Standing outside my flat, I watch as he accelerates out of my life. He was everything I wished for in a boyfriend, but in the same way that ‘You can’t buy love’ I’ve learned you can’t wish for it either. And, with a pang of sadness, I open the front door and go inside.
Chapter Thirty-three
That night I have the weirdest dream. I’m wearing a suit and walking through the revolving doors of the the Sunday Herald building. Ahead is an office with EDITOR etched on the door and on entering I see Victor Maxfield behind his desk. But when he stands up to shake my hand he’s wearing suspenders and a basque, and we’re not in his office any more, we’re at a wedding and he’s doing the Time Warp and Brian is photographing him and I’m throwing confetti.
Except it’s not confetti: it’s millions of tiny scraps of newspaper. And it’s started raining and the tiny scraps have joined up to make one big newspaper – the Sunday Herald – and it’s got my photograph on the front and I’m holding it over my head and running home in the storm. Then I see the old gypsy woman and gaze into her eyes, which glitter like tiny emeralds, and I watch them change into lapis-lazuli and suddenly I’m not looking into her eyes any more but Gabe’s.
And he’s laughing and laughing, only it doesn’t sound like laughter, it sounds almost like a siren. And even though I’m covering my ears and trying to run away, it’s getting louder and louder and louder—
I wake up with a start. Next to me on my bedside table my radio-alarm is wailing. I slam my hand on the snooze button and am just submerging beneath the covers again when I remember: I have my interview today.
I sit up on full alert, swing my legs over the side and sink my toes into my Ugg boots, which have been relegated to being a rather expensive pair of slippers – such is the fickleness of fashion. Hoisting myself out of bed, I tug on my dressing-gown and open my bedroom door.
The faint sound of the radio is wafting down the hallway, intermingled with a sickly sweet artificial smell. I’ve grown to recognise it these past few weeks: Pop-Tarts.
‘Morning,’ I say automatically, padding into the kitchen in the knowledge that I’m going to find Gabe curled over the toaster with a chopstick in his hand. And, sure enough, there he is, curled over the toaster with a chopstick in his hand, like a spear fisherman waiting for the moment to strike. But this morning he’s so engrossed in singing along to Eddie Bedder on the radio that he doesn’t hear me and I’m treated to an impromptu display of ball-scratching. It’s almost as if he’s playing an imaginary bass guitar, only this Fendi is in his Paisley-printed boxer shorts. Up and down, up and down goes his slow hand, his bony foot with the funny-shaped hammer toe tap-tapping along to Pearl Jam, the back of his hair all knotted up to resemble a sort of sandy Brillo pad.
Transfixed in the doorway I hear James, like a voiceover in my head: ‘. . . but it might have helped if you weren’t in love with another man . . . your flatmate . . .’
Righteousness grips. I mean, honestly. What was James thinking? Me? In love with that?
In the middle of yawning like a hippopotamus, all flared nostrils, hundreds of big white molars and loud grunting, Gabe turns and sees me. His jaws snap shut. ‘Oh, wow, Heather.’ Like a thief who’s been caught with his hands, quite literally, on the Crown Jewels, he yanks one free of his boxer shorts and pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
‘Uh-huh. So I gather.’ I smile sweetly, flicking on the kettle and taking a mug from the cupboard. Feeling his embarrassment radiating like warmth from a storage heater, I innocently continue unwrapping a teabag, adding a teaspoon of sugar and grabbing a new carton of milk from the fridge as if nothing has happened.
‘So, how was last night?’ asks Gabe, trying to be nonchalant. Crossing his legs and leaning back against the kitchen worktops, he tugs at his Mr-T T-shirt.
‘You mean The Rocky Horror Show?’ I say, trying to undo the milk carton. I’ve bent back the wings, like it says in the little diagram on the side, and I’m now pushing them forward to create a spout. Damn, I can never do it properly. In frustration, I tear a hole with my finger like I always do. ‘Or the part where James dumped me?’
Gabe is staring at me blankly. ‘Are you serious?’ he asks.
‘Uh-huh.’ The kettle clicks off and I fill my mug.
He sucks his teeth, then exhales for a very long time. ‘Shit,’ he says eventually. ‘I mean, I’m sorry. That sucks.’
