The Wish List: Escape with the most hilarious and feel-good read of 2020!

by Sophia Money-Coutts

‘Ow! What was that for?’ he grumbled, bending to rub his leg. Such a baby. It wasn’t even that hard.

  ‘Trying to work out the best angles,’ Zach said, stepping back towards us and leaning over the counter to look down at Eugene. ‘You all right?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ I said. ‘And can you not leave your coffee there, please, because it’ll stain the wood.’

  Zach picked up his mug and grinned at me. ‘Sorry, madam. Won’t happen again.’

  ‘Hand it over,’ said Eugene. ‘I’m going downstairs to make tea. Anyone want one?’

  ‘I’ll do tea,’ I said, intercepting the mug just as Eugene reached for it. I suddenly very much wanted to be in a different room.

  ‘Thanks. And I’d love another coffee,’ said Zach. ‘If that’s not too much trouble?’

  ‘No trouble. Milk? Sugar?’

  ‘Just milk, please.’

  ‘Sweet enough already,’ joked Eugene as I headed for the stairs, which made me want to kick him again.

  Downstairs, I flicked the kettle on and decided to take much longer than I normally would with the tea run. I could probably stretch it out to twenty minutes or so if I really tried, but my thoughts about tea-making vanished when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket and pulled it out to see a message from a strange number.

  Hello! It’s Rory, who bought the books from you yesterday. Might you be free for a spin round the Royal Academy and a coffee on Sunday afternoon?

  I stared at the screen. Rory seemed the right name for him. Posh, unquestionably, but that was fine so long as he wasn’t the sort of man who still talked about what school he went to and that he wanted to marry a rugby ball. Putting my phone down, I held my breath as I opened the fridge (it always smelled like a very old mouse had died in there) and thought about what to reply. Should I wait a bit? I couldn’t. I was too excited.

  That would be lovely! I typed. Was an exclamation mark immature? But the words looked too severe without, as if I was texting a grandparent. That would be lovely! Let me know what time works for you, I decided, adding an ‘F’ and a small ‘x’ before clicking send.

  I’d often scrutinized couples in restaurants or in the parks I walked through, watching them laugh together. How had they got to that point? What was their secret? Maybe now it was my turn. Maybe Rory would hold my hand on Sunday and other people would look at us and think, ‘What a nice couple.’ Then I told myself to calm down. This was exactly what had happened in the past: I’d been too eager about someone, wondered how many children we’d have after the first drink and then they’d vanished. But not this time. No, no, no. This time I would get it right.

  Before I could hold hands with Rory at the Royal Academy, however, there was a hurdle to clear: dress shopping with Mia, Ruby and Patricia on Saturday afternoon. Mia had made a wedding dress spreadsheet and emailed it to us all so we were ‘prepared’. There were dictators who’d put less effort into military coups than Mia had put into this spreadsheet. It was colour-coded with multiple columns for each dress and space for a final mark out of ten. Who was it by? Was it strapless? A-line? Did it have a fishtail? What kind of silk was it? Where was the lace from? My favourite column on this spreadsheet was the one that asked, ‘Have any celebrities worn this dress?’ I wasn’t sure whether Mia deemed this a good or a bad thing but guessed it depended on the celebrity. Meghan Markle would presumably score higher than Kerry Katona.

  Mia, Ruby and I took the Tube from Kennington together. Mia and Ruby discussed dresses while I brooded on what to wear for my date the next day. I hadn’t mentioned this to them. Half of me wanted to scream about it. More of me knew that talking about it would invite unwanted speculation.

  We walked down Bond Street towards the boutique. As Mia pushed open the door, I heard Patricia bullying the receptionist.

  ‘I don’t want too much chest on show,’ she was telling her. ‘Can’t bear these modern brides with their bosoms racing down the aisle before them.’

  ‘Morning, Pat,’ Ruby said loudly. Calling their mother this was a long-running joke between her and Mia.

  Patricia turned round. ‘Ruby, please. You know I hate that. And Mia, I was just saying we’re after something demure. Not too much…’ she flapped her hand around her own chest and then lowered her voice, ‘cleavage.’

  ‘Mum, it’s my wedding. I could go down the aisle in French knickers if I wanted,’ she replied, as Patricia kissed us all in turn. Her lips left a damp patch on my cheeks.

