Be Careful What You Wish For (7 page)

‘The Duchess of Malfi,’
I prompt.

‘It was.’ He’s delighted that I should remember. ‘But at the last minute I changed my mind and signed up for the tournament. It took place in the banqueting hall and I remember walking in and looking for my opponent. And then I saw her, sitting under a shaft of sunlight, waiting for me . . .’

‘A dazzling redhead who played chess like a Russian.’

‘She had me within six moves. Six moves was all it took.’ Lionel shakes his head as if he still can’t believe it, even after all these years.

We fall silent, drinking in the memory like vintage wine.

‘I still miss her,’ I say eventually.

‘I know, darling.’

‘I wish she was here with us right now’

‘Now, that would make me a bigamist.’

I smile wryly at his feeble joke. I know he’s trying to make me feel better but it still hurts. ‘I just wish things were different.’

Puffing at his pipe, Lionel fixes me with his pale grey eyes. They’re just like mine, almond-shaped, with tiny flecks of navy blue round the iris. ‘You mustn’t wish your life away, Heather.’

His face is serious but it doesn’t stop me quipping, ‘Why not?’

He lets a stream of smoke spiral up from the corner of his mouth. ‘Because life’s far too short to waste a single drop of it. Your mother taught me that.’ He pauses to watch a bird hovering by the fountain, its tiny body glistening in the sunlight as it dips its beak into the water. For a moment he is lost in contemplation. ‘You know I once read somewhere that yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift. That’s why we call it the present.’

Absorbing the words I’m struck by its profundity.

I wonder which philosopher came up with that. Presumably some Buddhist monk or another spiritual leader who had spent his life doing good deeds and existing on the love of others. Someone who lived without possessions. Someone who probably didn’t even own a pair of shoes. Let alone a pair of overpriced sandals that ended up in the bin. Suddenly I feel ashamed. ‘Who said that?’ I ask, reverentially.

Having drunk its fill the bird darts away and my dad turns back to me. ‘I think it was Joan Collins,’ he confesses, and linking his arm through mine we begin walking slowly to the house.

 

T
he drive back to London always takes for ever. For some strange reason, never explained to me, the M4 is always ‘currently undergoing roadworks’, which means hours in traffic jams or crawling at 30 m.p.h. through elaborate patterns of orange cones that appear mysteriously during the night. Yet you never see any evidence of any ‘works’ taking place. It’s one of life’s mysteries.

Like crop circles, I muse, accelerating on to the motorway from the slip road and wishing there was no such thing as roadworks or traffic. Just imagine, if it was clear like this all the way I’d be home in no time.

As I speed up I increase the volume to drown the sound of the wind. In preparation for the inevitable delays I’ve made myself some new cassettes. I’ve also packed supplies in the form of a bumper bag of liquorice allsorts. Well, if I’m going to be stranded on the M4 I might as well have
The Best of Duran Duran
and my favourite pink and yellow ones with liquorice in the middle to keep me company. I pop one into my mouth and bite into the soft, sweet coconut.

But twenty minutes into the journey, I’m feeling a little disconcerted. I can’t put my finger on it but something’s weird. Blustering along in the fast lane with the roof down, my hair tucked tightly out of knots’ way in a headscarf I feel as if something’s missing. Music? Nope: Simon Le Bon’s belting out ‘Rio’ at full volume. Food? Nope. I pick a bit of liquorice out of my back molar, then push my hand back into the bag. Headlights? It’s still dusk so I only need sidelights. I check them. Nope, they’re on.

Then I get it.

Orange cones. There aren’t any.

And neither are there any traffic jams. Smiling in happy disbelief, I press my flip-flop against the accelerator. At this rate I’ll be home in less than two hours.

Correction: one hour and forty-two minutes exactly. I know because I check my watch as I turn into my street. It has to be something of a world record. I slow down and idle along the tree-lined pavement. Leaning over the steering-wheel, top teeth over bottom lip, eyes darting from side to side, I begin my usual routine of looking for a parking space. I don’t hold out much hope. In all the years I’ve lived at my flat I’ve never parked outside it.

‘I wish there was a space,’ I murmur, under my breath, ‘just one parking space . . .’

But it’s bumper-to-bumper all the way down my street. I fling myself back in my seat and put my foot down. I’ll have to circle the block. Probably about a dozen times. And end up parking about a mile away. Through unlit streets that are probably swarming with muggers and rapists and . . . ohmygod!

