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

by Sophia Money-Coutts

  ‘What do you do?’ I asked. I couldn’t imagine him in an office sweating over a spreadsheet.

  ‘I work in the Foreign Office.’ He announced this as casually as if it was the post office.

  ‘Blimey. Doing what?’

  ‘I’m a spad. It’s a nickname; it means a special advisor.’

  ‘To who?’

  ‘To the minister, but I’m hoping, at the next election, to run as a candidate.’

  ‘As an MP?’ I tried not to sound incredulous.

  He nodded. ‘My grandfather was one and since I was a teenager I’ve thought, well, why not?’

  ‘Conservative?’ I was guessing as much from his Radio 4 accent as well as his clothes.

  Rory twisted one side of his mouth into a grimace before answering. ‘If I said yes, would you hate me?’

  I smiled. ‘No, I think it’s… amazing to want to go into it at all. I can’t imagine it. All those speeches.’ It was my turn to shudder.

  ‘But let’s not talk politics,’ said Rory, crumbling the shortbread and holding a piece out. ‘I spend my life talking about politics. What about you? How is it that Florence Fairfax comes to be working in a Chelsea bookshop? What’s her story?’

  ‘Just always have,’ I said, fiddling with the handle on my coffee cup. ‘Studied English at uni and wasn’t sure what to do with it. But I loved reading. So ended up there.’

  ‘You think you’ll stay?’

  ‘At the shop?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Yes. Although…’ I paused and sighed, ‘the rent’s going up and Norris, he’s the owner, is in a flap about it. So who knows. But I write children’s books on the side. Well, not books. Book, singular. About a caterpillar called Curtis. So I’m hoping that I can do something with that.’

  ‘Sweet, and what about your family?’

  ‘About them?’ I asked, momentarily confused. He’d rattled off a number of questions so quickly, almost as if it was an interview, and I was worried that I’d answer the wrong thing.

  ‘What are they like? Do you get on with them?’

  ‘Oh I see. Yes, mostly. I live with my two sisters in Kennington. Well, technically they’re my half-sisters. And my dad, actually, hang on, you might have come across him, he’s called Henry Fairfax, the ambassador to Argentina?’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘No, I haven’t met him but I know who you mean. What a coincidence that he’s your father. Wasn’t he in Pakistan, before?’

  ‘Exactly. Good knowledge!’

  Rory grinned. ‘Part of the job description. Do you go out there much?’

  ‘Argentina?’ I shook my head again. ‘Never have. He comes back every now and then, although usually it’s pretty brief and just for meetings.’

  ‘Is your mother with him?’

  ‘Nope. She died when I was three.’ I’d become so used to explaining this that I forgot the effect it had on other people, their stammery awkwardness.

  ‘Oh Christ, there I go with my big feet. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK. It was years ago.’

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, his eyes remaining on mine.

  ‘Car crash. Not her fault. Just… one of those accidents.’

  He winced. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right. I’m pretty lucky in many ways; I’ve still got family around me.’ I reminded myself of this whenever I woke in the sort of mood where I wished I could swap lives with somebody else I saw on Instagram. I was lucky; I had a good job and I still lived in my childhood home. I’d fall in love eventually. Had to. Even Hitler had a girlfriend. I couldn’t be the only person who’d never have a proper relationship.

  ‘I think that’s a bit harsh on yourself, isn’t it?’

  I frowned. ‘How come?’

  ‘Well,’ Rory started, leaning across the table, ‘I think if you grew up without your mother, you don’t have to tell yourself that it’s all right because you’ve still got a couple of sisters and a father. It doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘I’ve also got a very involved stepmum,’ I added, grinning at him.

  ‘In that case I take it all back. What are you grumbling for?’ he said, which made me laugh, and nobody had ever made me laugh when it came to conversations that skirted around my mother. Normally I tried to avoid the subject altogether.

  We sat at the table for another hour chatting, finding our way around one another. He’d grown up in Norfolk and now lived in Pimlico. I told him about my French grandmother and my half-sister developing a wedding fetish.

