Be Careful What You Wish For Page 12

  Treat? This is torture. I struggle to smile as I take the plate, wondering how to distract him so I can play hide-the-sausage in the shrubbery. ‘Erm, great, thanks,’ I stammer.

  At which point Gabe bursts out laughing. A loud belly laugh followed by a bovine snort as he takes breath.

  I’m astonished. Until I twig. This is his idea of a joke and I fell right for it.

  ‘Your face,’ he doubles up, clutching his stomach, ‘when you ate that sausage.’

  I try not to smile but it’s impossible. ‘You bastard,’ I mutter, mouth twitching.

  ‘Hey, do you blame me? You threw a great big jug of foul-smelling water at me.’

  At the memory I start giggling. ‘You should’ve seen your face.’

  He stops laughing. ‘Well, I guess that just about makes us even.’ He holds out his hand for a high-five.

  Oh, bloody hell, I hate this bit. I always feel like such an idiot. Feebly I bring my hand down against his. ‘For now,’ I can’t help adding.

  Fortunately there are some veggie burgers lurking in the freezer and we put them on the grill, along with some corn-on-the-cob and baked potatoes wrapped in tinfoil.

  After we’ve sorted out the food and he has changed into a T-shirt (I thought the pistachio-green shirt with the ruffle down the middle was bad, but his orange Mr T T-shirt, which I now notice has Velcro hair, is much worse), Gabe pulls out two ice-cold Sols from the fridge, carefully cuts up a lime, squeezes a sliver into each neck and offers me one. I’m much more of a wine person but I can’t refuse. I don’t want to look all English and uptight. Especially after the trouble he took in getting the barbecue and everything.

  ‘. . . And I’ve been doing my stand-up around LA, you know, open mikes, that kinda thing, but going to the Edinburgh Festival has always been a dream so I decided this year I was gonna go for it. I booked a venue, printed up some flyers and I’m taking my show up there for a whole week. Gonna take a shot at that Perrier Award.’

  I’m sipping my beer as I listen to Gabe, who’s now manning the grill, flipping burgers like a pro and rearranging the tinfoil bundles.

  ‘So you just quit your job?’ I ask, from the comfort of the sun-lounger. Wow, this is the life. Having my dinner cooked, being handed beers, lying here not lifting a finger. Now I know what it must have felt like to be Daniel.

  ‘No, a friend and I have a clothes store on Abbot Kinney – it’s a street in Venice that’s got some real cool shops and cafés,’ he explains. ‘Oh, and a great Mexican that does the most awesome chilli rellenos.’ His eyes light up at the memory and he pauses, obviously reliving a chilli relleno moment. Then he realises that I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. ‘You’ve never had a chilli relleno?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Jesus, you’re not serious?’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  ‘Wow, Heather, you have no idea what you’re missing.’ He drops his spatula in horror and wipes his hands on his apron. You’d think he was about to deliver a sermon. Which he is. ‘A chilli relleno is a feast of flavours. It’s a chilli, stuffed with grated cheese, which they deep-fry, then slather in salsa and sour cream. It’s awesome . . .’

  ‘I take it you like your food?’ I smile.

  He’s shamefaced now. ‘It’s a Jewish thing.’

  ‘You’re Jewish?’

  He turns sideways to show me his profile and runs his finger down his nose. ‘Can’t you tell by the schnoz?’

  ‘Hey, at least you have an excuse.’ I turn sideways and do the same with mine. ‘When I was little I used to look at drawings of princesses in fairy-tales and they all had those cute little button noses. It was the witches with the poison apples who had the big hooked ones.’

  ‘You have a great nose,’ protests Gabe. ‘It’s like a toucan’s beak.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ I pull a face. ‘But, anyway, about your job . . .’ Swiftly I move the conversation away from my nose. That’s something I’ve learned as I’ve grown older: don’t talk to men about the bits of your body you’re unhappy with. When I was with Daniel I used to go on and on about cellulite, thrusting my buttocks into his face whenever he insisted I didn’t have any. Until, eventually, I persuaded him I did have cellulite. From then on he went from thinking my bottom was like a peach to saying that, actually, I was right: it did look rather like porridge in a string bag. Well done, Heather.

  ‘Oh, yeah, well, let’s put it this way, my partner owes me a favour so he’s taken the reins for a while. It’s only going to be for a few weeks in any case.’

  ‘And what about your girlfriend, Mia – doesn’t she mind?’

