Be Careful What You Wish For (5 page)

‘No, honestly.’ I try to avoid her gaze, but the gypsy is grabbing my hand. It feels coarse, the skin weathered a dark tan in contrast to the pale freckliness of my own. I notice the dirty broken fingernails, the gnarled arthritic knuckles, the silver charm bracelet worn next to the pink plastic Swatch. It’s jangling as she waggles the heather, billing and cooing like the pigeons on the window-ledges overhead. ‘Keep it with you. Trust me, the heather will work its magic. Your luck will change. All your wishes will come true.’

But from the glint in her piercing green eyes I know she won’t take no for an answer and I’m getting even more soaked standing here so, to get rid of her, I give in and stuff a couple of pound coins into her sandpapery palm. And then she disappears into the rain-soaked crowds, leaving me standing in the middle of the high street, in a downpour, clutching a sprig of white heather.

The irony isn’t lost on me. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, I peer at the spindly, feathery twigs tied together with a cheap nylon ribbon.
This
is supposed to have magical powers? I consider tossing it into the bin along with the rest of the city’s rubbish, but the nearest bin is across the street, so I shove it into my bag – I’ll chuck it away when I get home. After I’ve taken off these wet clothes, cracked open a bottle of wine and climbed into a steaming hot bath.

Dreaming of poaching myself in white-musk-scented bubbles as I drink a glass of sauvignon blanc I forget about the gypsy and the lucky heather and hurry, golf shoes squelching, all the way home.

 

D
extrously turning off the tap with my big toe, I lie back on the pillow of scented bubbles. Bliss. Sheer, unadulterated bliss. Sipping my wine I inhale the delicious aroma of vanilla and cinnamon – courtesy of the miniature bottles of Molton Brown bubble bath I found recently. They were stashed away in a wicker basket along with other souvenirs of a weekend I’d spent with Daniel in a hotel in the Lake District: a ticket stub to Wordsworth’s cottage, a coffee-stained menu from a café, the little chocolates the maid had put on our pillow each night and I hadn’t dared to eat for fear of my thighs. Which, I remember, with a stab of insecurity, Daniel always described as ‘heavy’.

‘Heavy,’
I murmur, irked by my sentimentality at having kept all this rubbish and the sheer arrogance of the man in criticising my body when he sported a matching pair of back creases and receding temples (which I know is the real reason he used to shave his head, and not, as he pretended, because he wanted to look like Jason Statham).

‘I’ll have you know these thighs jog round the park three times a week,’ I mutter slugging back an ice-cold mouthful of sauvignon blanc.’ Well, perhaps only twice, and it’s more of a power walk than an
actual
jog, but still . . . ‘These thighs can do a hundred lunges – if they have to,’ I continue. ‘Thighs, goddamn it, that can wrap themselves round a lover’s neck like a python!’ Admittedly not something they’ve had much practice in recently but, hey, all they need is a bit of limbering up . . .

I balance my glass on the side of the bath, and grab the loofah and a bar of soap. Raising one pink shiny thigh out of the bubbles, I lather it like a war veteran proudly shining up his medals. Round and round in little circles, clockwise, then anticlockwise, polishing the outer thigh first, then switching my attention to the inner. Plunging the loofah back into the water, I switch thighs. Rhythmically brushing backwards and forwards. Up and down. Side to side. Sloughing off dead skin, pounding cellulite, kneading dimples.

A thought strikes me. Why is it never like this in movies? How come every Hollywood director seems to be under the illusion that women don’t lie in bubble baths pumicing the hard skin on their feet or applying thick layers of Jolen cream to bleach their moustaches? Oh no, they writhe around in masturbation heaven, soaping breasts, trickling water from flannels between their legs or rubbing a cold wine glass against their nipples. All, of course, in full makeup.

Honestly, if men knew the truth they’d be so disappointed. I pat the thick layer of cream bleach I’ve applied to my top lip. Nope, not ready yet – another five minutes. Discarding the loofah I reach for the razor and inspect the blade. It’s stuffed full of bristles from the last time I used it. And it’s the last one. Damn. I wish I had a new packet. The last time I used a blunt razor I’d cut my legs to ribbons. But what’s the alternative? Spend the weekend with legs like my old German teacher?

