Be Careful What You Wish For (36 page)

‘Hello, is that Heather?’

Only it’s not Jess, and my mouth is stuffed with melted cheese, tomato and bread.

‘This is Yvonne from the
Sunday Herald
.’

I stop abruptly as I make the mental leap from gossip-with-best-friend to terrifying-every-word-counts-conversation-that-could-change-my-life.

‘Victor left for his annual fishing trip this morning but he asked me to call you . . .’ She continues briskly, obviously so busy she doesn’t notice I haven’t yet said a word. ‘. . . as he was very impressed by your interview.’

She pauses momentarily, and I know this is my cue to say something but I’m still chewing frantically. God, what is it with this ciabatta? It’s swelling up in my mouth like a sponge. I swallow hard.

‘He’d like to offer you the job of staff photographer.’

And nearly choke.

‘He would?’ I gasp between coughs.

Brian holds out his bottle of Evian and I take a grateful glug. ‘Thank you,’ I say.

‘Don’t mention it,’ stereo Yvonne and Brian.

‘You’ll be receiving a formal letter of confirmation in the post from our human-resources department,’ she continues. ‘You know, the usual thing. Employment contract – holiday entitlement, salary.’ Then, ‘Did you discuss salary?’ she demands.

‘I’m not sure . . .’ I look uncomfortably at Brian, who’s striding alongside me, monitoring shop windows. Suddenly I feel horribly deceitful.

‘It says here thirty-five thousand.’

My stomach flips. ‘It does?’ I whisper.
Thirty-five thousand!
That’s nearly – bloody hell – loads more than I’m earning now.

‘With a review after six months.’

‘Hmm.’ I make a noise as if I’m giving this serious thought, but mentally I’m already spinning round with shopping bags, like Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman.
Imagine! I’ll be able to afford a holiday, and some new clothes, and that gorgeous silver necklace with the little teardrops made of garnet that I saw in the window of Dinny Hall on the way to the gym.

‘There’s just one thing.’

Yvonne’s voice stops me in mid-spin. ‘Yes?’ I say, my mind still whirling.

‘Victor wants you to start on Monday. Will that be OK?’

I feel my delight wither like fruit on a time-release film.
Monday?
I glance at Brian. He’s lit a cigarette and is puffing away, enjoying the sunshine and the novelty of being in love. I can’t give him only two days’ notice. Although business
is
slow . . .

And then I remember.
Lady Charlotte’s wedding.
It’s next weekend.

That’s it. I have to say no. ‘Well, you see—’ I begin, but Yvonne interrupts.

‘Good. I didn’t think it would be a problem. What Victor Maxfield wants Victor Maxfield gets, hey?’ She gives a short, sarcastic laugh. ‘Right, that’s sorted then. See you on Monday – shall we say around ten?’ and before I can interrupt she’s hung up.

‘Good news?’ Brian raises his eyebrows.

Everything’s happening so fast that I’m not sure. ‘Er, yes. It’s good news.’ Oh, bloody hell, how am I going to tell him? ‘You see, the thing is . . .’ I think of all the different ways to break it to him, but none is right. There’s no easy way out of this.

We’re outside the office now and, as Brian unlocks the front door and I follow him inside, it hits me. Wanting a high-flying career and getting one, I now know, are two completely different things.

‘I’ve got a new job. It’s with the
Sunday Herald.
They want me to start on Monday,’ I blurt.

Brian’s face drops with shock – blink, and I’d have missed it – but he recovers immediately. ‘Heather, that’s fantastic.’ He pins a wide smile on his face. ‘Well done.’ He’d sat down, but he jumps up again to give me a hug. ‘I’m really proud of you.’

‘But what about Lady Charlotte’s wedding?’ I urge.

‘What about it?’ He pulls a face. ‘I can find someone to give me a hand. After all, it’s only a wedding.’

I smile gratefully. Brian’s such a superstar. ‘I can’t let you down at such short notice. Not after all this preparation. Maybe I can explain to them,’ I suggest. ‘I mean, I should really give you a month’s notice.’ Now it’s actually happening, I discover I’m not so desperate to leave after all.

