Make My Wish Come True

by Fiona Harper

  There was a thud from somewhere near the bedroom and the wardrobe assistant emerged, holding a pair of dark trousers. ‘Oh, hi...’ she said airily. Too airily for the blotchy blush creeping up her neck. ‘I was just...you know...doing some emergency repairs on Toby’s leathers.’ She shot him a nervous look and giggled.

  That could have explained Toby’s trouserless state and the slight delay, but Gemma doubted it. Caitlin’s hair was all mussed up and her sweater was on inside out.

  She said nothing. She didn’t care what they got up to—although she’d thought Cait had a bit more sense. All she cared about was getting one hot film star back into his leathers and onto a speeding motorbike.

  ‘All fixed now?’ she asked, checking her watch yet again.

  Caitlin nodded.

  ‘Great. Then perhaps you could help Toby into his clothes, so we can get going?’ She hadn’t been able to help that little inflection. Too tempting. But to take any sting out of the comment, she teamed it up with her best Second Assistant Director smile. Her secret weapon.

  Toby and Caitlin exchanged guilty glances and then he ran a hand through his hair, looking just the tiniest bit sheepish.

  Job done. In one smooth move she’d let them know she wasn’t a pushover, but that she also wasn’t going to get her knickers in a twist about it—as long as Toby was out of that trailer door in full costume in the next five minutes, of course.

  The wry smile he gave her said: Message received and understood.

  She smiled back, a real one this time, and pulled her hood up over her hair, only to discover that in the heat of the trailer her curls had frizzed to twice their usual volume. Fabulous. She jammed her hood over the fluff and headed for the door, bracing herself, and then she was out into the driving wind, clutching her coat closed as she trudged across the car park of the Victorian hunting lodge they were using as their base. She didn’t even take a moment to drink in the rugged scenery: the choppy, grey lough and the ancient rugged mountain that towered over it. She did use the opportunity to mutter a few choice words into the wind, words concerning toddler-brained actors, weather that seemed to have a personal vendetta against her and anything else that came to mind.

  The warmth of Toby’s trailer had made coming back out into the freezing cold even worse, which didn’t improve her mood much. It also sparked a longing within her.

  She wished she really was lazing on a palm-fringed beach. The urge to jump on a plane and do just that when this shoot was finished was becoming irresistible.

  It had been a long job, maybe that was it. She really deserved a quiet, relaxing Christmas when this was all over, before she jumped on another plane to another far-flung location and it started all over again. She sighed. That sunlounger on a Caribbean beach was practically calling her name.

  If only she hadn’t caved in to Juliet’s nagging and told her she’d spend Christmas at hers. Juliet had gone on and on about Christmas the last time Gemma had seen her and Gemma had eventually just blurted something out to keep her quiet.

  It had all been Juliet’s next-door neighbour’s fault. If he hadn’t picked a fight with her, she’d have never had three G&Ts, and then she might have been able to talk her way out of it. At the very least she might have been able to remember exactly what Juliet had said to her. The only thing to do now was to play along and pick up the details piece by piece. Juliet was sure to give her chapter and verse at some point, anyway. Probably in the form of a laminated sheet with idiot-proof instructions.

  But that wasn’t something she was going to worry about at this precise moment. It was time to get one up-himself action star onto the set. She signalled for the luxury four-wheel drive that was ready and waiting, puffs of smoke rhythmically pumping out of its exhaust. Toby emerged from his trailer as it pulled near and ten seconds later the car was speeding away up the drive. When it had disappeared from view, Gemma smiled to herself. Now that was why she earned her lovely fat pay cheque.

  She pulled her phone out of her pocket and called through to a rather harried First AD to let him know that their star was on his way. Fabulous. Time to go and start dishing out those call sheets...

  Her phone had just hit the bottom of her pocket when it buzzed at her again.

  What now? She hoped desperately that they weren’t going to tell her it had started raining again and that she’d be back on A-list babysitting duty within ten minutes. But when she stared at the caller ID she realised it wasn’t either of those options.

