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

by Sophia Money-Coutts

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Yeah, pretty terrifying. My girlfriend hated it. But once you’re there it’s worth it. The views, the monasteries, the people. The tea! You’d love it. They give you clay cups the size of thimbles which you drink very sweet milky tea from. It tastes like earth. And ginger.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,’ I said, instantly wishing I could cram the words back in my mouth. Turns out he would talk about his personal life if pushed.

  ‘Ex-girlfriend.’

  Zach said this so quietly it was as if I’d stepped on a ghost. ‘Sorry,’ I muttered.

  ‘All good,’ he said, before draining his bottle. ‘It was a mutual thing. We’d been together for so long so I forget sometimes.’

  I nodded but didn’t reply. The atmosphere felt tighter than it had a moment ago.

  ‘Has Ruby texted you?’ I’d given in and texted her Zach’s number that afternoon, knowing that once Ruby went after something, she usually ended up getting it.

  He looked as if I’d asked whether the Pope had been in touch. ‘Ruby? No. How come?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, feeling nosy again. ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, stretching his arms towards the ceiling. ‘I’m going to head home. Want a lift?’

  ‘On the bike?’

  He grinned and nodded. ‘Got a spare helmet.’

  ‘Noooooo, I’ll walk.’

  He stood and held out his hand to heave me up.

  ‘Thanks though,’ I said, ‘that was nice.’

  ‘It was. And I mean it, send me your book and I can pass it on.’

  ‘OK, deal,’ I said, and then let go of his hand, embarrassed that I was still holding it.

  Chapter Eight

  THAT EVENING CHANGED SOMETHING between Zach and me. For the following week, I felt strange around him. Almost embarrassed. It was like we’d both shared too much and he was trying to avoid me as a result. ‘Morning!’ he’d say with a polite half-smile when he arrived, before disappearing into the basement. There were no Rory the Tory jibes and no abandoned coffee cups or motorbike boots behind the till. He remained downstairs in the office, tinkering with the website and helping Norris with the accounts while I rehearsed with Eugene. His Hamlet audition hadn’t gone as badly as they usually did, he’d got a part at least, but it was for the role of gravedigger instead of the lead and he only had three lines. Undeterred, Eugene was approaching the role as if it would win him his first Oscar.

  Kneeling behind the hardback table one morning during rehearsals, he lobbed a pen pot over it (the table was supposed to represent the grave, the pen pot a skull), then stood up and dusted off his knees.

  ‘Brilliant,’ I said from behind the till, adding a few claps for good measure.

  Eugene did a little bow but stood up looking troubled.

  ‘You’ve got nothing to worry about,’ I reassured him. ‘That was the most convincing gravedigging performance I’ve ever seen.’ It was also the only gravedigging performance I’d ever seen, but he didn’t need to know that.

  ‘I’m not worried about my performance. That’s in the bag. It’s Zach, he’s very quiet.’

  I hadn’t told Eugene anything about my evening drinking beers downstairs. I wasn’t sure why exactly; it was as if I wanted to keep it a secret. Zach’s furtive behaviour only seemed to confirm this, but if I mentioned it now, Eugene would pick away at me, an amateur sleuth in a bow tie, making me regurgitate our conversation in full. It was easier to play dumb.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ I replied.

  ‘Does he seem troubled to you?’

  ‘Troubled?’

  ‘Mmm. Sort of… distant. Not hanging out with us. It’s odd that he’s not even being rude to you. I might ask him if he’s OK.’

  ‘No, don’t,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m sure it’s fine.’

  Eugene had all the subtlety of a French horn and what if Zach’s aloofness was to do with me? Had he decided I was too weird? He wouldn’t be the first person to avoid me because of my counting. I’d become used to that as a teenager. Or had I upset him by asking about his girlfriend? Or Ruby? His coolness bothered me because the truth was that I’d grown used to Zach’s teasing and looked forward to the days when he was in the shop more than the days when he wasn’t.

  I watched him read to the children gathered downstairs on the afternoon of the Hallowe’en party. He was dressed as the Beast: blue velvet tailcoat that could have come from Rory’s wardrobe, a white cravat, a pair of furry slippers that looked like monster’s feet. His curls were backbrushed around his head in a black, tangled mess and, through a pair of pointy plastic teeth, he was telling them a ghost story.

