I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. Call me a prude, but this is my vagina we’re talking about. Or not. I cross my legs.
‘You were saying?’ he asks evenly.
Honestly, I’m a dreadful loser but now, looking into Gabe’s blue eyes, magnified behind his glasses, I can’t help wishing this was one argument I had lost.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I say, and hurriedly change the subject to cover my embarrassment and the fact that, actually, I have lost this argument. ‘Can I ask you a favour? As you’re much taller than me, will you look on top of that cupboard?’ I gesture above the oven. ‘For a vaize,’ I add pointedly – surrendering.
A wicked grin threatens to spread across his cheeks and Gabe shrugs. ‘Sure,’ he says, standing on tiptoe. But that’s not good enough with my eleven-foot-high Victorian ceilings so he climbs on to the counter. After a few minutes’ rummaging, he says, ‘What about this?’ He’s holding an empty spaghetti jar.
‘Nope.’ I shake my head. ‘Too skinny.’
He puts it back and grabs the next object: the glass jug from the coffee percolator I never use – which is next to the blender, the ice-cream maker, the pop-corn popper and the pasta-machine that I never use either. ‘Or this?’
I look up, almost cricking my neck. ‘Nah. Too small.’ Shrugging, he roots around until finally he finds ‘This?’
‘Oh, wow! I’ve been looking for that everywhere.’ He’s holding out the orange plastic watering-can I bought in IKEA months ago. ‘But no,’ I add, taking it from him and setting it on the counter, ‘it’ll clash with the red of the roses. Anyway, it’s too big.’
‘Jeez, who are you? Goldilocks?’ he grumbles.
I watch him grope around on top of the cupboard until my neck aches and I look down. And come face-to-face with his hairy calf muscles splayed on the counter. I’d never noticed them before but Gabe has really nice calves. They’re covered with pale brown hair and from a distance they seem really tanned, but if I peer closer – I move my face so that my nose is just inches away – I can see that they’re covered with millions of tiny freckles that have sort of joined up to give the impression of a tan. It’s a bit like squashing your face against a TV screen and seeing the picture disintegrate into tiny little dots.
‘Awesome.’
Brandishing a filthy object, Gabe is looking down over his shoulder at me. ‘Guess what I . . .’
Which is when I realise my head is stuck between his legs and jump back.
‘. . . found.’
Oh, shite.
Trying to appear innocent and not like a pervy old landlady, I reach up to take it from him. It’s an ugly ceramic vase Rosemary once gave me and which I’ve kept stuffed in the cupboard ever since. Still, beggars can’t be choosers. ‘Great, thanks,’ I gush enthusiastically, hot with embarrassment. I dunk it in the washing-up bowl and try to look all busy, busy, busy – turning on the tap, grabbing a pair of yellow Marigolds from under the sink, squeezing Fairy Liquid in frantic, green wiggles.
‘Hey, I can do that. You’ll be late for work.’
‘No, it’s OK,’ I cut him off. ‘It’s my day off.’ I grab the cloth and lather the vase.
‘Cool,’ he says cheerfully, and for a joyful moment I think he’s going to leave the kitchen.
Instead he loiters behind me.
Out of the corner of my eye I see him turn back to the toaster. This time he succeeds in spearing an unrecognisable charred object on the chopstick. He takes a bite and chews thoughtfully as he walks across the kitchen. ‘By the way, about your fanny,’ he says matter-of-factly, pausing by the doorway.
I freeze. ‘Er, yes?’
Our eyes meet, and just as I feel myself teeter on the edge of humiliation, he winks. ‘I was just kidding with you.’
He grabs his Marlboros and, as I watch him disappear into the garden for his morning cigarette, a thought strikes me—
I got my wish. Without a doubt, this was one argument I definitely lost.
Chapter Twenty-three
OK, now what?
After I’ve chucked away the broken roses, stuck the rest on the windowsill, made myself another cup of instant coffee and finished off what’s left of a packet of liquorice allsorts for breakfast, I sit down at the kitchen table and wonder what to do with the rest of my day off. Normally I like to lie in till noon, but I’m already up and wide awake, courtesy of my new alarm: the man from Interflora. I drum my fingers on my mug.
I know! I’ll watch a bit of morning telly.
