The Wish List Read online

  Her grandparents were from northern India and, although her mum was Lancastrian through and through, and her dad grew up in Liverpool, she has the dainty, almost doll-like features of a Bollywood princess.

  But don’t let that, or the dulcet voice, fool you. Asha is the most passionate and principled person I know – a teenage feminist who grew into a woman determined to make a difference.

  ‘I feel as though I’ve earned this after the week I’ve had,’ she tells me, taking off her slippers and sliding her feet into the water.

  ‘Heavy week?’ I ask.

  ‘They all seem to be, lately, Em.’

  Asha’s work crises put everyone else’s in perspective. For six years, she’s worked at a domestic-violence refuge at a location in Liverpool that’s secret to all but the staff and its residents. For the last three, she’s been in charge of the place, a position that’s involved tears and frustration but for which Asha couldn’t be more perfect. Her empathy is seemingly endless, as I discovered at first hand in the immediate aftermath of my recent – and very messy – break-up.

  I don’t know why spa days, like dieting and Jennifer Aniston films, are better suited to life when you’re not seeing anyone. I suppose that’s one advantage of my current lack of romantic action. Though I must admit that I’m not entirely happy with this state of affairs.

  It’s not being single as such that disagrees with me. I’m independent enough, so I’ve enjoyed the post-relationship Saturday nights with the girls – and the prospect of never again watching a programme presented by Jeremy Clarkson fills my heart with unrestrained joy.

  But I am missing something from my life – and his name is Rob. Sweet, handsome, devoted Rob, who I think about all the time. So why are we no longer together? That would be because I dumped him. And why did I dump him? Oh. Don’t ask difficult questions . . .

  ‘Aren’t you partaking?’ Asha asks, gesturing at the fish.

  ‘Of course,’ I shrug.

  ‘Go on, then,’ urges Cally.

  ‘I will.’

  I lower my legs slowly towards the water.

  ‘This is supposed to be enjoyable,’ Cally pipes up – completely putting me off.

  ‘I nearly did it then!’ I bluster.

  Cally and Asha exchange looks. And I know it’s time to get on with this.

  So I straighten my back, take a deep breath, and carefully sink my feet into the water as the fish dive towards them. It’s not unpleasant. But it’s not pleasant either.

  In fact, there is only one, single overwhelming adjective I can use to describe it.

  Ticklish.

  Within the split second it takes for this to register, I am literally shaking with it, gasping like a four-year-old with a feather duster under each armpit.

  ‘I wonder if we’ve put too many fish in your tank?’ muses the spa technician helpfully.

  This is all it takes to know I simply have to remove my feet. Now.

  They emerge, Neptune-like, as I catch my breath, paying little attention to the suckers attached to them. Fortunately, most of the fish make a last-minute escape. That’s . . . most of them.

  The exception is the one poor creature that’s happily nibbling my big toe one minute, and, the next, is flying across the room as if it’s been inadvertently caught in a pancake-tossing competition.

  The scene is like a maniacal cross between Finding Nemo and The Dam Busters as the room is brought to a standstill and the fish is propelled in a perfect arch . . . into the spa technician’s sparkling water.

  She screeches, picks up the glass, completes several hysterical circuits of the room then chucks the fish – complete with ice – back into the tank, before turning to me, Estée-Laudered lips contorted into the grimace of a serial killer.

  ‘Well, that was nice,’ I say brightly. ‘Now I’m off to the bar to ask a man to make me something cold with a slice of lemon. And I don’t mean a fruit salad.’

  Chapter 3

  Marianne has always had an eye for cool places. And the Hotel Missoni on Edinburgh’s Royal Mile is dripping in coolness – from the sexy dreadlocked doormen in designer kilts to the fact that Cally bumped into the Kings of Leon in the lift. Literally. She got a high heel caught in the hem of her wide-legged trousers and launched herself head first into the hairy one with the beard. Which wasn’t cool. Neither was the look on his security guard’s face.

  Still, this place is enough to make anyone regret trying to get away with two extra weeks between highlights.

  Apart from that, I’m as comfortable with my appearance tonight as you can be in the presence of a professional model – although, given she’s my sister, that’s something I’ve got used to. And I’m proud to say that I am exactly the same weight as Marianne, give or take a pound.