  He was good at it. He could do multiple accents and swept his arms around him making eerie noises while his young audience rocked from side to side, giggling with fear. To them, Zach seemed to have a magnetic appeal. It had been the same with Dunc.

  He caught my eye at one stage but looked down to his book again, carrying on with the story. I slipped back upstairs where several of the Chelsea mothers – blonde highlights, foreheads as smooth as balloons, very white trainers – were browsing the diet books.

  Once the kids had been marshalled out, I went back downstairs and poked my head around the office door.

  ‘Knock knock,’ I said in a falsely jovial way, instantly hating myself for it.

  Zach spun in his seat. He was still wearing the blue tailcoat.

  ‘You smashed it,’ I said, with an encouraging smile.

  He rested his head back against his seat. ‘Thanks. You sell many books?’

  ‘Yeah, a few. Norris’s cashing up.’

  He nodded but didn’t offer anything else and I felt unwelcome.

  ‘I just wanted to ask if it would be all right if I sent you my Curtis the caterpillar story?’ I’d been practising that line upstairs because it seemed like a good excuse to talk to him. He’d been so positive about it before.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, turning back to his computer.

  ‘You sure? I don’t have to if it’s difficult or it’s—’

  ‘Really, it’s no problem,’ he said, looking at me again, hands poised over his keyboard.

  ‘OK, thanks. I’ll email it to you tomorrow,’ I said, but I slunk away feeling stung, as if I’d been a nuisance.

  Later, I sighed while crossing the river on the way home from work and told myself to stop obsessing about it. I had plenty to worry about that week already. Chiefly, the Conservatives’ Black and White Ball. Rory had dropped this bombshell on me on Sunday evening as we lay in bed. It was a big deal, apparently; the party’s annual fundraiser. The Prime Minister went. The Cabinet went. As did their biggest donors – celebrities, finance bosses and Indian telecom billionaires among them. Rory had explained this and then rolled me on to my side, trailing his fingers over my shoulder and across my chest as if just talking about politics had given him an erection. Would I be his date, he’d whispered into my ear, and I would have made a joke about the fact that people normally had a fetish for rubber or leather instead of the prime minister, but by that stage he’d slipped his hand between my legs and I could only groan in reply.

  It was the following night and I was carrying home four Asos dresses that had been delivered to Frisbee. I knew Eugene was desperate to give his verdict like a Project Runway judge but I hadn’t wanted to try them on in the shop and risk bumping into Zach. Plus, the bathroom was cramped and I suspected Asos didn’t accept returns which had been trailed in loo water.

  Please could one of the dresses look decent? This was the most grown-up party I’d ever been invited to. Please could they transform me into a sophisticated woman who looked like she knew what the home secretary did (something to do with homes?) and not into a gawky teenager who’d rummaged through her mother’s wardrobe and circled lipstick on her cheeks.

  Once I got back, Mia helped. Sort of. Dress one was declared ‘too cheap and shiny’. Dress two apparently made me look like ‘an old woman who
teaches ballroom dancing on a cruise’, and dress three was simply ‘disgusting’. But she smiled like a proud mother when I came out from her bathroom in dress four. It was a dark red velvet and off the shoulder.

  ‘Flo, you look like Jessica Rabbit!’

  I blinked at myself in her full-length mirror. It was as if the dress was a disguise; normal, sensible Florence with her hair tied back in a ponytail had been usurped by this glamorous pretender. Mia was exaggerating. I didn’t have the proportions of Jessica Rabbit. But with make-up and heels, I would look like someone else entirely, someone who could be friends with the glossy Octavia Battenberg. I stood on tiptoes and narrowed my eyes, trying to imagine it.

  ‘What shoes?’ she asked.

  ‘My black heels,’ I said, still squinting in the mirror.

  ‘No,’ she said, waggling a finger at me. ‘You’re not wearing those shoes with that dress.’