I feel a rush of joy. I love morning telly: it’s such a guilty pleasure, like wearing big knickers or fancying Enrique Iglesias. Gleefully I reach over to flick on the portable TV stuffed next to the microwave and happen to glance at the digital clock. My heart sinks. It’s not even nine a.m. Trisha’s not on for ages.
Thwarted, I drain my coffee and wonder what Gabe’s up to. I pinch open the slats of the window blind and peer out into the garden. Surrounded by piles of joke books, he’s lying belly down on a sun-lounger, scribbling into the notepad he takes everywhere with him. Better not disturb him: he looks busy.
Which is what I should be, I tell myself guiltily, letting the blind snap back. There’s a million things that need doing.
No sooner has the thought popped into my head than I glance at the fridge door, which is wallpapered with Post-it notes, bills that need paying, and a pair of tickets for The Rocky Horror Show on Monday night. I’d forgotten about that. Jess arranged it with a bunch of her gay steward friends and I’ve got a ticket for James. Though I’m not sure if suspenders are his thing, I muse, grabbing a pen and a notepad and sitting down at the kitchen table.
OK. I need to write a list. I flick open the pad to find a dozen lists I’ve already made and forgotten about.
OK, I need to write a new list.
Friday – My List of Things to Do.
• Ring James.
Well, that’s easy. I dial his number but he’s not there so I leave a message thanking him for the roses and telling him how lovely they are.
• Handwashing.
One of the downsides of having sex. Before James, I wore comfy old knickers that I could throw in the washing machine, but now it’s all about scraps of frilly lingerie that don’t fulfil any of the roles of underwear (support, comfort, protection) but act simply as decoration. Expensive, uncomfortable decoration that’s a complete faff to wash.
• Get a hiqh-flying job as a photographer.
Fuck.
Initially I think of skipping this one and going straight to ‘Buy a new shower curtain’ as I quite fancy a trip to IKEA, but I can’t ignore it. Not only have I just underlined it twice, but it’s made the top five on my list for the past six years, and while everything else gets crossed off eventually, it stays there. Staring at me. Taunting me.
Which is why, hours later, I’m sitting at my computer Goo-gling ‘photography jobs’.
‘Hey, how’s it going?’
Gabe has stuck his head round my bedroom door with two steaming mugs of peppermint tea and a fresh bag of liquorice allsorts.
‘Wonderful,’ I say dolefully, as I take a mug. Blowing on it I take a large slurp. ‘I’ve spent nearly four hours and so far the only thing I’ve found is an ad for a staff photographer on Farm Machinery Monthly.’ I shuffle through the stuff I’ve printed out ‘Here it is.’ I clear my throat and I read, ‘Exciting opportunity for an experienced photographer. Knowledge of tractors and silage equipment an advantage. Must like cattle and being outdoors in all-weather conditions . . .’
Gabe throws me a puzzled look and offers me a liquorice allsort.
‘I’m trying to find a job,’ I explain, nibbling off the yellow fondant.
Propping his bum on the edge of my unmade bed, Gabe chews slowly as he strokes Billy Smith who’s curled up on the duvet. ‘But I thought you said your job was safe now you’ve got this fancy royal wedding.’
I smile, despite my gloom. ‘It’s not a royal wedding. It’s the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Hu
rley,’ I explain, entertained by Gabe’s confusion. ‘Which means she isn’t a princess, just a lady.’
‘Not necessarily,’ he quips.
‘I know it’s all rubbish,’ I admit, smiling weakly, ‘but it’s good for business. They’re paying my boss a fortune, and one of the big celebrity magazines has offered to buy our pictures, which means we’ll be credited as photographers.’ I pause.
‘But?’ Gabe has sensed I’m unhappy about something.
I’m about to pretend there isn’t a but, that everything’s fine, then change my mind. He looks genuinely concerned.
‘But when I dreamed of having my photographs published, it wasn’t in a magazine with Jade from Big Brother,’ I confess.
‘Who’s Jade from Big Brother?’
‘Exactly.’
Unfazed, he waggles the bag of liquorice allsorts at me. ‘You’ve got me addicted to these things,’ he confesses. ‘Especially the blue and pink jelly ones.’
‘Yuk. They’re my least favourite.’
