Be Careful What You Wish For (32 page)

Watching James raking his fingernails through his hair I begin hastily preparing a speech in my head about how much I like him but how things have been moving a little too fast.

‘You’re not in love with me, are you?’

Out of the blue, his words disarm me. ‘Erm, well . . .’ I abandon my gloriously inadequate speech. My knee-jerk reaction is to deny it, to persuade him otherwise. But what’s the point? says a voice inside me. Why try to convince him
when you can’t convince yourself
?

‘No, I’m not,’ I confess. ‘I love everything about you, but I’m not in love with you.’ As the words tumble out I feel an unexpected release. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s OK. I already knew,’ replies James, and throws me a small smile as if to show that he’s not angry with me. ‘That night after dinner when we were in bed and I told you I loved you, I hoped you’d tell me you loved me . . .’

I feel a clench of regret.

‘. . . but you didn’t.’

‘I didn’t? But I thought . . .’ I break off. My memory’s a little blurry due to all that champagne, but I’m sure I told him I loved him. I just wish I hadn’t, I think regretfully.

‘You said, “Me too,”’ says James, quietly. He pulls up at the traffic-lights. ‘And we both know that’s not the same as saying, “I love you.”’

He’s right. I didn’t fool anyone. Not myself. And certainly not James. Meeting his gaze it occurs to me suddenly that I got my wish after all. Yet instead of relief, I feel only sadness.

‘You said it to not hurt my feelings, and I appreciate that,’ James is saying, ‘but it’s not enough. I want all of someone or nothing.’

Unexpectedly I feel horribly inadequate. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with you, Heather.’ He reaches across and slides his thumb down my cheek. ‘But it might have helped if you weren’t in love with another man.’

Incredulity stabs me.

‘You mean my ex? No, you’ve got it all wrong,’ I cry, animated in my denial. OK, I was shocked to hear he was getting married, but I’m not in love with Daniel any more.

‘I’m not talking about your ex.’

I frown in confusion.

‘I’m talking about your flatmate.’

‘You think I’m in love with
Gabe
?’ His words send me reeling, but for the briefest, most fleeting moment I dare to wonder if he’s right. Is that why I hadn’t fallen in love with James? But no sooner has the thought brushed my consciousness than I dismiss it. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I say indignantly.

‘I saw you together in Cornwall,’ he counters.

‘But nothing happened. We’re just friends.’

‘I believe you,’ he continues, ‘but that doesn’t mean the feelings aren’t there.’ He pauses, then says kindly, ‘You might not be able to see it, Heather, but I can.’

The lights change and as we head up Ladbroke Grove towards Little Venice, I look across at James. Despite my indignation, I’m filled with a fondness for him. He’s still being lovely even though we’re breaking up and he thinks, wrongly or rightly, that I’m in love with another man. It makes me doubt my sanity. I mean, we’ve never had an argument, he’s honest and romantic and amazing at foreplay – a bit
too
amazing. The man has no faults. He really is the perfect boyfriend.

And then it dawns on me. ‘You really are the perfect man, James,’ I say quietly. ‘You’re just too perfect for me.’

He looks bewildered.

‘It’s true. We never row, you like the same music, you love romantic comedies, you’re a vegetarian, you buy me Tampax, you know how to find the G-spot without having to ask for directions . . . How
do
you do that?’

‘Confidential information.’ He taps his nose.

‘And you even dressed as Brad for my Janet without me telling you.’ I slump in my seat. ‘Trust you. I mean you’re so damn perfect I feel like a complete mess.’

‘Yes, well, your bedroom was a bit—’ He grimaces.

I blush with embarrassment as we turn into our street. He pulls up outside my flat, but keeps the engine running. ‘Got to go find a space,’ he explains ruefully. ‘You know how it is.’

Actually, no. Since I got the lucky heather I always find a space when I wish for one. But I nod anyway. And then we just sort of look at each other.

‘Well, I guess this is it,’ he says after a moment.

‘I guess so,’ I agree, not quite sure what happens now. I’m used to break-ups that involve tears, arguments and emotions flying all over the place, but this is so amicable it’s ridiculous. I lean across the handbrake and kiss his cheek. “Bye, James.’

‘’Bye, Heather,’ he says pleasantly, and returns the kiss.

I climb out of the car.

‘Look after yourself. And no more flashing at me through the blinds or I’ll have to ring the police,’ he calls after me, as I climb the steps to my front door.

I twirl round. ‘You
saw
me?’

‘Not just me. I was having a dinner party,’ he says, lips twitching. ‘Great tits.’ He winks and buzzes up his window.

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.

 

T
hat 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.’

‘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 always 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.