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘They’re the sort of clumpy courts the Queen wears. You can’t wear a dress like that with those heels, it’s like wearing couture with wellington boots. Hang on…’ She jumped off her bed and opened her wardrobe, then crouched to inspect dozens of stacked shoeboxes. ‘Not these, not these. Definitely not those but these might work.’ She pulled out a box marked ‘Jimmy Choo’.

  ‘Uh-uh,’ I said, backing away from the box as if it contained a tarantula. ‘They’ll be too small.’

  ‘Just try them,’ replied Mia, lifting the lid off. ‘You’re not running the marathon, it’s only for the night.’

  She pulled out a pair which matched the blood red of the dress, with thin straps that tied round the ankle. The heels looked like knitting needles. They were the sort of shoes I’d never even tried on before because they were too delicate – and I never wanted to draw attention to the size of the canoes at the end of my ankles.

  Mia knelt and held one out. Wobbling, I lifted my foot and pushed it in. Bigfoot getting ready for his first party.

  ‘And this one.’

  I clutched Mia’s bedpost so I didn’t fall over as she fastened the strap around my ankles, then, unsteady as a newborn foal, turned round to look in the mirror.

  ‘Perfect. Although you need a pedicure. Even Hugo has more attractive feet than you.’

  ‘Thanks. But I can’t wear these, they’re too tight and I can’t walk in them.’ My calves were already shaking.

  ‘Just practise tonight. Up and down in the kitchen. I’ll teach you.’

  It took ten minutes to get downstairs and then Mia shouted at me – ‘head back, chin up’ – while I tottered along the kitchen tiles. But half an hour later I’d improved. I wouldn’t be able to walk very far at the party and dancing would be impossible – I’d have to remain rooted on the spot and wave my hands in the air like a tree in a thunderstorm. But Mia was right: these were the sort of heels that should be worn with a dress like that.

  ‘Cinderella shall go to the ball,’ she said, as I sat on a kitchen chair and undid the straps.

  ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘Please,’ replied Mia, with a wave of her hand. ‘I’m good at this shit.’

  I pulled off the shoes and wriggled my toes gratefully. ‘Where’s Ruby?’

  ‘Getting her hair done. She’s seeing that guy you work with tomorrow.’

  ‘Zach?’

  I said his name so loudly Mia looked up from the hob and frowned.

  ‘Yeah, him. Why? Is that bad?’

  I paused for a couple of beats before replying. ‘No. Not bad. Just weird. He hasn’t said anything.’

  But that explained his weirdness. Zach was going on a date with Ruby and felt awkward about it. The knowledge that this was happening, that I might indeed find him in my kitchen, made me wince. What was I supposed to say in the shop the next day: ‘Morning, Zach, have fun trying to shag my sister tonight!’

  ‘Why the face? What’s he like?’

  ‘He’s all right.’ I paused. ‘No, he’s cool. More intelligent than you might think when you see him because he’s always quite scruffy and covered in tattoos. But it turns out the tattoos are actually from Greek myths and not just a skull and crossbones. And he’s basically single-handedly saving the bookshop, and he’s one of those people who’s nice to everyone. Well, everyone apart from Rory. He doesn’t like him much. And he’s amazing with kids. We did this Hallowe’en party last week and they all loved him.’ I paused again. ‘So… yeah, he’s cool.’

  Mia raised her eyebrows at me. ‘Sounds like you should be going out with him.’

  I retched and stuck my tongue out like a schoolgirl teased for having a crush on a boy in her maths class. ‘Gross. He’s not my type.’

  ‘Why? Because he doesn’t tick all the boxes on your list?’ she joked.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got Rory, anyway.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said firmly, ‘I’ve got Rory.’

  And then, because talking about Ruby and Zach dating had made me feel strange, I asked Mia whether we needed strapless bras for our bridesmaids’ dresses and she wanged on about her wedding for the rest of the evening.

  ‘You picked one then?’ Eugene asked the following morning when I arrived with the shoebox and my dress in a plastic cover.

  ‘Yes, but shhhh,’ I replied, putting a finger to my lips and hiding my outfit behind the till.

  ‘Why?’

  I pointed at the floorboards. ‘Zach in?’

  Eugene nodded.

  ‘You know what he’s like. He’ll only start shouting about politics if I mention anything.’