While imagining my generally safe neighbourhood as the kind of gangland ghetto you see in Al Pacino films, I nearly drive straight into a Range Rover. Parked facing the wrong way, it’s indicating right and, as it swings in front of me, I slam on the brakes.

I come to an abrupt halt, my head flung back like that of a crash-test dummy and look up at the windscreen of the Range Rover. ‘Sorry,’ I mouth silently at the driver.

It’s him. My neighbour.

For a moment I’m not quite sure what to do so I sit there as he nods a curt response, swerves round me and roars off down the street. Leaving me sitting there like a right lemon.

I look in my rear-view mirror and watch the grey swirls of fumes round his exhaust, listening to the noise of the four-litre engine as he accelerates away. Typical! I’ve done it again. I’ve bumped into him like a complete idiot. Depressed, I slump over my steering-wheel and rest my forehead on the shiny MG badge in the centre. I close my eyes and I replay the last scene torturously in my head, with the look he gave me as he drove away – then spring up again. Hang on a minute. If he’s gone, that means . . .

There, where the Range Rover was just parked,
right opposite my flat,
I see what any London resident will describe as a modern-day miracle. A parking space.

I hadn’t thought much about what I was going to say to my prospective flatmate. In fact, since I’d put down the phone after our conversation yesterday evening, I hadn’t given the stranger with the American accent and the funny name a second thought. I’d been too busy spending time with Lionel while trying to avoid Rosemary – never an easy task – not to mention enjoying the novelty of driving too fast on the motorway and parking outside my front door.

But now it’s six o’clock. He’s due to turn up in a hour. And I
am
thinking about him. I’m wondering what on earth I’m going to say, what I’m going to ask him, what rules I’m going to lay down. And, most importantly of all, as I stand in front of my wardrobe in my bobbly old dressing-gown, with a towel wrapped round my sopping hair:
what the hell am I going to wear?

I’m no closer to answering this question thirty minutes later when every inch of my bedroom floor is covered with clothes. Denim mini-skirt? Too mini. Beach dress from last year’s holiday to Ibiza? Too hippie. Off-the-shoulder Karen Millen top I’ve never worn? Trying too hard.

Exhausted, I perch on the edge of the bed and stare at the empty wire hangers clanging dolefully inside my wardrobe. Usually in a moment of crisis I’d ring Jess for advice, but she’s in India. I pick my cuticles for a few minutes, and then, in desperation, call her anyway. It goes straight to voicemail. Bugger. I glance at my digital alarm clock: 18:50.

Oh, bugger bollocks. I’ve got to make a decision. OK. As usual I’ve got nothing to wear. OK, so I hate all my clothes. But as I have no credit cards, money or time, I either greet my possible new flatmate wearing a bobbly old dressing-gown with a tropical-fish beach towel wrapped round my head, or . . . ?

Feeling like a chef on
Ready, Steady, Cook
– faced with five minutes to make something fabulous out of a few lousy vegetables and a piece of old Cheddar – I think, Sod it, grab a few items from the bed and start to get dressed.

19.05.
He’s late.
I puff nervously as a cigarette and dart up and down the living room, trying to peer out of the window without anyone seeing me. Nothing. Fiddling absentmindedly with my hair – trying to twist the damp curls into ringlets rather than the frizz that would send John Frieda and his serums into apoplexy – I blow smoke against the glass pane, then catch myself.
Jesus.
I think back to the list of house rules I came up with when I put the ad in the paper.

Number one: no smoking indoors.

I haul open a sash window, then waft my arms around manically, trying to get rid of the smoke. Before realising that I’m still holding the cigarette, which probably isn’t helping. Oh, shite – I stub it out in an empty coffee cup on the mantelpiece. Oh, fuck.

Number two: no using the crockery as an ashtray.

19.12. Maybe he’s got lost. Standing by the back door that opens out on to the tiny patch of grass and honeysuckle that I like to call my garden (and which Rosemary sniffily refers to as my ‘yard’), I sip my drink. I’ve moved on to gin and tonic. Less smelly. And, anyway, I’ve given up smoking, remember?

As I rattle the ice-cubes in my glass, I try to imagine what an American will think of my garden. Probably that it’s quaint. He’s probably never been to England before: he’ll think London is like something from a Richard Curtis film and that Hugh Grant lives round the corner. No doubt he’ll want to ask me lots of questions about our traditions, the Royal Family and David Beckham, and it’s important that I’m the perfect host: gracious, entertaining, welcoming.

