The Wish List Read Online Free PDF Page B

without her around any more, does it?’
    Stacey screws up her face. ‘Not to speak ill of the dead, but Charles thought she lowered the tone.’
    I tut spontaneously.
    ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, he
liked
her,’ she leaps in. ‘We all did. But you know what I mean. There comes a time when every woman needs to give up topless
sunbathing.’
    ‘Well, I thought she was fantastic and funny and I miss her.’
    ‘Oh yes, me too,’ she says hastily. ‘But it’s good that the apartment isn’t going to be left empty, don’t you think?’
    ‘Of course. When are they moving in?’
    ‘Very soon, I gather. And . . . it’s a
man
.’ The second part of the sentence is loaded with implication, as if this man creature is a strange and mysterious
phenomenon, to be subjected to serious in-depth anthropological research.
    ‘A man,’ I repeat.
    She purses her lips mischievously, her pupils dilating wildly. ‘Mmm-hmm. And he’s good-looking, apparently. Marjory on the second floor saw him with the estate agent. She said
he’s very,
very
handsome.’
    I put my key in the door. ‘Stacey, Marjory thinks Cliff Richard is a great big stud.’
    ‘True. I just thought, seeing as you are single these days, there might be some . . .
po-ten-tial
.’
    I open my mouth to protest that it’s not quite that straighforward. That I might be single now but I’m considering being attached again soon, because Rob is lovely and gorgeous and
maybe I
do
love him after all . . . when I stop myself.
    Not least because my frontal cortex feels like it’s going to melt every time I think about this.
    ‘I don’t think so, Stacey,’ I say simply. ‘Listen, I’d better run. I’ve got a dinner to cook.’
    ‘Ooh – for anyone exciting?’
    ‘Well, yes, actually.’ A little too exciting if the truth be told.

Chapter 7
    ‘Oh – sweetie, don’t do that. Come on, darling. Angel. Ow . . . that
hurts
!’
    Zachary is trampolining on Cally’s knee as she attempts to conduct a conversation that’s been cut short several times amid cries of: ‘
Mummy! Pay me some
detention!
’
    I spent far longer organising Zachary’s dinner tonight than my own, having sourced a recipe for Fussy Eaters’ Pasta on the internet and arranged it with carrot and cucumber
crudités in the shape of a smiley face. The website in question seems certain this will impress any two-year-old. But they haven’t met Zachary.
    Cally finally grapples him into a standing position and ushers him to his chair at the kitchen table, where he narrows his eyes at my culinary offering.
    ‘Go ahead and dish up while I go to the loo,’ Cally tells me. ‘You’ll be all right with Zachary, won’t you?’
    He takes several sharp sucks of his dummy as I wonder when the two Dobermanns are going to arrive at the door.
    To be absolutely fair to Zachary, he’s not the only child to elicit this increase in my anxiety levels. They all do. As a breed, I find them terrifying. I have no idea why –
it’s not as if I was bitten by one in my youth. I just find children, particularly the little ones, terribly . . . unpredictable. And loud. And messy. God Almighty, they’re messy.
    ‘Are you hungry, Zachary?’ I can hear the strain in my voice, like there’s a fork impaled in my tonsils. ‘I hope you like this because Auntie Emma tried very hard to find
something that would appeal to you.’
    Even I know this is a ridiculous thing to say to a two-year-old. I deserve the resultant look of disdain he throws me before turning his gaze to the fresh, puréed sauce, the special pasta
shapes and the lovingly arranged crudités. Then he looks back at me, giving nothing away. It’s like catering for A. A. Gill.
    ‘Tuck in!’ I add, handing him a fork. He stares at the dish, assessing it suspiciously as his lip starts to curl.
    ‘Is everything all right?’ I whimper, but he flings down his fork, crosses his arms, and blurts out a single, loaded word.
    ‘
Yuck!
’
    ‘I made friends