  ‘You don’t want to get married?’ Rory asked and I instantly felt like I was about to trigger a tripwire. What was the right, casual, unstudied answer to this in front of a man you already liked?

  ‘Er, yeah, I think so,’ I started. ‘I just… can’t imagine losing my mind over it.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  ‘To get married?’ I checked, surprised.

  ‘Indeed. The whole shebang: wedding, family, dog.’

  ‘Oh right,’ I replied, unsure what else to say. It seemed unfair that men could admit this, could declare they were desperate for domestic harmony but women were supposed to keep any such aspirations hidden. ‘I thought you liked cats?’ I asked, mindful of both my list and Marmalade, who was probably, at that moment, cleaning his bottom on my bed.

  ‘Ideally we’ll have both.’

  I tried not to give it away but I felt like my whole face lifted into a smile at the ‘we’ in that sentence.

  ‘Right,’ he said, reaching under the table for the tray. ‘This has been splendid but I’d better get back. Various bits and pieces to read before tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Cool,’ I replied, wishing the afternoon hadn’t sped by so quickly. But if this was it and I never saw him again like all the others, it had been nice. Better than nice. It had been great. I hadn’t done anything embarrassing, apart from sweat continually for three hours, and all I needed to do now was get home and have a large glass of water.

  ‘What are you up to this evening?’ he asked.

  I usually spent Sunday evenings making my flapjacks and obsessively refolding my knicker drawer. ‘Not much.’ I shrugged. ‘A book in the bath, probably. Early night.’

  He slid the tray into a metal stand and we walked out silently, my heart thumping in time with our steps back down into the courtyard.

  ‘So,’ Rory said, stopping just before the stone arch on to Piccadilly and turning towards me. ‘How are you getting home?’

  ‘Walking.’

  ‘All the way to Kennington?’

  I smiled. ‘I like walking. It’s not that far.’

  ‘Okey-dokes, I’m going to jump on the Tube. But that was lovely, thank you.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. Shit. I mean, not me too, but thank you, too. If that makes sense?’ I blushed again.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Rory said, before kissing me lightly on the mouth. ‘See you soon, Florence Fairfax.’

  I watched his back as he walked towards the station. If he turns round in the next six seconds, I told myself, then this is really something and he won’t disappear on me. I counted in my head, feeling a creeping sense of panic. Please could he turn? Please could he look back at me? My excitement would turn to gloom if he didn’t.

  He spun when I got to four and grinned, saluting at me as he had in the door of the bookshop. I smiled back then started my walk home. It was astonishing how quickly it could happen. In the space of an afternoon, my brain had pushed out all other thoughts so now there was only room for Rory. I didn’t even notice the colour of the cars passing me.

  He messaged the next morning. I realize this is pathetically keen, but I’d like to see you again soon. Are you available for dinner tomorrow?

  If it had been my own funeral the following night, I would have leapt up and insisted that, actually, I was feeling much better.

  I replied saying I was free and he sent another back saying could I �
�present’ myself at a restaurant in Battersea called Ratatouille at 8 p.m. He messaged like he talked, as if Mr Bingley had got hold of a mobile. It impressed me; it seemed more sophisticated than other men. On the Ambergate Road WhatsApp group that consisted of me, Ruby, Mia and Hugo, Hugo sent messages like ‘Mia, what time ru home?’ and ‘Cn sum1 buy bog roll?’ as if he couldn’t spell really quite basic words.

  ‘Eugene, do you mind if I take first lunch?’ I asked on Tuesday morning. ‘I’ve just got a few, er, errands.’ I’d rediscovered an old black dress from Whistles in my cupboard but it had a low-cut neckline which needed a new bra that winched everything up a couple of inches.

  ‘No, absolutely fine, my darling. You go,’ Eugene replied. ‘Good morning, Adrian,’ he added, as one of our regulars stepped through the door. ‘How are we today?’

  ‘Capital, capital,’ Adrian replied. He was a retired general who liked our history books.

  ‘Do you need a hand or are you happy left to it?’