‘Heather,
please.
What’s all this notice bollocks? I know I’m your boss . . .’ he looks at me kindly ‘. . . but I’m your friend first and foremost. Take the rest of the week off. Have a few days’ holiday. Believe me, you’ll be thankful for it once you start working for a newspaper.’ He smiles at his memories.

‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’ I say doubtfully.

‘Listen, I’ve had my career. Now it’s your turn. Go and be a photographer for the
Sunday Herald.
Go and take some amazing shots that don’t involve confetti.’ He clicks his tongue. ‘Bloody hell, girl, sod Bridezilla. This is your wish come true.’

He’s right. This
is
my wish come true. But as I glance around the office of Together Forever, the familiar walls filled with framed photos of newlyweds, the Charles and Di wedding clock, a black-and-white picture of Brian in his heyday, it occurs to me that I’ve been so busy wishing I could move on in my career that I’ve never stopped to appreciate this place.

‘Now I know most people get a gold watch when they leave a job . . .’

I zone back in to see Brian opening a drawer in his desk: ‘Isn’t that when you retire?’ I say.

But Brian’s in mid-flow. ‘. . . but I thought you might prefer this.’ He holds out a CD.

‘What is it?’ I say. And then I realise.

‘A little memento,’ he says quietly.

I turn the plastic case in my hand. ‘Andrew Lloyd Webber’s
Phantom of the Opera
.’ Tears prickle.

‘It’s my autographed copy,’ he adds, the pride audible in his voice as he points at the felt-tip scribble: Michael Crawford.

I’m touched. I know how much it means to him. ‘I’ll treasure it,’ I say, and kiss his cheek.

‘I should bloody well hope so. I stood in the rain for two hours to get it.’ His voice is thick with emotion.

‘Well, I’ll start packing my things.’ I force a smile.

‘Rightly-ho.’ Brian picks up the paper and pretends to read it.

A lump forms in my throat and I walk into the little back room. This isn’t how I imagined it would be. Blinking back tears, I tug open a drawer. It’s filled with my stuff, and as I grab a bin-liner and begin to clear it out, I can’t help wondering; if this is something I’ve wished for my whole life, why do I feel so bloody miserable?

 

A
t six o’clock Brian and I say our final goodbyes, both of us hiding behind brave faces as we crack feeble jokes and promise to keep in touch. Then it’s time for me to go home. I’ve spent the afternoon gathering up everything I’ve accumulated these past six years and filled two large carrier-bags, but when he offers me a lift I fib and say I’m fine, they’re actually quite light and I’m meeting Jess for a drink to celebrate.

None of which is true.

Struggling out of the tube station, the bags clanking against my shins and leaving little red marks, which I just know are going to turn into big purple bruises, I begin traipsing down the high street towards my flat. It’s rush-hour and, as usual, it’s swarming with noise and activity, exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke, but I barely notice it. Snippets of my conversation with Yvonne, flashbacks of Brian’s reaction, stills from the interview with Victor Maxfield, a jumble of memories from six years at Together Forever – they’re all edited into a montage that’s spooling round and round in my mind.

I’ve heard about people going into shock after an accident or other traumatic experience, but after they’ve been offered their dream job? I’m pondering this when I notice I’ve reached the corner of my street and catch sight of a slouching figure in the window of Mrs Patel’s.
It’s me.

I stop dead in the middle of the pavement. Honestly, Heather, what’s wrong with you? Take that sorry expression off your face. Anyone would think you’d just
lost
your job. You should be over the moon. You should be rushing home to ring Lionel and Ed and break the fantastic news. You should be celebrating with champagne and getting merrily plastered and telling everyone how much you love them in a very slurred voice.

Well, OK, maybe not that bit.

I throw back my shoulders and smile unnaturally, like you do when you’re being photographed and it’s taking too long. C’mon, Heather. Just think. No more sniggering at parties when someone asks you what you do. No more comparing yourself to all your peers on Friends Reunited and feeling like a big, fat failure. No more looking down the lens and wishing you were photographing something other than a rosy-cheeked bride in butterscotch satin. This is it! You’ve done it! You’re a success!

Looking past the pyramid of Batchelor’s Cup-a-soups on special offer in the window, I stare hard at my reflection. Funny, but I always thought a success would look different somehow.

