Be Careful What You Wish For (37 page)

I can hear her chattering away in the background an I scan the room for the familiar sight of a red and white packet. My eyes come to rest on the bookshelf in the corner. Aha. Triumphantly I pounce on twenty Marlboros and pull out a cigarette.

The answering-machine cuts her off in mid-sentence. Trust Jess, I don’t think she’s ever left a succinct message. Unlike the owner of the next voice, which sounds short and efficient, as if they’re in a hurry.

I feel a ping of disappointment. Damnit, I was hoping it was going to
be
Gabe.

Huh, so this is the uncle he’s always talking about. I help myself to a lighter and turn to leave. I should’ve known. He’s got an American accent, but it’s much milder than Gabe’s. In fact, it’s really funny but he sounds just like . . .

‘. . . Victor,’
says the voice on the telephone.

Maxfield,
finishes the voice inside my head.

I freeze. Victor Maxfield is Gabe’s uncle? My flatmate is the nephew of my new boss? For an instant I’m numb. Then, like a ten-tonne truck, it hits me.

The message keeps playing, something about changing the restaurant they were meeting in tonight, but I’m no longer listening as my mind’s gone into freefall. That’s why Gabe suggested applying to the
Sunday Herald.
That’s how come I got the interview. That’s why after six years of getting absolutely nowhere . . . Suddenly I feel sick. I clamp my hand across my mouth and sink to my knees.

‘Hey, where are you?’

I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting on the rug, deafened by the sounds of my dreams crashing around me, when I hear the voice. Dazed, I look up and focus on the figure in front of me. It’s Gabe. Standing in the doorway in his motorcycle jacket, he’s staring at me in confusion.

And, staring right back at him, I feel my shock and hurt mutate into anger.

 

G
abe pales. ‘What’s going on?’ he whispers, his eyes searching mine.

‘You know exactly what’s going on,’ I sneer, hauling myself off the carpet. Everything is piecing together like some hideous, hideous jigsaw puzzle: Gabe dictating my application, his unerring optimism, Victor Maxfield’s enthusiasm . . . A flashback of me in his office, showing him photographs, the feeling of pride when he complimented me on them. ‘God, I’m such a fucking idiot.’ I can’t remember ever feeling so angry.

‘Hey c’mon, calm down . . .’ he begins placatingly.

‘Calm down?’ I know I’m shouting, but I can’t stop. The alcohol is pumping through my veins, mixed with adrenaline and fury. It’s a lethal combination. ‘How dare you tell me to calm down, after everything you’ve done?’

‘Done? What have I done?’ he stares at me in bewilderment. Scraping his fingers through his hair, he waits for me to say something. Until gasping with impatience, he turns and drops his helmet on his bed. ‘For Chrissakes,’ he mutters, taking off his glasses wearily and pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘I walk in here and the first thing you do is call me a bastard, and you’re not even going to explain why.’

‘Victor Maxfield,’ I say simply.

I see his back stiffen, a slight hesitation. Then he looks at me brazenly. ‘What about him?’ He shrugs, but there’s no mistaking the guilt in his eyes.

‘Don’t lie to me,’ I snap.

‘When have I ever lied?’

From the rug I glare up at him, hostility oozing from my pores. ‘He’s your uncle, Gabe,’ I say flatly. My words strike him like an archer’s arrow, and I see the flash of understanding in his eyes. ‘I heard his message on the machine about the restaurant. The game’s up,’ I quip cuttingly.

‘It was never a game—’ he protests, steadfastness crumbling.

‘Oh, yeah?’ I interrupt. ‘Pretending to come up with the idea, faking surprise when I got an interview. You should be the actor, not Mia.’ All that champagne has magnified my emotions and loosened my tongue. I’m ripe for a huge row.

But Gabe’s refusing to give me one. Jaw clenched, he’s staring into the middle distance, shaking his head, as if determined not to believe what he’s hearing.

‘Don’t you have anything to say?’ I press, infuriated by his silence.

He turns away from the window to me. ‘Look, I can see why you’d be a little annoyed but you’re making too big a deal out of this.’ He tries to smile, but suddenly I feel as if I’m just one big joke to him.