  I know you must be terribly busy rubbing shoulders with Brad Pitt or whoever, but I really need to talk to you about Christmas. ;-) Call me. J x

  The cute little winky face didn’t fool Gemma one bit. She could hear the silent screaming that had gone on while her sister had composed her breezy little message. She stared at it as the screen dimmed from bright to half-lit. She knew she needed to talk to Juliet about Christmas. She’d known it for about a fortnight now. But...

  The image of a gently swaying palm tree over golden sand and a cocktail big enough to house goldfish flitted across her mind.

  She sighed.

  She wasn’t in the mood to talk about gingerbread recipes ad nauseam or debate whether to have turkey or goose for the big day. She also wasn’t in the mood to deal with thinly veiled comments on how she lived her life, how often she phoned or if she’d remembered to ask about the kids’ school reports. If she responded now she’d only come across as stressed and defensive. Which she was.

  Later. She’d talk to Juliet later. When she’d finished work. When she had more time.

  When she’d had a couple of gin and tonics, maybe.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER JULIET found herself standing outside the ball pit in the local leisure centre’s soft-play area. She closed her eyes and opened them again, not quite able to believe what she was seeing. There was Great-aunt Sylvia, sitting in the middle of the thousands of brightly coloured plastic balls, looking grim. Apart from her aunt, herself and two uniformed officers, the play area was almost deserted. A few cross-looking mothers were hurrying their children into their coats and shoes and tutting about having to cut short their afternoon’s activities.

  ‘She won’t come out, no matter what we say,’ the petite female officer told Juliet. ‘She keeps asking for Mary.’

  Juliet nodded. Well, no luck there. Her mother had been dead for almost five years. She stepped into the ball pond and waded towards her aunt. ‘Hello, Aunt Sylvia... These nice police officers are wondering if you’d like to come out of here now.’

  Aunt Sylvia shot a withering look at the two uniformed people looking on. ‘I don’t like the look of that girl. Eyes are too close together. She’ll get up to no good when she grows up, you mark my words!’

  Juliet stared at her great-aunt helplessly. Somewhere deep inside she wanted to weep—for the indignity of the situation the old woman was in now, for who she’d become and who she’d forgotten she’d once been—but Juliet didn’t do crying. Not in public, at least. And especially not when everyone else was expecting her to make everything right again.

  She held out her hand. ‘It’s time to go home now, Aunt Sylvia. Come on...’

  Her aunt’s head snapped round as she stopped glaring at the female police officer and transferred her attention to Juliet. ‘Mary!’ she exclaimed.

  Juliet gave her a weak smile. She supposed that in her aunt’s dementia-riddled mind, the boundaries between mother and daughter had somehow blurred. And the older she got, the more she saw her mother’s face staring back in the mirror at her. Same brown eyes, same long nose and high cheekbones. Not exactly pretty, but with enough good bone structure that she’d never be plain, either. But in the last few months the grooves in her forehead had grown deeper and her eyes had become more hooded. Her age—and her divorce—were showing up there now.

 
Sylvia crossed her arms. ‘These people put me in here and won’t let me get out again,’ she said. ‘That’s why I said they had to fetch you. I knew you’d come and sort it all out! You always were such a good girl...’

  ‘I’m not Mary,’ she said soothingly. ‘It’s Juliet. Mary’s daughter.’

  A flicker of confusion passed across the old woman’s features. Juliet inched a little closer, but her aunt, suddenly wary and now doubting the identification of her visitor, just backed away.

  Juliet sighed. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. She lowered herself, jiggling slightly to push the balls out of the way, until her bottom made contact with the slippery plastic padded floor.

  Aunt Sylvia suddenly smiled. ‘Oh, yes! I remember...’ She stared out across the sea of bright plastic for a moment, her lips in a slight curve, lost in a memory that Juliet suspected might evaporate before she managed to vocalise it.

