The Wish List

‘You mustn’t use your phone so much, Lenka,’ interrupted Elijah. ‘The government can see everything you can, they know what you’re searching for, they know what you’re rea—’

‘Yes, thank you, Elijah,’ said Stephen, wrestling back control. He had to do this quite often. In a session last month, Elijah insisted that Prince Philip had ordered Princess Diana’s death, which made Seamus, a staunch monarchist, threaten to leave the room. The situation was only resolved when Stephen changed the subject by asking me how I was getting on with my Curtis the counting caterpillar story, a project which had been his idea in the first place. Knowing I loved books, he’d suggested that I give story-writing a go. He’d been right. With the encouragement of the other NOMAD members, I’d come up with the idea and slowly – very slowly – started writing it. I found the process soothing. On bad days my brain would play Consequences with everything I saw (if the next car is red, today will be bad. If there are an uneven number of biscuits in the tin, today will be bad. Three pigeons in the square not four? Bad). Finding a spare hour to write helped calm my mind down, but I guess Stephen had known that.

‘How did this date come about then?’ Jaz asked from the corner of her mouth.

‘Came into the shop,’ I whispered. ‘Although he suggested a coffee. Is a coffee definitely a date?’

‘A coffee with a man you don’t know is a date.’

‘What if it’s a job interview?’

‘Give me strength. Then it would be a job interview. Is he interviewing you for a job?’

‘I don’t think so.’ I explained the episode in more detail: his mother’s book. His intriguing clothes. His return twenty minutes later to ask me for the coffee.

‘There we go,’ said Jaz, folding her arms. ‘It’s a date. A coffee can be a date. They do it in America all the time. What’s he called?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’ she replied, so loudly that it attracted Stephen’s attention.

‘Jasmine and Florence, are we OK?’

‘Yeah, all good,’ said Jaz. ‘And top story, Mary. Really compelling. Carry on.’ Jaz stuck her thumbs up at the front.

Mary, who’d turned her head to look towards us, glanced back at Stephen. ‘Er…’ she faltered.

‘Go on, Mary,’ said Stephen, staring at Jaz with a pointed expression. ‘You were telling us how you feel on the sad anniversary of Humphrey’s death.’

‘Oh no,’ whispered Jaz, slumping forward on her desk. Humphrey was Mary’s parrot. Late parrot. He’d died last year and been the main topic of discussion at these sessions for months afterwards.

We sat in respectful silence for a few minutes while Mary continued, but I knew Jaz wouldn’t be able to zip it for long.

‘So when you going to see him?’

‘Not sure,’ I said, between my teeth.

‘So you don’t know his name, you don’t know anything about him and he dresses like a Victorian undertaker.’ She paused. ‘I dunno about this.’

‘What do you mean?’ I said. I felt as if she’d pricked the bubble in my stomach with a pin.

‘Just be careful. Could be a weirdo.’

‘OK, but there’s one more thing I need to tell you about.’

‘What?’ she hissed.

As quietly and succinctly as I could, I explained about Gwendolyn and the list. ‘Is that weird?’ I whispered when I’d finished. ‘I don’t believe in that stuff but it seems a weird coincidence, no?’

‘You got this list?’ she said. I nodded and reached under my chair to pull the piece of paper from my rucksack.

Jaz smoothed it across her thigh with the side of her hand and read it.

I counted them off on my fingers. ‘One, he dressed well. Two, he was into books. Three, his mother collects cats. And he made me laugh, so he’s funny too.’

‘What was his bum like?’

‘I didn’t see. He looked like he was in pretty good shape. But what if it’s like that Tom Hanks film?’

Jaz snapped her head up and frowned. ‘Which one?’

‘The one where he makes a wish and it comes true, and he’s an adult when he wakes up in the morning. What if this is like that?’

‘You think you’ve written a list describing your perfect man and now it’s come true?’ Jaz looked at me sideways. It was the sort of look you’d give an adult who’d just announced they’d believed in fairies. ‘Girl, you need to get laid.’