‘Stop patronising me!’ I yell, as tears of frustration squeeze out of the corners of my eyes. I blink them back determinedly. ‘How dare you say I’m making a big deal out of this? It is a fucking big deal to me.’

‘It doesn’t have to be,’ he tries again quietly.

‘Says who?
You?
Just who the fuck do you think you are? What do you think gives you the right to play God with my life? Don’t you understand? This was my big dream.’

‘And I
know
that,’ protests Gabe, suddenly vehement. ‘That’s
why
I did it. I knew it was what you’d always wanted.’

‘But not like this,’ I wail. ‘Don’t you understand? I wanted to get it on my own merit. I wanted Victor Maxfield to give me this job because he thinks I’m a great photographer—’

‘But you
are
a great photographer!’

There’s a pause.

‘I didn’t want you to find out,’ he says quietly.

‘Why? Because I’d react like this?’ My voice is thick with anger. What was I thinking? How could I have believed I got the job on my own talents?

‘No,’ Gabe is saying evenly, and I can see he’s struggling to remain calm. ‘Because you’ve got real talent, Heather. You’ve shown me your stuff and you just needed a break . . . like we all need breaks,’ he falters, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down furiously. ‘And that day when you said it was your childhood dream to work at the
Sunday Hearld,
and my uncle’s the editor, it was such a coincidence. I mean, what are the chances of that happening?’ For a moment his eyes seem filled with wonderment. ‘It was like fate.’

‘Fate?’ My voice comes out all high-pitched. ‘It’s not fate.
It’s cheating
.’

Gabe turns ashen.

‘You even dictated that stupid letter,’ I continue. ‘Was this one of your jokes?’ Even as I’m saying it I know I’m being cruel but I don’t care. ‘Because if it is it’s not fucking funny.’

Gabe’s expression hardens and I feel a sudden shift.

‘Well, it wouldn’t be, would it?’ Bitterness is audible in his voice. ‘Because I’m not funny, am I? What was it you said on the beach? My jokes are crap. I’m a crap comedian.’

I flinch. Did I really say that? It sounds so harsh. ‘No I didn’t say it like that—’

He cuts me off. ‘Yes, you did. So now who’s the fucking liar, Heather?’

I’m shocked into silence. All the colour has drained from Gabe’s face but for two red blotches high on his cheeks. ‘And, yes, you’re right, I’m going to go up to Edinburgh and probably die a fucking death up there.’

Like a river that’s burst its banks, the argument has changed direction and is rushing furiously out of control.

‘That’s not true, I . . .’

But Gabe’s not listening to me and all at once I feel dizzy and sick.
How did we get here?
Heart thumping, I look fearfully at Gabe. His blue eyes are hard and angry and I want more than anything to make it stop. To rewind. To go back to how we were before.

‘You’re not the only one with dreams, Heather,’ he says, tugging me back into what we’ve become.

‘I know that,’ I whisper. Oh, God, this is awful. Why did I have to hear that message? Why did I drink all that stupid champagne? A wave of nausea hits me and I steel myself.

‘I should go.’

I look up. Gabe’s face is grim. My chest tightens. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ll pack my stuff.’ His eyes are filled with hurt. ‘I was leaving next weekend anyway.’

I hesitate for a second. I know that if I apologise right now I can probably persuade him to stay, that if he leaves I’m going to regret it for ever, that if I don’t say something within the next breath Gabe is going to walk out of my life and I’ll never see him again.

But I’m just too pissed off, too proud, too angry and too goddamn hurt to care. ‘Good,’ I say flatly.

For a second I think I see a flash of disappointment, then it vanishes. ‘Fine,’ He nods. ‘I’ll leave first thing in the morning.’

Our eyes meet, but it’s as if we don’t see each other any more.

I get up shakily and turn to leave.

‘You’re right . . .’

I glance back.

Gabe’s still staring after me, but instead of sadness in his face there’s something horribly like contempt. ‘I made a big mistake.’ He speaks quietly, but his voice is hard and I know he’s not referring to the interview.