  Ironically, having missed Zach’s chattiness all week, today I wanted to avoid him and banish all thoughts of his date with Ruby.

  I escaped over lunch for a blow-dry and eyebrow shape at the Chelsea salon where Jaz worked. It was in a posh white townhouse a few minutes from the shop and owned by an exuberant Italian called Carlo. A haircut there normally cost as much as a small family car, but she’d promised to fit me in between appointments.

  ‘And could I also have a quick pedicure?’ I asked Carlo when I arrived. He was sitting behind the reception desk, his swirling floral shirt undone to his belly button.

  He sighed as if I’d demanded world peace. ‘Dalling, I do your eyebrows first, and then we’ll come back upstairs for your hair and, if she has time, Skyla can do your toes.’

  I waved at Jaz, who was standing behind a chair drying an old lady’s hair, then followed Carlo down a flight of stairs into a windowless room which smelt of drains.

  ‘Lie there,’ he instructed bossily, pointing at the massage bed. ‘And let me have a look.’

  I held my breath as he leant over my face, before making a noise of utter disgust. ‘These things!’ he shrieked. ‘They are monsters, Florence. I don’t know why Jasmine has not sent you to me before.’

  ‘Really? I thought just maybe a bit of a tid— ouuuuuuuuch!’ I yelped, as the wax burned my skin before it was ripped off. Then the other brow. Then a strip of wax between my brows before Carlo hung over my face with a pair of tweezers. He’d recently eaten something that contained onions. Or maybe just an onion, crunched raw like an apple. The smell was rancid.

  ‘It is much better now,’ he said a few minutes later, standing back to admire his own handiwork. ‘Gives your face more, how you say, definition? Here, take thees mirror, look.’

  Yikes. They were different. The furry caterpillars had been replaced by neat lines. I waggled them in the mirror feeling like Betty Boop.

  ‘Now, I pop some gel over them and we get your hair washed.’

  He led me back upstairs and gestured at a seat in front of a basin and handed me a laminated blow-dry menu. ‘Pick what you like and I go get Jasmine.’

  I frowned at the pouty models in the pictures. The hairstyles had names like ‘Fairytale Ending’ and ‘Gloss Like A Boss’. I sniggered at the thought of having hair like Norris.

  Jaz appeared at the basin a few minutes later. ‘Sorry, babe, it’s mad in
here today. How you doing? Brows look good.’

  ‘Do you think?’ I said, lifting my fingers to the red skin above my eyes.

  ‘Don’t touch it, the redness will go down. Now, what we doing with your hair?’

  ‘I was thinking this one,’ I said, pointing at a photo of a brunette model with shiny waves of hair that fell to below her shoulders and flicked up at the ends. ‘Be the star of the show with this sleek and ultra-glamorous look,’ it said ambitiously underneath the picture. The style was called ‘Big ’n’ bold, but I couldn’t bring myself to say that out loud, even to Jaz.

  ‘Big ’n’ bold? Mmm.’ She stood back and squinted at me. ‘You trust me, right?’

  ‘Yesssss,’ I said slowly.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I asked with a note of panic.

  ‘Nothing to worry about; just sit back while I wash it and tell you all about George.’

  ‘Who’s George?’

  ‘The man from the shop that day, the day of the petition.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I said, sitting up and turning round. ‘You emailed him?’

  ‘Lie back, please.’

  I rested my head on the basin and Jaz turned on the shower head.

  ‘Is that temperature all right?’ she asked, as a jet of hot water scorched my scalp.

  ‘Yup, fine,’ I replied. Has anyone in the history of hairdressing replied otherwise to that question? ‘But can you tell me what’s happened?’

  Jaz took a deep breath. ‘So, I didn’t email him that day because I thought it would be too keen, you know? I left it until Monday and then emailed and asked if he’d lost his pen.’

  ‘He didn’t leave a pen.’

  ‘I know – head back a bit – it was just an excuse. I said someone had left their pen and was it his, and he said it wasn’t.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then I said thank you again for signing the petition, and I hoped things were all right with him and Maya’s mum.’

  ‘You didn’t!’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ she screeched over the noise of the water. ‘I was just being nice. And we had a few more emails and now we’re going to take the kids to the playground.’