  ‘Not to worry,’ said Adrian as he staggered towards the biographies.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying,’ Eugene said, as I returned my attention to the non-fiction table in front of me, ‘you seem unusually cheerful today.’

  ‘That’s probably because I’ve got a date tonight.’

  Eugene clapped his hands to his cheeks. ‘Sound the trumpets! How has this come about?’

  ‘He came in here, and we had a coffee on Sunday. And now it’s dinner tonight.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Ratatouille? In Battersea?’

  He nodded approvingly. ‘Very good choice.’ Then he frowned at me. ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘Not this, don’t worry,’ I said, brushing my hands down my navy T-shirt and sensible trousers. ‘I’ve found an old black dress.’

  ‘With which shoes?’

  ‘With heels and a pair of tights.’

  He nodded again. ‘All right, I will allow it. And I do hope you’ve booked yourself a waxing appointment.’

  ‘What, why?’

  Eugene sighed and shook his head at me. ‘Darling, you mustn’t go into battle unprepared.’

  ‘I’m not sleeping with him yet,’ I replied primly, looking back down to the table of books and straightening a pile of Napoleon biographies. I’d thought about it, obviously. Last night, I’d tried to imagine swinging one leg over Rory’s hips before unbuttoning his shirt but the fantasy was interrupted by Marmalade kneading the pillow beside me.

  ‘You remember what I said about my very old mother in her retirement home?’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes.’

  ‘All right,’ said Eugene, holding his hands in the air, ‘just a friendly reminder. But tell me, who is this lucky man?’

  ‘He’s called Rory. And he seems charming and clever. And he works for the Foreign Office. He wants to be a politician and—’

  A bark of laughter interrupted us from the stairs and Zach appeared with his camera around his neck. He was still taking photographs for the new website and seemed to be taking a long time about it, but I told myself that the trail of devastation he left behind him – cold coffee cups abandoned on bookshelves, his motorbike kit cluttering up the wrapping area – was for the greater good of the shop.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Zach, stepping towards us, ‘but you’re going on a date with a politician called Rory. A Tory, right? Got to be with a name like that. Rory the Tory. Ha!’

  I didn’t reply.

  Zach looked from me to Eugene and back again. ‘It’s just, oh come on, he sounds like something from an Evelyn Waugh novel.’

  ‘You’ve read many of his, have you?’ I couldn’t imagine Zach – black T-shirt and black jeans again today, black hair falling over his forehead – sitting down with a copy of Brideshead Revisited. He looked more like a lumberjack than a reader.

  ‘I have,’ said Zach, crouching down to take a picture. ‘Most of his, anyway, but Scoop’s my favourite because it’s about war journalism and that’s what I’ve always wanted to do.’ He looked up from his camera. ‘How about you?’

  I had to hurry the conversation on because I hadn’t actually read much Waugh and I’d only seen the film version of Brideshead.

  ‘Rory’s not like one of his characters,’ I said, defensively. ‘He’s clever. And funny. And…’ I was about to go into detail about his wardrobe, mostly for Eugene’s benefit as I knew he’d appreciate the braces, but I stopped myself. Zach would only laugh. ‘And he’s not a politician yet anyway.’

  ‘But he is a Tory, right?’ needled Zach.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, squinting back into his camera. ‘I’m sure he’s lovely. I’m sure he doesn’t eat babies for breakfast or want to run the NHS into the ground.’

  I felt a flash of anger. ‘That’s so predictable.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Making assumptions about people based on their name. Assuming he’s some sort of monster when you don’t know anything about him. How can you pigeonhole someone like that. It’s just…’ I paused, mentally groping for the right word. Zach looked at me expectantly.

  ‘It’s just…’ I went on. ‘It’s just… very boring!’

  ‘Children, children,’ interrupted Eugene, ‘let’s not ruin poor Adrian’s morning by shouting about politics over him.’

  ‘I’m quite all right,’ croaked Adrian, flapping one hand from the corner.