‘It’s OK,’ I shrug, pouring milk into my tea and dribbling all over the counter. Tearing off a paper towel I begin wiping up the spilt milk. It’s true. I do feel completely OK about James because I realised last night that I was never in love with him. I was in love with the idea of him. ‘It was very amicable,’ I add.
I catch Gabe’s eye and he looks down at his feet uncomfortably, as if he’s afraid I’m going to start talking about feelings. But while normally this would have annoyed me, I’m delighted now by such good old-fashioned male avoidance. After my relationship with James I’m relieved not to have to talk about my feelings.
Fortunately we’re distracted by the catflap and Billy Smith, who appears looking somewhat bedraggled. He miaows loudly.
‘Someone’s hungry for his breakfast.’ I stroke his soft fur as he weaves round my ankles.
‘I’m not surprised. He was pretty busy last night. Man, that kitty gets all the booty calls.’
‘Booty calls?’
‘You know, those phone calls late at night from some old boyfriend or a girl you had a fling with, calling you up and inviting you over for sex.’
‘No, I don’t know.’ I pretend to be shocked.
And try not to think about that two a.m. text message I sent to Daniel a few months ago.
‘Well, Billy Smith sure does.’ Gabe is laughing now. ‘I woke in the night to find a couple of stray cats sneaking through that kittyflap.’
I laugh too – it’s impossible not to – and grab a tin of Fancy Feast to scoop it into a bowl while Billy Smith circles me like a shark. I put it on the floor and watch him pounce. His little pink raspy tongue devours it ravenously.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Gabe is watching me thoughtfully.
‘I’m fine. Just a bit nervous.’ I’m thinking of my imminent interview. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell him, and now I can’t wait any longer. ‘I . . .’
But he interrupts: ‘Hey, don’t worry. You’re gonna be fine,’ he rests his hand gently on my bare forearm. ‘You’ve got Billy Smith and me . . .’ He looks at me so intently that I feel a bit weird.
‘No, I’m not nervous about being single,’ I correct hurriedly.
Instantly his face colours and he moves away his hand. ‘Oh, I misunderstood, I thought—’
‘I’m nervous about my job interview,’ I cut him off.
He looks astounded.
‘At the Sunday Herald,’ I add shyly.
‘Whoo-hoo!’ He throws his arms round me. ‘That’s awesome.’
I’m scooped into the air and twirled round, laughing with embarrassment. ‘Hey, it’s only an interview,’ I protest, but his enthusiasm is infectious and by the time he’s plonked me back on the lino I’m wearing a huge smile. Which freezes as Gabe goes to high-five me. Oh, no, not that again . . .
‘Well, whatever.’ He laughs, shrugging off my limp response and rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. Then, refusing to let the American dream be dampened by English realism, he adds confidently, ‘I know you’ll get the job.’
Cradling my mug, I sink into a chair and take a sip of tea. My legs feel a bit wobbly and it’s not from being twirled round. ‘You think so?’ I say, trying to sound cool and casual but failing. Hope is so audible in my voice it’s doing a solo.
‘I know so,’ replies Gabe, fixing me with that look you see on the author photographs of self-help books. You know – the you-can-do-it-even-if-you-think-you’re-crap look.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, but—’
‘But nothing. Why does there al
ways have to be a but?’
‘Because there always is.’
‘Jeez, Heather.’ Gabe sighs in frustration. ‘You’re so goddamn pessimistic. Stop thinking your glass is half empty. This interview is amazing – can’t you be excited?’
‘I am excited,’ I protest hotly, and then, narrowing my eyes, I drawl, ‘It’s awesome.’ It’s a dreadful impression of him but he chortles.
‘Much better. Believe me, you’re gonna get this job. They’d be crazy not to give it to you. When they see how awesome and talented and cute . . .’
Blushing, I roll my eyes at the outpouring of compliments. God, what is he like? ‘. . . your roommate is.’
‘Oy!’ I snatch up the teaspoon, which still has a wet teabag stuck to it, and flick it at him.
‘Hey.’ He yelps as it hits him, splat, in the chest.
‘Bull’s-eye,’ I cry, and we both crack up as the damp splodge of PG Tips spreads out across Mr T’s face.
Then noticing the time on the microwave, I catch myself. ‘Shit, it’s getting late. I’d better jump in the shower.’