  Gabe blushes. ‘Nah – too many nights spent watching me on the open mike. She probably wanted to get rid of me.’ He’s smiling as he says it, as only a person confident that that’s not the case can. And, from what I’ve seen so far of Gabe Hoffman, I can’t imagine his girlfriend ever wanting to get rid of him. Even if he does tell terrible jokes.

  ‘So, what’s your story?’ He flips a burger and looks at me sideways, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘My story?’

  ‘Yeah, you know, relationship, job, family . . .’

  ‘Oh, that story.’ I drain the last of my beer and balance the bottle on the ledge next to me. ‘I’ve been single since last year when I discovered my boyfriend, whom I lived with at the time, was cheating on me.’

  Gabe throws me a sympathetic look but I move on swiftly. ‘I’ve been working as a wedding photographer for the past six years but now I’m about to lose my job.’

  ‘Aha, I wondered what the pile of résumés was doing on the kitchen table.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly dream of being a wedding photographer, so let’s just say I haven’t had my big break as yet.’

  ‘What about your folks?’

  ‘I’ve got one older brother Ed, and he’s married to Lou – they’re about to have a baby – and then there’s my father, Lionel, who’s an artist and married to my wicked stepmother Rosemary.’

  ‘And your mom?’

  ‘She died when I was twelve.’

  There’s a pause. ‘Hey, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Me too,’ I say quietly, feeling my throat tighten as it always does when I think about Mum. Even now, nearly twenty years later. ‘Not much of a happy ending, I’m afraid.’ I smile ruefully.

  ‘Hang on a minute. Who’s talking about endings? You know what my old grandpa used to say to me? “Son, you’re still at once upon a time . . .”’ He mimics a southern drawl.

  ‘Well, you can tell your grandpa I’m thirty years old.’

  ‘Somehow I don’t think that’ll wash with him. He’s ninety-two.’

  ‘Is this one of those anecdotes with a moral about how we should be grateful because there’s always someone worse off in life?’

  ‘Hey, my grandpa has a great life. He’s just discovered Internet porn.’

  I laugh and hoist myself up from the sun-lounger to walk over to the barbecue. ‘Mmm, that smells good. I’m starving.’ I look hopefully at the tinfoil bundles.

  ‘The corn’s going to be another fifteen minutes and as for the carbs . . .’ He jabs a knife inside one. ‘How do you like your potatoes, madam, hard or hard?’

  ‘In that case I’ve got time to pop to the corner shop for a bottle of wine.’

  ‘Beer too gassy, huh?’

  I wrinkle my nose.

  ‘I’ll apologise now for later,’ he says. Then, seeing my confused expression, he explains: ‘We share a bathroom . . .’

  ‘Oh . . .’ There’s a pause and then, ‘Eeuggh,’ I groan. ‘Too much information.’ I swat him affectionately.

  ‘Sorry. Another Jewish trait, I’m afraid – food and bodily functions.’

  Laughing, I slip on my flip-flops, scoop up my hair and tie it back in a knot. ‘Won’t be a minute. Red or white?’

  ‘You choose.’

  I go to leave, then stop and turn. ‘Gabe?’

  ‘Yeah?’


  I look at my new flatmate, standing in my apron, which clashes terribly with his orange Mr T T-shirt, and feel an unexpected fondness for him. It’s strange, but somehow I feel as if I’ve known him a long time. ‘I love the barbecue. It was really sweet of you.’

  ‘Hey, don’t mention it.’

  ‘And about earlier, with the water . . .’

  ‘Is that how you English say thank you?’ He gives me his big cockeyed smile.

  ‘No. This is how we say thank you.’

  Impulsively I lean over and kiss his whiskery cheek. And before either of us has time to think about what just happened, I hurry inside.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Barbra Streisand is wailing from the tape deck as I enter the corner shop and set off the electronic jingle. Mrs Patel looks up from the unidentifiable purple object she’s knitting and squints at me over the top of her glasses with the same look she gives everyone – forehead furrowed, kohl-rimmed eyes scrunched, tiny mouth pursed in distrust. She can make her entire face pucker round the edges, as if someone was pulling a drawstring on a bag.

