Be Careful What You Wish For (24 page)

‘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
un
perfect. This man has no faults.

I, on the other hand, have a long list:

And last but not least my most shameful confession of all:

‘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.

Thankfully, ten minutes later everything has calmed down and on closer inspection it turns out to be just a scratch. James, however, is a bit embarrassed because of the fuss he made but, like Gabe says, it was probably shock rather than the pain that made him yell. ‘Anyway, I’m just relieved you’re OK,’ I say, pouring him a glass of wine as we cluster in my living room.

James takes a sip. ‘Luckily, yes. But those claws were pretty sharp. Haven’t you thought of getting him declawed?’

I freeze mid-mouthful.
‘De-clawed?’

‘Mmm,’ nods James, seemingly oblivious to my horrified expression.

‘But that’s so cruel,’ I protest, snatching up Billy Smith and hugging him to me. I suddenly feel incredibly protective.

‘You’ve got to be cruel to be kind,’ he says simply.

‘Kind to whom?’ I ask.

‘Well, your furniture for a start,’ he says, gesturing towards my sofa, whose legs have been shredded over the years into tiny ribbons. ‘He’s ruining it.’

Staring helplessly at my sofa, I can feel my fantasy of James and I living together happily ever after fading fast. ‘Oh, I don’t care, it’s old,’ I say breezily.

‘I can see.’ He laughs as he sits down and brushes off the cat hairs that cling to his trouser legs – like iron filings to a magnet.

‘I take it you’re not a cat person,’ comments Gabe, squatting down and rubbing his fingers together. Immediately Billy Smith leaps from my arms and pads over to him.

‘Oh, no, I love animals,’ disagrees James, ‘and animals usually love me.’ He smiles flirtily at me. ‘Your cat’s probably just jealous of another male vying for your attention.’

Unexpectedly embarrassed by the compliment in front of Gabe, I smile back awkwardly. This is the first time Gabe and James have met and things feel a little cool between them. But maybe I’m imagining things.

‘And I don’t blame him,’ adds James, reaching out a hand and pulling me on to his knee. I feel a flicker of something from James that might be mistaken for possessiveness. Not that I’d ever mistake it, of course.

‘Hey, I’m gonna go out. Do you want me to post those letters for you?’ Gabe stands up, eyebrows raised questioningly.

‘Oh, yeah . . . thanks.’

‘Letters?’ asks James, with interest.

‘Just bills and crap,’ I say dismissively, then wonder why I didn’t tell him the truth. After all, we shouldn’t be keeping secrets from each other, should we? But then again, I haven’t really talked to James about my job or confessed to him my ambitions. Not that he hasn’t shown an interest. On the contrary. It’s just that when he asked me, I felt so intimidated by how successful he is in his career that I glossed over it.

‘Hang on a sec. The letter’s in my bedroom, I’ll just fetch it.’ I jump up from James’s lap and pad into my room, grab the letter, stuff it into an envelope, scribble on the address and hurry into the hallway, where Gabe’s waiting for me. ‘Thanks,’ I whisper, passing him the envelope.

‘No problem.’

‘Heather?’ James pops his head out of the door and his eyes flit between us. ‘Shall we go?’

I redden. I don’t know why, but I feel as if I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t. ‘Oh . . . yes! Look at the time,’ I fluster.

‘Well, have a great evening, you guys.’ Gabe pulls open the front door. ‘Nice to meet you, James.’

‘And you, Dave.’

‘It’s Gabe,’ I correct him.

‘Sorry, Gabe,’ apologises James, curling his arm round my waist as Gabe disappears. I eye him suspiciously. Did he do that on purpose?

‘Aren’t you going to change?’ James glances down and I remember I’m still in my pyjamas. ‘Oh, yeah . . .’ Honestly, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My mind’s all over the place. ‘I won’t be a minute,’ I add hastily. Damn, I wish I’d got time to get in the shower and wash my hair. I’m such a mess.

‘Don’t worry, I don’t mind waiting,’ says James, pleasantly.

‘But I thought—’

‘Take as long as you want.’ He kisses my cheek and returns to the living room.

Take as long as I want?
I stare after him in disbelief. That’s got to be every woman’s dream. And, dismissing any worries I might have had, I head to the bathroom to shower and get ready. After all, I have a romantic dinner to go to, remember?

 

I
arrive at James’s flat to find it candlelit, the large oak dining-table set for two, and an ice bucket with champagne already chilling. It’s so romantic it’s almost textbook in its perfection. As he takes my coat, pulls out a chair and cracks open the Veuve Clicquot I feel a little overwhelmed.