When I arrive at the flat, I dump my bags in the kitchen and decide to celebrate my good news by unhooking the phone from its cradle and start dialling. For the next half an hour I yabber away excitedly about my new job to Lionel, Jess’s voicemail, and Lou, as I discover Ed’s in Las Vegas at an orthodontists’ convention, which ‘is the best place for him as all we do when he’s at home is row about football,’ she huffs angrily. And then, once I’ve rung everyone, been congratulated and told to ‘have a drink on me’, I hang up and stare blankly round the kitchen.

OK, now what?

Drumming my fingers on the table I glance at the clock on the microwave: 19.03. Hmm, I wonder where Gabe is. At the thought of him I feel a tingle of excitement. I can’t call him as he doesn’t have a mobile, but I can’t wait to share my news. He’s going to be so excited – after all, it was his idea.

I tug open the fridge and peer inside. The bottle of champagne I bought when Gabe first moved in is still chilling, just waiting for a special occasion. And now I’ve got one. Excitedly I clasp my fingers round its gold tinfoil neck, set it down carefully on the table and grab two champagne flutes.

My mouth waters. The Moët’s ice cold. Condensation clings frostily to the dark glass and for a moment I stand there, staring at it, as if I was eyeing someone up in a bar. No, Heather, I tell myself sternly. You have to wait for Gabe.

I glance at the clock again: 19.07. He’ll be home in a minute. I set about distracting myself: feeding Billy Smith, giving the hob a once-over, rearranging the fridge magnets.

Heather. Nobody drinks champagne by themselves. You have to drink it
with
someone. Idly I pick up a satsuma and peel it, concentrating on stripping the stringy threads of pith off each segment, before savouring the little bursts of sweet juice as I pop them into my mouth one by one.

Which takes up about three minutes.

I eyeball the Moët lustfully. I can feel my resolve weakening. After all, why shouldn’t I drink champagne alone? Why should society dictate that it’s a couple activity? I grab the bottle and rip off the tinfoil. Anyway, it’s not like I’m going to drink the whole
bottle.
I just want a taste. Squeezing the cork with my thumb, it explodes with a loud pop, and grabbing my glass I hold it underneath to catch the froth of amber liquid.

Three glasses later, I’m tipsy. Duetting with Michael Crawford, I pirouette round the kitchen in my satin stilettos, flinging out my arms and closing my eyes as we reach the crescendo. I feel exhilarated. Alive. So happy I’m going to burst. I take in a deep lungful of air, throw back my head and really go for it. You know, I have to say I think I’ve got a really good voice. I’m a natural. I should have been on the stage. With a bit of training, I’d make a great dancer. I mean, look at Catherine Zeta-Jones. All it takes is practice and a pair of fishnets. And I’d end up with amazing thighs from all that high kicking.

Just like this . . . Champagne slops over the edge of my glass as I thrust my leg into the air – Tad-daah! My stiletto heel skids on the wet lino and I land with a crash on my bottom.
Ouch.
Well, obviously I’d need to practise a bit.

Dragging myself shakily to my feet, I limp to a stool and pour myself another glass of champagne. Wincing, I sip it medicinally. Fuck, I could murder a cigarette. I consider running to the corner shop for a packet of Marlboro Lights, but my ankle gives a painful twinge. Oh, well, scrap that idea. I take a consolatory swig of champagne.

But it’s no good.

Then I remember. Gabe smokes.

Joyfully, I limp into the hallway and head for his room. I’m sure he won’t mind, smoker in need and all that. I go to push open the door when something in the nook under the stairs catches my attention. It’s the little green light on the answering-machine, tucked away behind a vase of wilting red roses. It’s blinking to tell me I’ve got a message. What with everything going on, I forgot to check it when I came in.

Hobbling over I glance at the display. Three messages. I press the play and wait expectantly. It beeps.
‘Hello, don’t hang up. This is IPC Finance and we can save you thousands on your mortgage . . .’
I hit delete impatiently and the machine beeps to signal the next.
‘Hey, honey, it’s me and I’m lying by the pool . . .’

Jess! Cheered, I listen to her nattering on about how she’s having a good time in Cape Town and how she’s decided to lay off men for a while. I can hear her puffing away at a cigarette, which reminds me of my craving. I push open Gabe’s door.