  Of course, she’s five foot eleven and I’m five foot four, but let’s not dwell on that. Plus, we look alike in some ways, with the same blue-grey eyes, fair hair and generous mouth. The difference is that Marianne has cheekbones you could stand your drink on and her last zit appeared on a camping trip in 1994 and turned out to be a mosquito bite.

  This is only the second time I’ve visited Marianne since she moved here five months ago – although she is planning several trips back to Liverpool in the next few months to pick up various bits of furniture she’s got stored at Dad’s. Even though my sister and I haven’t lived in the same city for years, I never really stop missing her.

  I can’t pinpoint exactly when I ceased thinking she’d been put on earth specifically to ruin my life. I suppose when you’ve grown up without your mum around, having another female in your life goes a long way. Dad did an amazing job of raising us, but he isn’t the sort of man in whom you’d confide about the issues that vex girls when growing up. Marianne and I preferred to maintain the illusion we were the only women on the planet to never experience a period, kiss or underarm hair. I suspect we were all happier with that set-up.

  ‘I can’t wait to show you round the city,’ my sister tells us, crossing her ludicrously long legs. ‘We’ll do the castle in the morning, then climb up Arthur’s Seat, then we’ll go shopping in Princes Street. I only wish Brian wasn’t away this weekend too.’ He’d had to take his mum to visit relatives in Aberdeen last time I was in Edinburgh. ‘Emma, I’m dying for you to meet him.’

  Brian is Marianne’s new boyfriend and, although I haven’t met him yet, I already know this much: I can’t quite understand her enthusiasm for him.

  Obviously, I’m happy that she’s happy – if she is happy. But my worry is that living here with Brian is the complete antithesis of the life she had in London. A life she adored – and who wouldn’t? Two years ago, Marianne had a glamorous career, a devoted man and a trendy Primrose Hill apartment. She was like Gwyneth Paltrow without the pro-biotic jumpers and cabbage crisps.

  Her fabulous lifestyle was unrecognisable from the world she’d left behind as a gawky teenager when she was spotted, aged seventeen, by a scout at the Clothes Show Live. But she seemed to slot in effortlessly – and retained one obvious reminder that she’d never forgotten her roots.

  ‘Do you ever hear from Johnny these days, Marianne?’ asks Asha.

  Cally glances at my sister to see if our friend has put her foot in it, but Marianne shrugs, only slightly awkward. ‘He’s still a Facebook friend. He’s doing well, from what I hear.’

  Marianne was twenty-two when she started dating Johnny Farndon, on whom I, Asha and Cally, especially Cally, had a crush while we were at school. Marianne had never actually spoken to Johnny in those days, but she bumped into him while home at Christmas in 2003 and quickly discovered he’d lost none of the self-effacing charm that had made girls’ knees buckle when he was sixteen.

  He adored her from the start of their romance – it was obvious. Within months he’d left Liverpool and followed her to London, where, over the next few years, he became involved in various bar and restaurant businesses. He was an unfeasibly young and dynamic entrepreneur, successful but
modest too.

  In case you can’t tell, I thought Johnny was great. Johnny is great.

  The only person who can apparently no longer see it is Marianne. She left him for Brian, an aspiring television scriptwriter – who, while he’s in the process of aspiring, works full-time in a car wash.

  She and Brian had been friends for years in London before they became an item and moved to Edinburgh together. And, although he seems nice enough – he must be, because the move was to enable him to be closer to his elderly mother – I remain confounded. The city is fantastic, but Marianne’s modelling work hasn’t been as easy to come by here as in London. And I’ll never understand how she knowingly let someone like Johnny slip through her fingers.

  ‘Didn’t you say you had something to show us, Emma?’ Cally asks, sipping her drink.

  ‘I can’t believe I forgot.’ I open my bag and take out the A4 paper, unable to suppress a smile as I unfold it. ‘Anyone remember this? “Things to do before we are 30 – by Marianne Reiss, Emma Reiss, Asha Safaya and Cally Jordan”.’

  Asha gasps. ‘I do!’