‘Sure you don’t want to join me for breakfast?’ He spears a charred lump from the toaster and waves it at me in what I assume is meant to be an enticing manner. His eyes are twinkling.
‘Mmm, tempting,’ I concede, playing along as I meet his gaze.
And then, unexpectedly, my stomach flutters.
What the . . . ? Looking into his big blue eyes I don’t know what comes over me. Suddenly he’s not my flatmate in his underpants, he’s this flirty, half-naked American who’s actually quite sexy . . . Heather Hamilton, what’s got into you?
I snap out of my daze. Christ, I must be having withdrawal symptoms from James. I don’t fancy Gabe. Our relationship is purely platonic. And, anyway, he goes out with Mia, his model-Hollywood-actress girlfriend. He’s hardly going to be attracted to me with my terry-towelling bathrobe and eyebrows that need plucking, is he?
I look at Gabe who’s grinning at me but suddenly I’m feeling quite indignant towards him. ‘Maybe some other time,’ I say stiffly, and do my best model strut out of the kitchen.
Half an hour later, I’m in my bedroom. Showered, blow-dried and deodorised, I open the wardrobe door.
Right. Operation Interview. I begin flicking through the row of hangers dismissively. No, no, no, no . . . maybe. I pause on a pink mohair skirt that cost a fortune in some fancy little boutique, but it’s one of those things that look lovely on the hanger and dreadful on me. In fact, I’ve got loads of stuff like that. There’s this beautiful lace vintage top, which makes me look like someone’s granny, and a gorgeous embroidered jacket from India with all these mirrored bits, which must have taken someone ages to sew on – and which Jess says makes me look like a student bedspread. Honestly, I should start framing some of these clothes and hanging them on the walls instead of pictures.
No, I need a suit. Everyone wears a suit for an interview. And I once had a lovely suit. I wish I still had it . . .
A prickle of static electricity surges through my fingertips, making me jump. What was that? I peer into the wardrobe and see that they brushed the shoulder pads of a jacket. My suit jacket. Aha! I knew I couldn’t have thrown it away. I got it from Jigsaw in the sale, and even then it cost a small fortune. I unearth it from the back of the wardrobe. Just as I remember. Dark grey with a faint pinstripe. Very Great Gatsby. Very hip-professional-photographer. Very Sunday Herald.
Bubbling with optimism, I unhook the jacket and slip it over my naked arms. Hurrah, it still fits. Which is doubly great as it means I’m the same size as I was when I was . . . I attempt a bit of mental arithmetic . . . Well, I’m not sure exactly, but clogs were in fashion so it must have been a long time ago.
Buoyed up by the success with the jacket, I unhook the trousers. Yippee! This is going to be a great look, I just know it. I can team it with that lovely white shirt Jess gave me and maybe my brogues and go for a Diane Keaton in Annie Hall vibe, or maybe I should do T-shirt and Pumas and do that whole androgynous Jude Law thing . . . Carried away by the host of possibilities I step into the trousers and pull them up.
And up. And up. And up.
Shit.
I fasten the button and look at my reflection.
Two words spring to mind. Simon and Cowell.
No, this can’t be. I’ve been thinking hipsters, bootcut, flattering. Not a waistband that’s so high it’s nudging my nipples. Plus – and, believe me, this isn’t a plus – they’re pleated.
I’m aghast. I don’t need Trinny and Susannah to point out the fashion disaster: it’s right there before my eyes. I do a nervous twirl and catch sight of my bottom. At least, I think it’s my bottom. Lost under swathes of gathering it appears to stretch from my ribcage to the backs of my knees. I shudder. This has to be the most unflattering pair of trousers I’ve ever seen. Ever. Did I really wear these? In public?
I could go on for ever, but I’m running out of time. My interview’s at nine and I’ve got to go straight to the office afterwards. Which means, I decide, tugging off my suit and chucking it on to the bedroom floor, it’s time for Plan B. Delving back into the wardrobe I start rifling through the hangers. Now, where was that pink mohair skirt and lacy top?
Two squirts of perfume later I’m all set. Grabbing my black leather portfolio I start a hunt for my keys and mobile. Where are they? I’m going to be late. I dash into the kitchen and sort through piles of magazines and newspapers on the table, then upturn a fruit bowl that’s home to loose change. Damnit. I wish I could find them.