He’s astounded. ‘Jeez, I can’t get enough of them. It’s the coconut ones I hate.’
As he speaks, I pluck one out and wave it at him teasingly. ‘Mmm, my favourite,’
‘I guess that makes us the perfect people to share a bag of these, then?’
Chewing, I nod happily. ‘I guess so.’
We smile at each other for a moment, my bad mood forgotten. That’s the annoying thing about Gabe: he’ll never let me wallow in a bit of self-pity, or dissatisfaction, or good old-fashioned British negativity. He’s always so positive. Must be something to do with being American and having a nice day and all that.
‘So what’s this dream of yours, then?’ he says. ‘Where do you want to get your photographs published?’
I blush. No one’s every asked me that before.
‘Well?’ he pesters.
It’s been my dream ever since I was a teenager, but I feel awkward about admitting it to someone. ‘The Sunday Herald’s magazine,’ I blurt shyly. And then, when I see he’s not laughing at me, I grow bolder. ‘I want my photographs to be on the front cover,’ I continue, my mind flicking back to Sunday mornings in Cornwall, Lionel hogging the arts section, Ed buried behind the business pages and me leafing through the magazine.
‘So why don’t you go and work for them?’ Gabe says it as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
‘Have you any idea how hard it is to get a job there? Every photographer in the world wants to work for them. I’ve been trying for years.’
‘So why don’t you give it another try?’ persists Gabe, hugging Billy Smith who’s now curled on his lap, purring contentedly.
I feel a prickle of impatience. As an American, Gabe obviously has no clue about how hard it is even to get an interview at the Sunday Herald, let alone a job. ‘What’s the point? I’ll only get a rejection letter.’
‘Not necessarily. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe you’ll get lucky.’
I’m looking at Gabe as he says this and I don’t know if it’s something in his voice or in his expression, but it’s as though someone’s flicked on a light inside me. Of course. This time is different. This time why don’t I try wishing for a job?
As soon as the thought pops into my head, I notice the lucky heather lying next to my computer. How strange, I’m sure it wasn’t there before. But then I forget about it as I’m hit with a surge of excitement. Of course. Why on earth didn’t I think of it before? If I can wish for little things like parking spaces and designer shoe sales and they can come true, why don’t I try wishing for something big and important? For something I’ve dreamed about since I was a little girl? Like being a photographer for the Sunday Herald?
‘OK. What shall I put?’ I open a word document and bash away at the keyboard. ‘Dear Sir/Madam . . .’
Gabe grins at my new-found enthusiasm. ‘Say you’re a wonderful photographer and they’d be crazy not to hire you immediately.’
‘I can’t put that.’
‘Hey, there’s no room for modesty in this business.’ He wafts his hand for me to continue typing. ‘I’ll dictate . . .’
And he does exactly that. Walking backwards and forwards he rubs his stubbly chin while I sit hunched over my computer transcribing. Until I finish up with a letter whose tone, I argue, sounds as if I’m ‘blowing my own trumpet’, but which Gabe insists is ‘just selling yourself.
We’re in the middle of bickering about it when the doorbell rings.
‘Expecting anyone?’ Nudging his glasses over the bump on his nose, Gabe peers towards the front door as if somehow he can see through walls.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ I say, getting up.
But Gabe stops me. ‘No, print off the letter and sign it. I’ll get it.’ Putting his mug down he hugs Billy Smith to his chest and pads barefoot into the hallway. As I turn back to my computer screen I hear him shout, ‘It’s probably more flowers,’ and laughing as he opens the door. I don’t pay much attention. The cursor’s winking at me tantalisingly and, filled with confidence, I concentrate on finishing the letter. Is it ‘faithfully’ or ‘sincerely’? I never can remember. I take a guess and am watching it spool out of the printer when I hear, ‘Heather?’
James is standing in my bedroom doorway, dark eyebrows knitted, eyes searching mine as if he wants an explanation.
‘James? What are you doing here?’ I begin, then suddenly remember. Our romantic dinner. My stomach drops into my sheepskin slippers. How could I forget?
‘I waited for you. I was getting really worried,’ he’s saying, sounding all wounded as I sit motionless in my seat, shocked into silence by his appearance. Swiftly followed by the recollection that I’m still wearing my fleecy tartan pyjamas and my hair’s scraped up on top of my head like a pineapple. Mortified, I jump up.