  But then she muttered, ‘Lively little thing, Mary’s daughter. She looked like an angel with those big blue eyes and white-blonde curls.’

  Something inside Juliet sank. After all the hours spent with her great-aunt over the last couple of months...

  She’d been blonder when she’d been little, but her hair had always been straight with a wavy kink. She’d never been blessed with the wispy ringlets her aunt was describing. It wasn’t this sister that Sylvia was remembering.

  Her aunt blinked and turned to her again. ‘You know her, you say? Mary’s little girl?’

  Juliet opened her mouth to explain it all patiently again, but closed it before any sound emerged. What was the point? ‘Yes, I know her,’ she replied wearily.

  Sylvia smiled back. ‘Did she send you to me? She’s been away for such a long time.’

  Gemma hadn’t seen Aunt Sylvia since last Easter, and the old woman could really do with regular visits from people she knew and remembered. Not that Juliet’s twice-weekly sessions seemed to be helping much. Back in the summer Sylvia had nearly always called her by name, even if there had been a handful of days when she’d smiled and nodded blankly, then referred to her as ‘that nice young girl’. But as the days had become shorter and greyer, her great-aunt had grown more and more confused, as if her memory was seeping away with the sunlight. Now she only knew who Juliet was one visit in four, and even then her recollection was patchy, fading in and out, like a badly tuned radio.

  ‘No, Gemma didn’t send me,’ she told her aunt. ‘But she’ll be home for Christmas this year, so you’ll see her then.’

  ‘Oh, good! Do you think she’ll want a sweetie when she gets here? Little girls like sweeties.’ Aunt Sylvia plunged her hands into the plastic balls beside her, not seeming to register the noisy rattling that echoed through the hangar-like building. She pulled her handbag out and rested it on her lap, then rummaged inside before proudly producing a small object, which she held carefully between thumb and forefinger. Juliet thought it might once have been a boiled sweet, but the lint and other old-lady gunk from the bottom of the bag had disguised it almost completely.

  ‘Here it is! Do you think she’d like it?’

  Juliet thought of Gemma, how everything was so effortless for her, how she breezed in and out of everyone’s lives without a care in the world, and she found herself saying, ‘Yes. I think she’d like it very much. Why don’t you save it for her?’

  Juliet had never really considered herself as having a naughty side, but she got a strange warm feeling when she thought of Gemma having not only to suck, but to swallow, the furry little ball of sugar when Juliet dragged her along for her next visit. Because drag Juliet would.

  Sylvia dropped the sweet into a clean cotton handkerchief and placed it carefully back in the corner of her bag. Juliet wondered if it would have grown by the next time she saw it, like a strange kind of handbag snowball, rolling around in the fluff and debris.

  ‘It’s time to go home now,’ she repeated when her aunt closed her handbag and looked back up at her. Aunt Sylvia stared at her blankly for a second then held out a hand for Juliet to grasp hold of. She supported her aunt while she got to her feet, and then guided her back across the floor of the ball pond and helped her over the padded step that led to the main floor of the soft-play area.

  The two police officers breathed out a sigh of relief and offered to take them back to Greenacres, the nursing home that really shouldn’t have lost Aunt Sylvia in the first place. Juliet was most cross about that. It wasn’t as if they didn’t charge enough.

  The offer of a lift for Aunt Sylvia was tempting, but Juliet reckoned they’d get further if she just took the old lady back herself. She was used to Juliet’s car and was possibly less likely to get confused and distressed all over again if someone she knew—or almost knew—drove her.

  Juliet checked her watch and felt her neck muscles tighten. Ten to three. She only just had enough time to take her aunt back to Greenacres, have a firm word with someone in charge, then race to St Martin’s to pick up her youngest three children.

  They were just reaching her car, parked a little oddly in front of the leisure centre, when Juliet pulled up short.

  The turkey!