19.18.
Where the fuck is he?
Having downed two gin and tonics, now I’m getting antsy. ‘Don’t tell me I’m being stood up,’ I huff, as I stomp round my flat, feeling like a wronged girlfriend. My bladder sends me into the bathroom for a pee. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve gone to all this trouble . . .’ OK, maybe that’s a bit strong when I’m wearing a skirt that needs ironing, an embroidered cheesecloth top I found at the market, and a bit of lipgloss – but, still, I’ve made an effort of sorts. ‘Which is more than he has,’ I huff again, tugging at the loo roll so that it rattles loudly.
‘He can’t even be bothered to show up!’

Flushing, I stand up and give the bathroom an extra squirt of air-freshener, then replace the cap. Which is when I catch sight of the lucky heather, still in its makeshift vase on the windowsill. I’d forgotten all about it, but now, reminded of the circumstances in which I was forced to buy it and irritated by my sentimentality in keeping it, I give the plastic top a quick rinse and put it back on the deodorant. The lucky heather goes into the bin.

Having emptied the bathroom bin in preparation for the American, I head for the silver one in the kitchen. But I only get half-way down the hallway when I decide to make a quick detour via the front room. The plan being I’ll take a last peek through the window and then, if there’s no sign of him I’ll abandon the whole thing and defrost a pizza, I decide, as I lean across the back of the sofa. The plan not being to have my face squashed up against the glass like Garfield on a car window, when someone knocks on the front door.

Startled, I peel my face off the glass.

A blond stranger is standing on the doorstep, wearing a motorcycle jacket and carrying a helmet. He’s checking his reflection in the brass door knocker – brushing his shaggy fringe out of his eyes, pushing his tortoiseshell glasses up his nose, lifting his chin and rubbing a rogue patch of bristles, turning his head from one side to the other side . . .

The stranger is suddenly looking right at me, his large blue eyes filled with curiosity. It throws me off balance and, giving a muffled squeak, I promptly fall down the back of the sofa.

 

‘
I
’m Gabe.’

The first thing I notice are his freckles. He’s got even more than me, and I’m a redhead so freckles come with the territory.

‘Hi, I’m Heather.’ Rubbing my elbow, I show him into the flat. ‘I was, er . . . just doing a spot of housework . . . cleaning the windows.’ I laugh awkwardly. ‘A tidy flat makes for a tidy mind and all that . . .’ Hearing my drivel, I cringe inwardly. Shut up, Heather. Just shut up.

‘I’m a complete pig.’

‘You are?’

‘I was being ironic.’ He smiles. ‘Hard to believe, I know. Being American.’

‘Oh, right,’ I say, feeling even more of an idiot.

His attempt at breaking the ice having failed, there follows a toe-curling silence. I smile uncomfortably.

‘So, can I see the room?’

‘Of course,’ I say hastily, and lead him down the hallway. ‘This is it.’ Pushing open the door I stand back. ‘Not very big, I’m afraid, but it’s got everything. Bed, cupboard, chest of drawers, portable TV . . .’

As I speak Gabe walks into the small, L-shaped room and regards the pale yellow walls, the polished mahogany wardrobe with its delicate inlay and curved doors that the man at Brick Lane market who sold it to me said was from the 1930s. A paper lampshade from IKEA hangs overhead, a sheepskin rug partly covers the bare wooden floor, and I’ve even put a couple of books on the empty shelves: the
Hip Hotel
guides, something by Salman Rushdie and Nick Hornby’s
About A Boy.
Books say a lot about a person so I ignored my stack of chick-lit and
Harry Potter,
in favour of something more literary to make a good first impression. I rub my bruised elbow. Well, that was the idea.

Earlier, I opened the sash window wide to give a full view of the back garden, and now he walks over to it. With his back to me, he leans against the sill, but doesn’t speak. Obviously not much of a talker, I decide, tracing the silhouette of his shoulders. He’s tall – over six foot, at a guess – and much broader than I’d first thought. My eyes travel down the back of his jacket, lingering over the baggy arse of his combat trousers – well, I’m only human – to the tattered hems trailing over his flip-flops. Nope, definitely not my type. Too grungy. Too quiet as well. And when I’d caught a glimpse of his T-shirt under his jacket I could have sworn it had a photo of Mr T from the A Team on the front. I shudder.