I swallow hard, pride sticking in my throat. I am not going to let him see I’m upset. ‘Yeah, me too,’ I reply defiantly, and holding on to my resolve as tightly as I can, I walk out of the door.

 

A
shaft of sunlight pokes its way through a gap in the blinds, stabbing my eyelids with urgent brightness. I let out a piteous moan. ‘Urrrgggh.’

Billy Smith miaows in alarm and jumps off the duvet.

I haven’t had a hangover like this for years. What was I drinking? My brain whirls groggily, and then, like a fruit machine, clicks into place. Champagne. Champagne. Champagne.

Oh, fuck.
Gabe.

Remembering our argument I sit upright, which induces a spinning sensation, then lurch unsteadily out of bed. I reach for my dressing-gown, my feet tangling in the clothes that are strewn across the floor, and pull it tight round my naked body. I catch sight of my puffy, blotchy face in the wardrobe mirror. So much for waterproof mascara.

Last night comes back to me. Listening to the message on the answering-machine, realising that Victor Maxfield was Gabe’s uncle, yelling at him
‘You bastard.’
Flinching, I pad into the hallway, head thumping.

‘
What was it you said on the beach? My jokes are crap. I’m a crap comedian . . .
’ His bedroom door is ajar and I push it open with trepidation.

I stand motionless in the doorway, the shaft of sunlight on the hallway carpet growing wider as my worst fears are confirmed. His room is empty. Shelves once filled with joke books are now bare. Above the little wooden desk, the corkboard that had been covered with a clutter of photographs is blank but for a scattering of drawing-pins. There’s a space in the corner where his guitar used to be propped – I only heard him play it once. Badly, I remember, smiling at the memory of him sitting in the garden clumsily trying to pick out the chords to Bowie’s ‘Life On Mars’.

I glance at the bed and the smile fades. The bedclothes are piled neatly on the mattress, and perching on the edge I hug my knees to my towelling chest. I begin to think of all the silly little things I’m going to miss about Gabe – walking into the kitchen in the morning and seeing him bent over the toaster, pretending not to listen while he reads me my daily horoscope, hitching a ride down to Cornwall on the back of his bike.

Remembering our weekend together, I sigh heavily. God, I miss him already. It’s only been a few weeks since he moved in, but now the flat seems so empty without him,
without his energy.
I catch myself. I’m beginning to sound like him. It’s
so
LA. But that’s exactly what he has. A positive energy that, like a new lens on a camera, makes me look at my life in a different, brighter way.

And now he’s gone.

A furry ginger head appears round the door and Billy Smith pads in. He sniffs round the empty room and miaows accusingly at me. As if I don’t feel guilty enough. Now my cat is blaming me for getting rid of the nice man with the warm lap and fingers that tickled his ears for hours. ‘Sssh, Billy Smith . . .’ I reach out to stroke him but he darts away, knocking over the wastepaper basket as he jumps on to the window-ledge. He can’t leave fast enough. But I have the same effect on everyone don’t I? First Daniel, then Gabe, now my cat . . .

Dismayed, I watch him disappear into the garden, then crouch down to pick up the rubbish that’s spilled on to the carpet. Old cigarette packets, empty Coke cans, an old copy of
Loot . . .

My stomach flips.

It’s the issue from a few weeks ago, the one with my ad for the flatshare – but that’s not what makes me freeze. It’s the small black biro heart that’s been drawn round it.
By me.

I’d forgotten all about it, but now I remember that evening riding home on the tube, dashing off the train, dropping
Loot
in the rush and scrabbling to pick up all the pages. Gabe must have found the ones I’d left behind, noticed the love heart round my ad and called me. Coincidence after coincidence after coincidence. Or is it?

Suddenly I have a flashback: being squashed up on the tube, feeling sad and broke and lonely, staring out into the darkness of the tunnel, wishing I could find an answer to all my problems.

Followed by another: running home in the thunderstorm and meeting the gypsy with the lucky heather who promised me my luck would change and all my wishes would come true.

And then –
poof
– Gabe shows up on my doorstep like my fairy godmother with his magic wand, keeping the credit card companies at bay with his rent, inspiring me to start taking photographs again, being related to the editor of the
Sunday Herald.