  ‘You could but your father and I might not pay for it.’

  Mia pulled her laptop from her bag and waved it at her mother. ‘I’ve done a mood board.’

  I could already detect the roots of a headache from the candles burning in the boutique. I picked one up and squinted at the label. Meringue-scented. Candles were getting sillier.

  ‘This is Hilda,’ said the receptionist, as a middle-aged lady with blonde hair pulled into a neat doughnut appeared in front of us. ‘She’ll show you to your changing room.’

  Hilda ushered us into a large, well-lit room with one cubicle in it. Cream walls, cream carpets, cream sofa. More meringue candles. An array of bridal magazines fanned on a coffee table.

  I flung myself on the end of the sofa and picked up a magazine as Mia opened her laptop.

  ‘OK, so I’m thinking along these lines,’ she said. ‘Grace Kelly, but with a contemporary twist. Big skirt but structured body.’ She swivelled the screen at Patricia and Hilda.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Hilda, smiling approvingly at Mia, ‘a classic.’

  I looked back to my magazine. On the front was a model in a strapless dress holding a bunch of white roses. ‘White hot!’ said the cover line beside her. Underneath that, another line read: ‘Cake crazy! The most fashionable flavours this summer.’ How could a cake flavour be fashionable?

  ‘What his mother REALLY thinks of you,’ screamed another headline.

  Our kitchen table had become increasingly weighed down with these magazines in the past two weeks, Mia’s neon Post-it notes sticking up from the pages. Fourteen days. That was all it had taken for her to transform from semi-normal person into a bridebot, incapable of having a conversation unless it was about the thickness of an invitation card.

  She stepped into the cubicle but didn’t bother to pull the cream curtain closed as she stripped. For someone so uptight, Mia had a curiously relaxed attitude towards her own nudity. I’d rather have eaten spiders than stand in front of my family in a bra and thong. It made me wonder whether I had to dig out one of Mia’s lacy thongs from the back of my pants drawer for my date. Surely my underwear didn’t matter much for a trot round an art gallery?

  While Hilda helped Mia into something that looked more like a marquee than a dress, Patricia’s attention shifted.

  ‘Florence, darling, how was your session with Gwendolyn? Was it helpful?’

  I held my breath, debating how much to share. ‘It was fine,’ I replied carefully.

  ‘Shit, the love coach!’ said Ruby, dropping her phone in her lap. ‘Sorry, Flo, I forgot to ask.’

  ‘What did she say?’ my stepmother went on.

  ‘You guys ever heard of patient confidentiality?’

  ‘Oh, come on, darling, it’s only us. And Hilda. And we won’t tell anybody, will we?’

  Hilda, unsure what she was agreeing to, shook her head at Patricia.

  ‘She made me write a list,’ I said resignedly.

  ‘What kind of list?’ asked Mia from the cubicle.

  I leant my head against the back of the sofa, eyes closed. ‘A list of whatever I’m looking for in a man. Must be tall and have all his own hair, that sort of thing.’

  ‘What was on your list?’ asked Patricia.

  ‘I’ve read about this online,’ piped up Hilda. ‘It’s like a sort of… wish list?’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ I muttered, opening my eyes. ‘Yes, it’s like a wish list. You write a list of traits; mine included likes reading, is adventurous, has an interesting job and, er, i
s into cats. And then you put it out to the universe and supposedly the universe will deliver him.’

  ‘Sounds mad,’ said Mia.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Ruby. ‘Where did you find this woman again, Mum?’

  ‘In Posh! magazine. She’s very well respected,’ said Patricia. ‘When’s your next session, Florence? I think you need to take it more seriously. What have cats got to do with anything?’

  I placed my palms on my knees for strength. ‘In a couple of weeks, unfortunately. You said I only had to go to one session and then I find out you’ve booked a package of them. I’d rather enter a convent than go back to that room.’

  ‘You might have to enter a convent at this rate.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve got a date tomorrow.’ I hadn’t meant to let it slip out but I wanted to silence her.

  Needless to say, she was the first to reply, ‘Darling! How exciting.’

  ‘With who?’ said Mia.

  ‘So it’s worked?’ added Ruby.