  ‘Me too . . . vaguely,’ says Marianne, clearly dredging the inner recesses of her brain. ‘We did it in your bedroom, didn’t we, Em? While you were revising.’

  Cally and Asha both lived in our street in those days, which was why I was such close friends with them, despite my birthday – a few months after theirs – putting me in the year below them. I distinctly remember enjoying the kudos of having friends in the year above – particularly as they didn’t mind me revising with them during their GCSEs.

  ‘I have no recollection of this whatsoever,’ says Cally, shaking her head vacantly. ‘How depressing. I never realised baby brain could be so acute.’

  ‘Read it out,’ Asha says with a grin. ‘Let’s see if we’ve managed them all.’

  ‘I suggest you lower your expectations,’ I say, clearing my throat. ‘Number one . . .’

  1 Sleep under the stars.

  2 Gain jobs as:-

  • Nursery nurse (Marianne)

  • Head of the Equality and Human Rights Commission (Asha)

  • Carol Vorderman’s replacement on Countdown (Cally)

  • Internationally renowned interior designer (Emma)

  3 Own a cottage in a picturesque Rutshire village (or other location in Riders by Jilly Cooper) and/or learn to play polo.

  4 See the Northern Lights.

  5 Have a one-night stand.

  6 Learn to play the guitar.

  7 Find the man you’re going to marry.

  8 Grow hair long.

  9 Eat at a Michelin-starred restaurant.

  10 Fit perfectly into a size ten dress.

  11 Snog somebody famous.

  12 Jump out of a plane.

  ‘I don’t know what’s more shocking,’ Cally says, as I pass the paper to Asha. ‘The fact that I’ve achieved only one – or that we thought Rutshire was a real place.’

  Chapter 4

  ‘It’s an eclectic mix,’ Asha says, smiling. ‘I’ll give our fifteen-year-old selves that.’

  ‘What was behind some of these?’ I say, scrutinising the list.

  ‘An obsession with Riders,’ offers Cally. ‘That bit I do remember. We all read that book after I’d pinched it from my mum. It was pure filth – absolutely brilliant.’

  ‘That’s where the cottage and the polo came from,’ adds Marianne. ‘But the one-night stand? That’s terrible!’

  ‘I added that,’ confesses Cally. ‘I’ll have been trying to guarantee I’d manage at least one of them. Which I did. More than once.’

  ‘“Learn to play the guitar” was because we loved the Stone Roses,’ I continue. ‘Getting good jobs . . . requires no explanation.’

  ‘What about the Northern Lights?’ asks Asha.

  ‘Emma and I had this lovely picture book about them when we were little,’ Marianne says. ‘Do you remember, Em?’

  ‘Yeah . . . it was about a girl who lived in Norway, wasn’t it?’ I reply. ‘We loved it.’

  Asha frowns at the list. ‘Snog somebody famous . . . I remember that. We’d originally said: “Snog Leonardo DiCaprio, Kelly from the Stereophonics or Keanu Reeves.” But we decided we weren’t being realistic, so opened it up to anybody famous.’

  ‘So, technically, snogging Ed Miliband would count,’ Marianne points out.

  ‘Yes. Why, have you?’ I ask.

  ‘Ed Miliband, no. Though I did have a smooch with the face of Abercrombie and Fitch once.’

  ‘No!’ say Cally and Asha in unison.

  ‘This was pre-Johnny, obviously,’ Marianne continues. ‘His breath smelled of peanuts.’

  ‘There are worse things,’ I say.

  ‘Not when you find one stuck in your teeth afterwards.’

  The list launches a frenzy of reminiscing that takes us through half the bars in the Grassmarket and is disrupted only when Cally and I find ourselves being chatted up.

  ‘I need to tell you now,’ she says, clutching the lapels of her tall stranger, ‘I have absolutely no interest in having sex with you. Don’t get me wrong . . . you’re not bad-looking. Although I’ve had several mojitos so that probably helps. It’s just that nobody goes near my lady bits these days. They’ve probably got rust on.’

  ‘I see,’ he murmurs, shifting uncomfortably. ‘Shall I just leave when my friend gets back, then?’