Without further ado I give the blade a quick rinse under the tap and get to work, cutting through the lather with well-practised strokes. Shin, calf, ankle, knee. Ouch. I watch a spot of blood appear like a red bubble on my leg.

‘Shit.’ Grabbing the flannel I fold it into a makeshift bandage and am just pressing it to my knee when the phone rings. I listen to it echoing in the hallway. I wonder who it is. Probably Jess, I decide, then remember she’s in Delhi. And it’s not my father as I spoke to him earlier today. He’d just read an article about how they’ve started teaching yoga to cats in Hollywood, and was wondering if Billy Smith might fancy some classes for his birthday. I smile. My father’s an artist and a little eccentric, but I wouldn’t change him for the world. If only the same could be said for my stepmother . . .

I decide against answering it and submerge myself in the duvet of scented bubbles as I wait for the answering-machine to pick up. It’s probably my stepmother calling to annoy me about something anyway. Although there is a slim possibility that it’s Daniel, calling in reply to my drunken text.

As the thought occurs to me I’m unsure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing, considering the text: ‘I miss you. Fancy sex with an ex?’ That was the tequila talking, not me: I don’t miss him, I
hate
him. And I certainly don’t want to sleep with him. I hesitate. Should I make a dash for the phone?

Oh, sod it. Sliding back into the bubbles, one leg dangling out of the bath, I reach for my glass and take another mouthful of wine. Whoever it is can wait.

After what feels like forever the phone stops ringing and I hear the answering-machine click on. I wait to hear my stepmother’s affected voice. Ashamed of her working-class Manchester roots, Rosemary adopts an accent not dissimilar to the Queen’s.

‘Hey there . . .’

Hang on a minute, since when was my stepmother a man? I feel a jolt of something – I’m not sure if it’s panic or excitement. Oh, my God, it’s not Daniel, is it? But then I register that this man has an American accent and I feel a flash of foolishness – and something that feels like disappointment.

‘I’m calling about the ad you placed in . . . er . . . hang on . . .’ There’s the sound of rustling pages. ‘It’s called . . .’

‘Loot,’
we say in the same beat.

Shit.

I vault out of the bath and dash naked into the hallway, dripping soapy water on to the floor. Keep talking, I pray, lunging for the receiver with slippery fingers.

‘Don’t hang up.’ I pant, tearing the phone from its cradle – then remember that if this is a prospective flatmate, I’m a prospective landlady. And I should sound like one. ‘I mean, good evening,’ I say, adopting my best telephone voice. My stepmother would be proud.

‘Oh, hi, yeah. I was . . . er . . . calling about the ad.’

‘And you are?’ I demand, and then cringe. What on earth am I doing? I’m trying to rent my room. I need to sound friendly, laid-back,
cool.
‘Sorry, you caught me in the bath, I was trying to find some clothes—’ I break off – I sound like one of those peak-rate 0870 numbers. ‘I mean, hi, I’m Heather.’

‘Oh, hi,’ he says. Followed by an awkward pause. He’s probably deciding whether or not to hang up, I decide, and assume I’ve blown it. Well, would I rent a room from me?

‘I’m Gabe.’

Hmm. What an unusual name. Momentarily I wonder what Gabe looks like. Being American, he’s probably tall, broad, with really good teeth – unless, with
my
luck, he’s short, fat and balding. And what if he is? This is a prospective lodger, not a date.

‘Right, I mean . . .’ I grapple for some witty quip, then give up. ‘Cool!’ I blurt, closing my eyes in shame. ‘Cool’ is not a word you want to be saying if you still bear the remnants of a childhood Yorkshire accent: it comes out as
koo-elle
– which is not cool.

Thankfully the stranger doesn’t notice, or if he does, he doesn’t comment. ‘Erm . . . so I was wondering . . . about the room?’

The room. I snap back.

‘Is it still available?’

‘Well, there has been a lot of interest,’ I lie, standing next to the window. It faces directly on to my gorgeous neighbour’s and, unable to resist, I lift the edge of the blind and peek round the side to see if I can catch a glimpse of him.

‘Oh, well, in that case, don’t worry about it. I was only looking for something short-term.’

‘Short term?’ My ears prick up.

‘Yeah, I’m here in London for three weeks, maybe a month.’