Hang on, what’s this?
I spot my sparkly key-ring under a tea-towel. Fantastic. Now what about my . . . I do a double-take: there, in the fruit bowl, is my mobile phone. But how can that be? I only looked there a second ago. Amazed, I scoop it out and pop it into my bag. Wow, thank goodness for the lucky heather. What would I do without it? I take a deep breath. Now, have I got everything for the interview?
Quickly running through the list in my head, I glance round the kitchen and notice that Gabe’s trainers have disappeared. He must have gone for a run, I muse, and feel a bit guilty for being short with him earlier. Then I notice that he’s left the window open and go over to close it.
Which is when I spot the lucky heather on the windowsill. Gosh, how could I forget that? I pluck it from its vase and hold it tight. Almost instantly I feel myself grow calmer. Gabe’s right. I’ll be fine. Actually, no, I’ll be more than fine, I’ll be awesome. I’m going to wow Victor Maxfield with my skill as a photographer and he’s going to ask me to work for them. Beg me to work for them, I tell myself, enjoying a splurge of confidence as I entertain this happy thought.
Followed by another: telling my family about my super-duper new job. Dad will be delighted as he knows it’s what I’ve always wanted. Ed will be amazed. As for Rosemary, she’ll never be able to boast about Annabel again. Because I’ll have something much better than an all-weather conservatory and a French-speaking nanny. I’ll have a high-flying career!
I catch my breath. My childhood dream is so close I can almost touch it. I pop the lucky heather into my pocket, sling my portfolio over my shoulder and hurry down the hallway towards it. Just think. Me. Heather Hamilton. The Sunday Herald photographer. And pulling open the front door with both hands, I take one small step for mankind and one giant step into my new life.
Chapter Thirty-four
I think I’m going to be sick.
Behind his desk, in one of those chunky high-backed leather chairs that big-shot people spend their days swivelling in, Victor Maxfield is telling me what makes the Sunday Herald the best-selling weekend newspaper in the UK. Sitting opposite him in his large corner office, which has huge glass windows with an amazing view of the London Eye, I’m doing everything those how-to-win-the-job articles always say you should do in interviews. I’m making eye-contact, appearing interested and enthusiastic with occasional nods, cocking my head to the side and murmuring, ‘Really?’ and ‘Abs
olutely,’ and laughing in all the right places at his jokes – even though secretly I don’t really think they’re that funny. But I’m so nervous I still feel as if I’m going to throw up.
Honestly, I had no idea it was going to be so bad. When I arrived fifteen minutes ago and was told to wait in Reception I felt relatively calm. I sipped some water from the dispenser in the corner and flicked through a few magazines. When Margot, Victor Maxfield’s secretary, came to take me up to his office, I made easy chit-chat in the lift about the weather, thinking, Look at me, I’m mature and confident and not in the least bit nervous. It was as if I was the one putting her at ease.
In fact, I was even OK following Margot through the busy open-plan office, although I do admit I had to stare at the carpet the whole time as otherwise it might have been a bit intimidating. But still. I was fine. I was taking it all in my stride, flicking my hair, swinging my portfolio, thinking of how, finally, in the Snakes and Ladders of life, I was climbing up the ladder.
Then I saw it. A door with EDITOR across it in shiny silver letters. Just like in my dream.
And that was when I lost it.
‘. . . and so when our circulation figures surpassed that of every other leading newspaper I went home to my wife and told her the good news. And she said, “Well done, that deserves a nice cup of tea.”’
‘Really?’ I smile.
I’m sweating. I can feel dampness mushrooming out under my lacy armpits, two revoltingly sticky patches. I wriggle selfconsciously, making sure to keep my arms clamped firmly by my sides. Ugh.
‘. . . I’ve lived here nearly twenty years but it must be a British thing, hmm?’ He laughs amiably.
‘Absolutely.’ My bladder twinges painfully. Damn, why did I have that second cup of coffee? I cross my legs, squeeze my thighs together and smile tightly.
‘. . . But enough about me and the paper. We’re here to talk about you . . .’
I can hear Victor Maxfield’s voice in the background but I’m distracted by someone else walking past the office and peering in at me.
Be Careful What You Wish For Page 25