  I smile, give a little nod, then head to the back of the shop where she keeps the wine. When I first moved into the neighbourhood, I remember thinking it was going to be a limited selection – a dusty bottle of Liebfraumilch or an overpriced Chianti in a straw basket. But I was wrong. That might be the case with most local corner shops, but this isn’t just any corner shop, it’s Mrs Patel’s corner shop, and although I’d never have guessed it, this tiny Indian lady, with her brightly coloured saris and passion for Barbra Streisand and Barry Gibb, is something of a sommelier.

  Now, in the depths of the shop, I ponder over a bottle of sauvignon blanc. It’s always my preferred choice, but perhaps this time I should get something different. I swing back to the reds. No, too heavy, and red wine stains my teeth. I zigzag back to white. But, then, white is a bit tacky, isn’t it? With its Bridget Jones overtones.

  I sigh impatiently. Gosh, this is harder than I thought. I’m not normally so indecisive. I’ve bought wine here a hundred times and never without the slightest hesitation . . . What’s different? Gabe’s different, I realise, remembering the damp American back in my garden. He told me to choose, but I don’t want to pick something naff. I want to make the right impression, especially after the vase incident.

  I sigh despairingly. Crikey this is tough. I just can’t decide. And then I have an idea.

  Closing my eyes I begin muttering under my breath: ‘Eeny, meeny, miny,’ my eyes firmly closed I let my finger choose a wine, ‘mo.’ But instead of prodding a hard, cold surface, I feel something soft, warm . . . alive? My eyes snap open and I stare at my finger, which is embedded in someone’s shoulder. A man’s shoulder. My neighbour’s shoulder.

  Cue stomach dropping as if I’m in an aeroplane and we’ve just gone through clear-air turbulence and plummeted three hundred feet. I catch my breath just long enough to stammer. ‘Oh . . . sorry . . .’

  Think Hugh Grant on-screen. Now make him female, red-haired and thirty. Well, that’s me. Only this isn’t a movie, it’s real life. My life. My hideously embarrassing life.

  ‘I . . . erm . . . sorry . . . I was just . . .’

  Fuck, this really is terrible. Why do I always have to look like such an idiot around him? No wonder he ignores me. I turn away and pretend to stare fixedly at the shelves. I just wish I could have a normal conversation with him for once. If only to prove I’m not a raving lunatic.

  ‘Choosing wine is never easy, is it? You spend ages reading all the labels, and when you get it home it hardly ever tastes like you expect.’

  Er, hello? Is he talking to me? My eyes travel up from his feet, past the cleft in his chin to his mouth. It’s smiling at me. One of those kind, benevolent smiles you give to old people when their memory is befuddled, or children when they tell you they want to marry their hamster. It’s the type of smile Meryl Streep always does so well.

  My heart sinks. He probably doesn’t recognise me.

  ‘We’ve never been introduced. I’m James. We live opposite each other.’ He holds out his hand.

  ‘Oh, yeah . . . Hi, I’m Heather.’ I try smiling back, but mine’s all wobbly and nervous, like a kid on a bicycle without stabilisers. I go to shake his hand and I could swear he seems to hold mine for just a smidgen too long. But maybe that’s wishful thinking.

  ‘You know, I had a wonderful white from here a few days ago. What was it now? Oh, look, it’s here.’ He drops my hand and reaches for a bottle. I watch him lustfully. He’s probably come here to choose some wine for him and his girlfriend to share, I muse, thinking of the pretty brunette I saw him with last week. Gosh, she’s so lucky. I wish he was my boyfriend.

  Suddenly aware that I’m gawping at him open-mouthed, I snatch the bottle from his hands. ‘Erm, great . . . thanks for the recommendation,’ I say quickly, and turn to go before I make an even bigger fool of myself.

  ‘On the other hand there’s also a great chablis . . .’

  I’ve taken barely two steps before his firm, deep voice comes after me. I’m half tempted to keep walking, to pretend I haven’t heard, but he’s as irresistible as a family bag of Maltesers. You want it. You know you’re going to regret it later. But you still eat the whole thing anyway.

  I give in to temptation and look over my shoulder to see him holding an amber-coloured bottle. ‘Maybe I can tempt you?’ He smiles at me again, but this time it’s not the befuddled-old-people smile, it’s more like a . . . ‘Listen, I’m sorry, I’m not doing this very well, am I?’ Rueful smile? Standing there with a bottle of wine in each hand, he shrugs. ‘You probably think I’m some kind of idiot going on about wine the whole time . . .’ Embarrassed smile? ‘. . . when really I’ve been wanting to ask you . . .’ Nervous smile? ‘. . . if you’d like to go out for a drink some time.’ Chatting me up smile?

