stare at her speechlessly. I feel like someone’s just played a dirty trick on me.

‘Maybe I’ll try it some time,’ she says, after a pause.

‘What? Clear-air turbulence?’ I scowl. When I think of all the times I’ve sat there obediently, dying to use the loo but unable to move because the seatbelt sign’s on.

‘No, you dope.’ She frowns. ‘Butterflies.’

She says it with such hope that I can’t help smiling. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ I agree and lifting my glass I clink it against hers. ‘To butterflies.’

 

T
he next day at lunchtime I’m standing in a queue with Brian in the little pavement café on the corner when I discover Jess and I aren’t the only ones with butterflies in mind. But while we’re chasing them, Brian has definitely caught them.

‘I think I’m in love,’ he confesses.

‘Love?’ I echo, as my stomach rumbles. C’mon, I wish we could hurry up and get served.

‘At first I thought it was just going to be a sex thing, but it’s much more than that.’

There’s a loud snort and a middle-aged woman swings round, her face flushed beetroot. ‘Can’t you keep your filthy talk to yourself? Some of us are trying to eat lunch.’ She throws us a filthy look. ‘Come on, Carol, come on, Louise.’ With her two friends she marches out of the shop. Leaving us at the front of the queue. And all eyes in the café upon us.

I swallow hard. Maria, the matronly shop owner, is staring at us with her mouth wide open.

‘Erm, a grilled chicken and pesto panini, and a toasted mozzarella and tomato ciabatta. Please,’ I add awkwardly. Honestly, not having to wait in line is great, but sometimes a wish coming true isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Thankfully, Maria is quick with our order. A few minutes later she hands us our sandwiches, and Brian gives her a tenner. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything because of you and your fella,’ he says, a reference to my break-up with James, the details of which I had told him earlier, ‘but I just had to talk to someone.’ He drops his loose change into the tip basket on the counter. ‘I haven’t felt like this for years,’ he adds quietly, so this time no one overhears.

‘But that’s great.’ I grab our sandwiches. It feels rather claustrophobic in the little café, and as I excuse my way past the queue trailing out of the door, I’m relieved to step out into the bright sunshine. ‘I take it this is Neil we’re talking about.’

‘How do you know?’ he asks, surprised.

We cross the street and walk towards the office.

‘A wild guess. Or maybe it could have something to do with swapping seats at
The Rocky Horror Show,
then coming in late the next day, the lovebite . . .’ He blushes. ‘He seemed really nice,’ I reassure him. I check to see which sandwich is which, and pass him the chicken.

‘Oh, he is,’ agrees Brian, as if he still can’t believe it. Unwrapping his panini he takes a bite and chews pensively. ‘But there’s a bit of an age gap.’

‘How old is he?’ I ask, slipping on my sunglasses.

‘Thirty-two,’ admits Brian. ‘Half my age.’

‘Oooh, a toyboy.’

‘That’s what I’m worried about. People will laugh.’

‘No, they won’t. Look at Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones.’

‘Exactly,’ Brian retorts gloomily, ‘He looks like her father.’

‘Or her grandfather,’ I quip, then seeing his stricken expression say quickly, ‘Hey, stop worrying. You’re very handsome for an older man. And your legs are amazing in fishnets.’ I nudge him affectionately.

He laughs and clamps his jaws round the rest of his sandwich as I take the first bite of my own. I usually go to M&S for lunch, but often my favourite sandwich is sold out. However, these past few weeks I’ve been able to get it every lunchtime, and now I’ve actually grown rather sick of it. Which is why today I decided to get one from the local café instead.

For a moment everything is quiet, but for the sound of our footsteps. Then I hear a muffled jingle. With my free hand I dig my mobile out of my bag and glance at the screen. No number. Probably Jess from the hotel in Cape Town, I think, and press the little green button.