  I shook my head. ‘It’s nothing to do with the list. He came into the shop and we chatted, not for very long, but then he asked me for a coffee. So I’m meeting him tomorrow.’

  ‘What time tomorrow? Can I do your make-up?’ said Mia.

  ‘Afternoon. And yes, but can you not make me look mad? Nothing too over-the-top. You know I don’t wear much make-up.’

  ‘Oh, Flo, stop fussing. A bit of eyeshadow never killed anyone.’

  ‘Who is he though, darling?’ persisted Patricia. ‘Do you know anything about him? Is he safe?’

  ‘I can’t tell you anything else,’ I said, shrugging. ‘Only that he’s called Rory and he likes books.’

  ‘Rory, what an excellent name!’

  ‘Just remember we’re dressing you for it,’ said Mia sternly, before looking at herself in the mirror. The dress was sleeveless with a skirt that billowed to the floor and was covered in little crystals. ‘Fuck no, not this one. I look like I’m going to my prom.’

  Chapter Three

  ON THE TUBE TO Green Park, my stomach writhed like a sack of snakes. Mia and Ruby had forbidden me from walking because they said it would make me sweaty. Or sweatier, I thought in my seat, peering underneath my jacket to see dark damp patches already spreading across my armpits. I was wearing a knee-length green dress of Ruby’s which belted at the waist. ‘Emphasizes your tits,’ Ruby had said.

  I’d replied that I didn’t have any but she said that was rubbish and I needed to stop hiding them in ‘boring old work shirts’.

  While sitting on a stool in front of her bathroom mirror, Mia had set to with a bewildering array of make-up brushes. Foundation, concealer, highlighter. Dab, dab, dab. A light dusting of eyeshadow. ‘Just to make your eyelids less purple,’ she’d explained. ‘And you need to sort out your brows.’

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘They need their own stylist. Hold still.’

  A waggle with an eyelash curler. Multiple coats of mascara. Eyebrow gel. Bronzer smoothed across my forehead and down my nose. The flick of a blusher brush along my cheekbones.

  ‘Lipstick,’ mused Mia, scrabbling through her make-up bag.

  ‘No,’ I insisted. ‘I’ve got some Carmex in my bag.’ Thinking of it on the Tube, I reached for the small pot and unscrewed the lid before running my finger along my mouth. I exhaled into my hand to check my breath. Better have a Smint.

  When the doors opened at the station, I was so nervous I didn’t want to get out. Then, while the escalator rolled upwards towards daylight, I rechecked my armpits and reminded myself to keep my jacket on at all times.

  As I walked under the archway into the academy’s cobbled courtyard, I slipped my fingers underneath my sleeve to feel my pulse. Should it be beating that fast or was I seconds away from a medical emergency? I looked up at the pale stone of the academy walls and started counting the windows as a distraction: ‘One, two, three, four…’

  ‘Florence! Over here!’ said a voice, and I squinted in the corner to see Rory waving. He was leaning casually against the stone wall in a pale blue suit and a brown trilby and didn’t look nervous at all, but if you’d asked me my own name and what year it was, I couldn’t have told you. To me, he seemed as intimidatingly handsome and composed as a male model.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, when I neared him. He took off his hat and leant forward to kiss me on the cheeks. That citrus smell again.

  ‘Hi,’ I managed back, already blushing. I could hardly look at him but when he caught my gaze, I saw his eyes matched the colour of his suit.

  ‘Shall we go in?’ he added. ‘It’s had terrific reviews. Have you read any?’

  I shook my head. I didn’t know much about art – art books were Eugene’s territory.

  Rory rattled on as he held open the main door and led us towards the staircase. ‘I’m not a huge fan of their religious work. Too flowery and idealized. But the Telegraph called this “a sexy riot of flesh” and I thought, well, we can’t miss that, can we?’ He laughed and stepped up to a desk at the top of the stairs. ‘Two, please.’

  I looked up at a huge poster on the wall in front of us. ‘Sex, Power and Violence in the Renaissance Nude,’ it said, above a painting of a naked woman, asleep. One hand was draped over her head, the other was rootling between her legs.

  ‘Medieval masturbation,’ said Rory, nodding at it.

  I laughed and blushed again. Was it possible to die from blushing?