  The whole time he’s been speaking I’ve been standing still, frozen in a this-can’t-be-happening to me way as his words string themselves out in front of me, one by one, like clothes on a washing-line. And now they’re just hanging there, waiting for me to do something. But I can’t: I’m in shock. After two and a half years of never even speaking to each other, my gorgeous, handsome neighbour, who just so happens to be the living embodiment of Mr Perfect, has asked me out on a date.

  In a daze I start unpegging the words. For. A. Drink. Some. Time.

  ‘Well?’

  I zone back in: he’s waiting for my answer. But isn’t it obvious? Why on earth wouldn’t I want to go out for a drink with him? Give me one good reason. The brunette.

  I feel a kick of disappointment: he seems so lovely. Followed by resignation: I knew it was too good to be true. Followed swiftly by indignation: the two-timing slimeball. ‘I have no respect for men who cheat on their girlfriends.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘My last boyfriend was unfaithful,’ I explain.

  I’m expecting an admission of guilt, a blush of embarrassment, but instead I get an expression of concern: ‘Oh, er . . . really? I’m sorry to hear that.’ There’s a pause as he stares at me quizzically. ‘I’m sorry, but am I missing something?’

  Respect, honesty, integrity, I feel like saying, as I’m reminded of Daniel. But instead I smile tightly and say casually. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say your girlfriend’s name was?’

  ‘My girlfriend?’

  ‘The pretty brunette.’

  ‘Oh, Christ.’ Finally grasping that he’s been rumbled, he rubs his clean-shaven chin and looks at me. Though not with the slightest guilt, I’m indignant to see, but – could it be relief? ‘For a moment there I wondered what on earth was going on. I thought maybe you had me confused with someone else.’ He smiles, then says, ‘That’s Bella, my little sister.’

  Sister? I feel a jolt of surprise. I don’t know whether to jump for joy or howl with embarrassment.

  ‘Did you want her to come for a drink as well?’ His mouth twitches with amusement.


  I stifle a nervous giggle. ‘No, just you is fine.’

  ‘Great,’ he replies, looking relieved. It’s then that it strikes me: he’s nervous. ‘When are you free this week?’

  ‘Erm, let me think . . .’ I don’t want him to know that the only date I’ve got lined up is with Blockbuster, do I?

  ‘Tomorrow?’ he suggests.

  For a moment I consider playing it cool, which means I’ll end up spending Saturday night on the sofa with a video. Then change my mind. ‘Perfect,’ I reply, grabbing his suggestion with both hands. Sod playing it cool. I’d rather be drinking martinis with James.

  ‘Great,’ he says again.

  And then, for a moment, we just stand there, facing each other, smiling, until we’re interrupted by a middle-aged man in a pinstriped suit who dashes, red-faced and gasping, into the aisle, grabs a bottle of Moët from the fridge, muttering, ‘Bloody anniversary,’ as he squeezes past us and hurries up to the counter.

  We exchange a look.

  ‘Of course, that’s always another choice. Champagne.’ James grins, finally relieving himself of the bottles. ‘If you’ve got something to celebrate.’

  Now, funny he should say that . . .

  By the time I reach my flat, say goodbye to James, who’s accompanied me to the doorstep and kissed my cheek, I’m walking on air. Closing my front door, I lean against it and take a couple of deep breaths. I still can’t believe it. James has asked me out. James is taking me out for dinner – oh, yes, I nearly forgot: on the way back from the corner shop, it progressed from a drink to dinner. James is picking me up tomorrow at eight.

  I run through every way of saying it, partly to see how it sounds, partly to allow my brain to absorb the information. And partly because I want to shout it from the rooftops.

  I, Heather Hamilton, have a date.

  Delighted, I kick off my flip-flops and pad down the hallway into the kitchen. ‘Hey, Gabe, you’ll never guess what . . .’ I hurry through the patio doors and into the garden. He’s not there.

  ‘Gabe?’ I glance at the empty sun-lounger, at the empty beer bottles on the wooden table, at the barbecue that looks as if it’s gone out. I walk over to inspect it. The grill’s bare and most of the coals have turned to powdery grey ash. Already? I check the time on my watch and do a bit of mental arithmetic. If I left at . . . and now it’s . . . Crikey, I’ve been gone for well over an hour! Wow, talk about time flying when you’re enjoying yourself.