I like the sound of a month. It’s nice and temporary. It’s four weeks, which, at a hundred and fifty pounds a week, is . . . I do some mental arithmetic . . . Enough to pay off one credit card. And if I get my arse in gear it might just be long enough for me to find a job that will hopefully pay so well that I won’t have to share a loo-seat with a total stranger.

‘But I haven’t made a decision yet so I’m still interviewing people,’ I add, accidentally jerking the blind. It shoots up, leaving my window bare and exposed, not to mention myself. At the exact moment that my neighbour is drawing his curtains.

‘Agggh!’
I shriek.

There’s silence at the other end of the line, and then, a few seconds later, ‘Er, hi . . . Sorry, I dropped the phone . . . uhm . . . Are you still there?’

Gabe sounds tentative. No doubt it’s taken him a moment to pluck up courage to pick up the receiver. ‘Er . . . yes . . . I’m still here.’

‘Are you OK?’

Having jumped away from the window, into the corner by the mirror, I glance sideways at my reflection. ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I reply, in a strangled voice. Oh. My. God. So this is what my neighbour just saw. Boobs, streaky mascara, wet hair, a cream-bleach moustache and naked thighs. Naked
heavy
thighs.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely,’ I reply firmly, edging forward to peer round the corner like a sniper. I glance back across the street. ‘Him’ is still at the window. No doubt frozen with shock. I throw myself to the ground in an army dive.

‘Perhaps this isn’t a good time . . .’

‘No, now’s a good time,’ I pant, inching forward on my elbows as if I’m on an assault course. I wince as the sisal matting gives my nipples a nasty case of carpet burn. ‘In fact . . .’ Reaching the coat rack I stand upright, grabbing a jacket from a hook. I wrap it round myself protectively. ‘Why don’t you come along and take a look at the room, see if you like it? See if you like me.’ I laugh nervously.

‘When?’

‘Erm, next week?’ I’m playing for time. And sole usage of the Le Creuset pans.

‘What about tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow?’ I squeak.

‘Sorry, I forgot, it’s Saturday night. You’ve probably made plans.’

‘Um . . . well, actually . . .’ My voice trails off as I remember the truth. I have no plans. I’m single. I’m staying in alone. On a Saturday night.

‘Sorry, am I being your typical pushy American?’ His voice interrupts my awkwardness.

‘Yes, I mean no, no . . . not at all,’ I’m babbling. For Godsake, don’t be such an idiot, Heather, think of your credit-card bills. Think of your mortgage. Think of the fact that you’ve been advertising your room for weeks and this is the first reply you’ve had. ‘Tomorrow’s fine,’ I say quickly.

‘Awesome.’

‘Um . . . yep . . . awesome,’ I repeat. ‘Awesome’ is
another
word that can only be used by those with an American accent.

There’s a pause.

‘I’ll need your address.’

‘Oh, yes, my address . . . of course.’ I proceed to gabble it so quickly that he has to ask me to repeat it twice.

‘Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow. Around seven?’

‘Great, see you then.’

I replace the handset and lean against the wall. Reeling at the unexpected speed of events, I take a couple of deep breaths. Water from my hair trickles down my back and although it’s a balmy seventy degrees in the hallway, I shiver. Sticking my hands in my pockets to pull my jacket round me I feel my fingers brush against something. Soft yet scratchy. Puzzled, I pull it out. It’s that stupid lucky heather. How did that get there?

Walking to the bin I keep near the front door for junk mail, I’m about to toss it in when I notice a small package on my doormat. One of those freebies you get in the post. Only this time it isn’t some hideously flavoured new Cup-a-soup, or a trial bar of soap: it’s a packet of razor blades. Well, would you believe it? I pick it up. Now I won’t have to go out tomorrow looking half-woman, half-beast.

Chuffed, I hurry back into the bathroom and reach for my razor to swap the blade for a new one. Which is when I see that I’m still holding the sprig of heather. For some reason, I can’t get rid of it. Maybe it really is magical.
Magical?
I smile ironically. Heather Hamilton, what on earth’s got into you? Of course it’s not magical, it’s just a plant. Or is it a flower?

Twirling it between finger and thumb I gaze at the delicate white sprigs. Superstitious nonsense or not, it’s actually rather pretty. It seems a shame to throw it away. Filling the top of a deodorant can with water I place the lucky heather in its makeshift vase and pop it on the windowsill. For now, anyway.