‘I’m sorry, I was just . . .’ I begin to tell James about my job search, then change my mind. ‘Oh, nothing, it doesn’t matter.’ I shut my laptop and smile apologetically. ‘Please, make yourself at home. I’ll just go and freshen up.’ Trying not to make eye-contact as I’m not wearing a scrap of makeup, I gesture round my room. A room that, until a moment ago, was perfectly fine – but which now, seen through James’s immaculately tidy eyes, suddenly looks – I realise, with horror – like a pigsty.
‘Erm . . .’ He smiles uncertainly, but doesn’t move – apart from his eyes, which dart about and finally come to rest on his feet. And yesterday’s G-string, discarded on the floor, all rolled up, crotch facing upwards as if to greet him. Triggering two thoughts: (a) Damn, I missed that. I’ve already done my handwashing; and (b) I want to die.
For a moment I’m so mortified that I can’t think of a decent thing to say. There’s James sending me bouquets of roses and offering to cook me a romantic candlelit dinner, and there’s me offering him dirty knickers and a terrible memory. I look at him. All shaved and polished and smelling divine. He’s looking as handsome as always in a pale blue shirt and jeans.
While I’m a complete mess. I just don’t measure up. He’s so considerate, kind and sensitive, and just so perfect that, next to him, I feel selfish, ungrateful and unperfect. This man has no faults.
I, on the other hand, have a long list:
• My life’s chaotic.
• I forget things, even little things, and have to write myself reminders on dozens of multi-coloured Post-it notes. Which I forget to look at.
• I leave dirty laundry on the floor.
• My sofa’s covered in cat hair.
• I don’t floss.
• My toothbrush isn’t a super flashy Sonic-electric one.
• And I forget to change it every six months so that the bristles stick out at right angles and it’s flat in the middle.
• I have no pension plan and zero savings.
• But I do have an unhealthy obsession with gossip magazines.
• And secretly fancy Ant and Dec.
• Sometimes I don’t feel like making love, I
just fancy a quick shag.
• I slurp my tea.
• And leave rings all over my coffee-table as I don’t own any coasters.
• I’m not really this delicious golden tan. Once a month I go to a little tanning salon in Hammersmith and pay twenty-five pounds to stand naked in a booth wearing paper knickers and a shower cap and have it sprayed on. Yes, that’s right. Sprayed on.
• I am a terrible drunk.
• And I’m even worse at karaoke.
• My fridge hasn’t been defrosted for over a year and I have an iceberg growing out of my freezer compartment that could have sunk the Titanic.
• I have no idea what you do with flavoured olive oils and the ones gathering dust next to the cooker are simply for decoration.
• My culinary expertise consists of sliding M&S meals out of their cardboard packets, pricking the Cellophane with a fork and popping them into the microwave.
• Mould is growing out of a mug next to my bed that resembles a Portobello mushroom.
• Sometimes between waxes I have to pick out ingrowing pubic hairs with my eyebrow tweezers.
• One chocolate Hobnob is never enough. I have been known to polish off the whole packet. Make that two packets.
• I can’t park. There – I’ve said it. May feminism strike me down.
• I don’t really wear scraps of lacy lingerie. I wear unidentifiable grey objects with perished elastic.
• I have unpaid parking tickets. Lots of them.
• I rarely go to the gym, and when I do I usually just end up in the sauna with a face mask and a copy of Now.
And last but not least my most shameful confession of all:
• I have been known to pick my nose. And eat it.
‘Actually, maybe I should get back, check on the food.’
I tune back in to see James backing out of the door. I feel a crash of disappointment. Christ, you’re such an idiot, Heather.
And then, just as I’m thinking how completely I’ve blown it, he steps on Billy Smith’s tail.
There’s an ear-splitting screech. My cat rears up, his jaws wide, and sinks his claws into James’s leg. At which point everything speeds up, like a video being fast-forwarded. James lets out a howl and hops around in the hallway while I flap around him asking if he’s OK. Then Gabe appears with a tube of antiseptic and checks to see if he’s bleeding. It’s like something from a comedy sketch, only it’s not remotely funny.
Be Careful What You Wish For Page 18