  Oh, well. There was nothing for it now. She was just going to have to cram that into her already packed schedule for tomorrow.

  It doesn’t matter, she told herself. It’s fine. You can handle it. You’re good at organising and multi-tasking and getting things done.

  Even so, once she’d checked her aunt was strapped in securely, then started up her car and made the ten-minute drive back to the nursing home, the empty row of boxes in her Christmas notebook began to haunt her.

  * * *

  JULIET DRUMMED HER FINGERS on the steering wheel and checked the clock on her car dashboard for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Ow!’ a small voice from behind her said.

  She glanced in the rear-view mirror to see what her youngest three children were up to. ‘Polly, leave your brother alone.’

  Polly stared back at her and pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose, the picture of ten-year-old innocence. ‘I didn’t do anything he didn’t deserve.’ Ten-going-on-forty, that was.

  Juliet unclipped her seatbelt and turned to face her daughter, who was wedged between her two younger brothers in their booster seats. ‘I’ve told you before, Polly, you can’t just rule over your brothers with a rod of iron because you’re older than them.’

  Polly looked unimpressed. ‘Someone’s got to.’ She flicked a haughty look at Josh, who was obviously the accused in this situation. ‘These children are positively feral, Mother.’

  Juliet didn’t have time to argue with a ten-year-old about her parenting skills, so she turned to Josh. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  She looked at Polly, knowing her daughter would be only to happy to testify against him.

  ‘He keeps moving his leg over onto my bit of the seat, and I’m compressed enough as it is. I did warn him I’d make him move it if he did it again.’

  Well, she couldn’t fault Polly’s logic, but she could hardly let her daughter police the rest of the family’s behaviour—they’d all be locked up and sentenced to torture within the week if that were the case. Even Juliet. ‘If the boys give you trouble, you’re supposed to come to me about it,’ she told Polly. ‘Understand?’

  Polly rolled her eyes, but eventually gave her a reluctant nod.

  When Juliet turned back round to face forwards again, she noticed the clock on the dashboard. It was already three forty. Where in the world was Violet? She pulled her phone out of her coat pocket and sent another short and to-the-point text to her daughter, warning her that the taxi service was leaving in exactly three minutes, and that if she wasn’t here by then she’d have to get two buses home instead.

  Just as she was turning the key in the ignition to start up t
he car, the door opened and Violet flopped into the passenger seat with a sigh. She was smiling, looking completely unconcerned that she’d kept the rest of them waiting.

  She laughed, shaking her head. ‘You’ll never guess what Abby just said...’

  Juliet turned the key and revved the car. ‘We’ve all been sitting here in the cold waiting for you, and you know the boys have swimming tonight!’

  Violet’s warm, open expression closed down and she scowled back at her mother. ‘I’m not that late! God, Mum! And I was helping Kiera find her scarf, so it wasn’t my fault anyway.’

  Juliet shook her head, clipped her belt back up and winced at the sound of crunching gears as she put her car into reverse.

  Not my fault... Now where had she heard that before? Violet was turning into a mini version of Gemma.

  As she drove she could see Violet out of the corner of her eye, hunched in the passenger seat, arms folded and scowling. The atmosphere wasn’t improved by the start of a squabble in the back seat, either, as Polly accused Josh of leaving his arm two millimetres further into her space than it should have been, and then Jake jumped in to defend his brother and deliberately drew Polly’s fire by invading her space from the other side.

  ‘Stop that!’ Juliet yelled. ‘Jake, you just kicked me in the back! Now, the three of you calm down and behave yourselves.’

  And then she turned to her eldest daughter. They needed to have a little chat about her attitude, or else she’d turn out just like her aunt, causing mayhem for everyone else then refusing to take responsibility for it, but she realised she was now approaching a mini roundabout that always got clogged up at that time of day. ‘We’ll talk about this later, Vi,’ she said, glancing quickly in both directions. ‘But you’ve got to learn to express your opinions without being rude, because I won’t have you talking to me like...’