  ‘Come on,’ he said, and I felt his hand on my back as he ushered me through the door into the first gallery. I edged my way around a large woman in a fur coat to read an introduction on the wall but the text was too small.

  ‘Let’s not bother with that,’ said Rory, waving a hand at the wall. ‘I’ll tell you about them as we go.’

  It was excruciating to begin with. The first painting we stood before was by Titian, a naked Venus washing her hair in the sea, nipples as bold as raspberries. ‘See that?’ said Rory, pointing at a shell floating beside her thigh. ‘She was born and carried ashore on it.’

  Next were a naked Adam and Eve, Eve rubbing an apple forlornly against her cheek. Then a picture of a fat and completely hideous baby Jesus by a Flemish painter. With each one, Rory explained its backstory and my embarrassment at being surrounded by so much nakedness dissolved. As did my claustrophobia from the packed galleries because it meant I could lean into Rory to listen to him.

  ‘How do you know about all this?’ I asked him.

  ‘My mother. She’s always loved art and I’m an only child so I got the full education. The full monty. No beach holidays. It was Rome, Florence, Venice… Off to see whatever exhibition she could find. Oh look, this Titian is exquisite,’ he said, reaching for my hand and pulling me in front of another reclining woman. Although one of her hands was also resting in her groin, she was staring at us with a bored expression.

  ‘Isn’t it extraordinary?’ said Rory, his eyes scanning the canvas. ‘It’s one of his most famous, painted for an Italian nobleman of his new wife. Do you see the dog and the maids?’ He pointed at a small spaniel curled on the sheets and two women in the background.

  I nodded.

  ‘It’s supposed to serve as a reminder to his wife, with all the drudgery of marriage, not to forget about the bedroom.’

  He turned and winked at me and I burst out laughing, before clapping a hand over my mouth. The atmosphere in the galleries was too hushed for hoots of laughter.

  ‘Shall we get a coffee?’ he said, grinning back.

  ‘Yes, good plan,’ I said gratefully. I felt that imbued sense of cultural improvement at having drifted through a set of galleries, but the naked ladies – all rounded hips, hair tumbling artfully over their shoulders, and breasts as round as rock cakes – were starting to blend into one another.

  Rory told me to bag a seat by the café’s windows while he queued. I glanced at the other tables as I sat and wondered whether we looked like two people on a date or two friends catching up. Surrounded by touri
sts and tables covered in empty sugar packets, this suddenly didn’t feel much like a date. More an interview, like Jaz had said. Perhaps Rory would come back to the table and ask me what my strengths and weaknesses were and where I saw myself in five years’ time? I looked at my phone.

  Ruby: Update please!

  Mia: Is he coming to the wedding?

  I slid it back into my bag as Rory twisted his way between the tables towards me with a tray.

  ‘Here we go,’ he said, lifting off the coffees and a plate of shortbread, before sliding the tray on to a spare chair so it was hidden underneath the table. ‘Otherwise it’s like we’re at school. Urgh,’ he shuddered.

  ‘How’s your book?’ I asked, having thought of the question while he was queueing. Good to have something prepped and avoid awkward silences.

  Rory frowned.

  ‘The Struggle.’

  He screwed his eyes shut. ‘I have a confession.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’d read it before.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Before I came into the shop. And Dooley’s first book, In the Middle of the Night. You were right. It is terrific.’

  ‘But how come you…’

  ‘Bought it? Because I wanted to keep talking to this charming woman who worked in the shop. She’s called Florence, and her surname is…?’

  ‘Fairfax,’ I replied, blushing again. I’d have to see a doctor.

  ‘Called Florence Fairfax, exactly. I wanted to keep talking to her. And to gloss over the fact my mother had just bought a book about eroticism.’

  I laughed then leant backwards, fearful that I’d just wafted coffee breath all over him. ‘Oh I see,’ I said. ‘So it was an evil ploy?’

  ‘For it to be evil, there’d have to be evil intentions, wouldn’t there?’

  ‘And you don’t have evil intentions?’ I asked, trying to replicate his coolness when it was the sort of question on which so much depended. The sort of question some of us take to heart, rolling the answer about in our heads like a marble in case any intelligence can be gleaned from it.

  Rory shook his head. ‘Not in the least. I am a thoroughly upstanding sort.’ He leant back and hooked his thumbs through his braces.