  ‘I’m going for lunch,’ I snapped, reaching under the till for my rucksack. I couldn’t slam the shop door because it had a guard on its hinges, but I would have done otherwise. Arrogant, rude computer geek, I thought, while I stood half naked in an Intimissimi changing cubicle and shortened a black bra strap. I’d pity whoever had to date him, frankly.

  I waited until the others had left that night before changing in the cramped loo downstairs. Squinting in the mirror above the basin, I tried to do my eyeshadow like Mia had demonstrated. Light brown over the eyelid. Dark brown just beneath the eyebrow. Blend. I leant back to inspect it and almost screamed. What was a racoon doing in this bathroom? I took it all off again with a wipe, glanced at my phone and realized I needed to get to the restaurant in half an hour. Shit. Forget the eyeshadow. I reapplied wobbly eyeliner and mascara to eyelids that had turned pink from the rubbing and dabbed blusher into my cheeks.

  Next, bus along the King’s Road and over Battersea Bridge as I counted the number of cars we passed. I was sweating, obviously, when I pushed through the restaurant door. How did normal people do it? I wondered, wiping a bead off my upper lip with a finger. How did normal people go on dates and manage to survive it all without dying of shame and embarrassment (and dehydration)? How did the human race manage to reproduce when even sitting across from someone in a restaurant was such a horrifying obstacle course?

  I handed my bag and coat to a waiter when I heard him behind me, his voice alone causing a clap of adrenalin to surge through me.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi,’ I replied, spinning round. The greeting! What sort of greeting did you go for if you’d already kissed on the mouth? Did you revert to two kisses on the cheek? Or another peck on the mouth? One kiss with that awkward half hug? I wished that I was more experienced in such matters as Rory leant towards me, kissing me on the cheek and squeezing the top of my arm. Not an option I’d even considered.

  A waiter showed us to a dimly lit table in the corner – one candlestick and a small bunch of primroses in a jam jar – and pulled my chair out.

  ‘’ere you go, sir, madam, thees are thee menus and ’ere is thee wine leest,’ he said, with such a thick French accent I thought he might be faking it.

  ‘Thank you very much. Glass of champagne?’ Rory asked me across the table, hanging his dark suit jacket on the back of his chair and revealing a pair of red braces.

  ‘Amazing. Yes please.’

  ‘Two glasses of Billecart, please, and I’ll keep this,’ he said to the comedic
French waiter, tapping his fingers on the wine list.

  ‘So,’ he said, leaning forwards on the table. ‘How was your day, dear?’

  ‘Fine,’ I replied, smiling shyly. I’d ignored Zach all afternoon while he took more photos, trailing cables along the floor and moving books from the right place to the wrong place on the basis ‘they looked better’ where he put them. But he forgot to slot them into place again afterwards so I tidied after him while Zach loitered by the counter, talking Eugene through his camera settings. ‘It was fine,’ I repeated. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Bloody marvellous and we’re celebrating!’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because today I got the phone call from the party saying I’m on their list.’

  ‘List?’

  ‘For becoming a candidate at the next election. There are various hurdles to clear before you can fight a seat and have to get on an official list before you can apply to any constituency. But today I was approved for that list.’

  ‘Congratulations! How exciting. So what next?’

  He exhaled. ‘You have to wait, basically, for a seat to come up. And they have to approve you, and you have to fight an election. And normally first-timers are given marginal seats and it’s a long slog. But I’m hopeful.’

  He dropped his voice and boomed across the table, ‘This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.’

  ‘See? You’re made to be a politician,’ I replied, laughing at his performance.

  ‘It’s actually Churchill who said that.’

  ‘Right,’ I replied, ‘I knew that.’ I didn’t, so I glanced down at the menu to hide my cheeks for a few moments before the waiter reappeared. He placed two glasses of champagne on the table and took our order.

  ‘I think we should have a dozen oysters,’ Rory said. ‘You eat oysters, yes? They’re excellent here.’

  ‘I’ve never actually had one.’

  ‘Good God! We must correct that instantly. So a dozen oysters, and then, Florence, what would you like?’

  ‘Could I have the cod, please?’ I said, automatically picking the dish which didn’t come with anything too fiddly and tiny to count.