  ‘I’m not saying that! We need someone to pair up with Emma here and your friend Barry—’

  ‘Larry.’

  ‘He’ll definitely do. Though admittedly Em’s always been fussier than me and—’

  ‘Actually,’ I interrupt, ‘I’m not in the market for this sort of thing either.’

  ‘Of course you are!’ Cally protests. ‘You’ve been moping about Rob for a month; it’s time to get your act together. You dumped him for a reason, remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say solemnly, draining my drink.

  ‘Oh?’ Cally’s man perks up. ‘What was the reason?’

  I’m about to tell him to mind his own business, when Cally steps in. ‘He asked her to marry him.’

  Our admirers last about forty-seven seconds after that. Part of me thinks that’s a shame. Not because I was particularly enamoured with them. But I undoubtedly need something to take my mind off Rob – a fact underlined when I glance at my phone in the taxi on the way to Marianne’s flat and discover a text he sent three hours ago.

  Hope you’re having a fantastic time in Scotland – you deserve it. Love, Rob xxx

  ‘Why does he have to be so bloody nice? And perfect? And lovely?’ I sigh. ‘I broke his heart. He should despise me. Yet he’s still sweet enough to send texts like that – just to show me there are no hard feelings.’

  ‘He can’t be perfect or you wouldn’t have split up with him,’ argues Marianne.

  ‘He is,’ I insist. ‘Which is what makes this so worrying. I strongly suspect it’s me who’s got the problem.’

  ‘Subconsciously, perhaps you’re attracted to men who treat you badly,’ Asha suggests sympathetically. She’s obviously been reading Vagenda today. ‘Lots of women are. You need to train yourself to fall in love with good men.’

  Cally looks at her incredulously and shakes her head. For the past few months, she’s been firmly of the opinion that Asha isn’t qualified to determine what is a good man – a viewpoint she hasn’t been afraid to vocalise.

  Toby, the man with whom Asha is hopelessly, irrevocably in love, has everything going for him. He’s intelligent, caring, has an amazing career as a paediatrician and constantly declares his undying love for her.

  Everything would be wonderful if it wasn’t for one matter: he’s married to someone else. He might have the marriage from hell – with constant rows, daily conflict and no affection right from the beginning. But it is a marriage.

  Asha met him after a bruised woman and her terrified and injured little girl arrived at the refuge and she drove them to the children’s hospital, where To
by was on duty.

  Asha watched as he gently reassured her, even coaxing a smile as he treated her injuries, which fortunately turned out to be minor. Their paths crossed several times again through work, and it wasn’t long before they found it impossible to stay apart.

  ‘Cally, it isn’t that Toby isn’t . . . good,’ Asha insists. Her words might be defiant but, as ever when she discusses this, shame burns unmistakably in her eyes. ‘He’s just in an impossible situation.’

  ‘He’s taken, Asha,’ Cally replies firmly. ‘And he has two kids. He’s not yours. It’s as simple as that.’

  Asha sighs. ‘You’re right. And it can’t go on. One way or another, it can’t go on.’

  We’re silent for a moment after that – and as I reread the text from Rob, I experience a wave of clarity. I pull up his number and go to press Call.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asks Marianne.

  ‘I’m going to get back with Rob,’ I tell her.

  ‘It’s three in the morning!’ protests Cally as my sister grabs my arm, ends the call, and places the phone firmly back on my lap.

  ‘Emma, you weren’t in love with Rob. You were sure about that at the time,’ Marianne argues.

  ‘Maybe I’ve changed my mind. I mean, look at that list. I haven’t achieved a single item. Not one.’

  ‘What’s Rob got to do with the list?’ asks Cally.

  ‘Maybe I did find someone to marry – someone wonderful, worthy and gorgeous. But I chose to tell him he was getting too intense . . . I chose to boot him out of my life and carry on as before.’

  Marianne rolls her eyes.

  ‘Don’t you ever think you haven’t been brave enough in life?’ I put to them all. ‘Because I do. I mean, why didn’t I become an interior designer? Why haven’t I slept under the stars? Why didn’t I move to the countryside?’

  ‘Hay fever?’ offers Cally.

  Asha smiles. ‘Oh Emma, it’s just a silly list.’