‘Yes, all right, so everyone keeps telling me,’ I said, remembering Eugene’s joke about his mum as I snatched the piece of paper back. I felt a flash of bad temper. Yes, I was unpractised when it came to dating, but it wasn’t as if Jaz was the relationship oracle. After Leon, there’d been a succession of boyfriends and the last one, who she insisted was ‘the one’, turned out to have a wife and kids in Solihull.

‘Just be careful, babe,’ she went on, making me feel guilty for such mean thoughts. ‘Listen, why don’t you tell me where you have this coffee, and I’ll come along too? I can sit at a different table like a bodyguard? You won’t even notice me. I’ll be totally incoherent.’

‘Incognito.’

‘Exactly.’

Luckily, Stephen called out Jaz’s name and asked if there was anything she wanted to share, to show Paul how it was done ‘as a valued and long-standing member of the group’. Jaz, inflated with pride, stood up and started explaining her story, beginning with how she knew she had to get help when she was eating Bird’s Eye chicken jalfrezi for breakfast. I sat in my small chair thinking. Should I be worried? He didn’t seem like a psychopath. But maybe that’s what psychopaths wanted you to think? I folded the list before shifting in my tiny chair. Jaz was just being overprotective. I’d meet him in a public place and all would be fine. I just had to remember not to wear my work shoes.

The shop was already unlocked when I arrived the next day. I dropped the keys in my bag and pushed open the door.

‘Hello?’

I expected to hear Norris’s voice from downstairs but no reply. Then I noticed the counter. Usually it was tidy. Order book in place, the previous day’s Post-it notes thrown away, pens in the pot, any paperwork that needed to be looked at by Norris in the in-tray. But the till drawer was open and loose papers covered the counter, held down by a motorbike helmet.

I glanced at the rest of the shop. Books had been moved, too. The biography table was a mess and a pile of hardbacks had cascaded to the floor. I stepped towards it and noticed a mug rolled on its side, its contents making a dark pool on the floorboards. ‘Oh my God,’ I murmured. A burglary! This was a crime scene!

I froze as I heard steps behind me.

‘Hello,’ said a male voice.

I spun round to see a stranger looming over me, a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other.

‘Are you a burglar or a new cleaner?’ I asked, confused. He was huge and, in my defence, dressed like someone who operated mostly at night: black T-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders, black jeans and black Doc Martens boots. He also had wild, curly black hair and black tattoos that snaked down both arms.

‘Neither, as it happens,’ he went on, brushing past me with his cleaning equipment and stepping down into the non-fiction section. ‘But I dropped my coffee while checking this place out so thought I’d better clean it up before Norris gets in.’

How did this giant know Norris?

‘I’m Zach, by the way, nice to meet you.’ He put down the bucket and held out a large hand, forcing me to step towards him and shake it. I felt annoyed at his casual manner. What was this man doing in here throwing coffee?

‘How do you know Norris?’

He started mopping but he was an inefficient mop wringer who transported more water from the bucket to the floor than vice versa, moving it around the floorboards, before dunking the mop back into the bucket and repeating the process. I couldn’t bear it.

‘Give it to me,’ I said, holding my hand out.

‘OK,’ he said, handing the mop over. More dripping on the floorboards. ‘I’m going to make another coffee. Want one?’

‘No thanks. And I hope you don’t think me rude but who are you exactly?’

‘I’m Zach.’

‘Yes, you said. But what do you mean? There isn’t a Zach who works here.’

‘Norris’s nephew,’ he said. ‘Did he not mention me? I’m coming in for a bit. To help with the website. And the social side of things. I’m a photographer but between jobs at the moment and he needed help so, here I am.’ He flung his arms wide as if to demonstrate his physical presence even further.

‘Right,’ I said, as I bent over and tried to get the water from the floorboards back into the bucket. ‘Did you need help with the till?’ I nodded at the counter.

‘Yeah, sorry,’ he said. ‘I was trying to find Norris’s password.’

‘Password?’

‘For his computer, downstairs.’

‘Oh. It’s bottom123.’

‘Bottom?’

I looked up from the mop. ‘It’s the donkey in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, my colleague’s idea of a joke.’

‘You guys sound wild. I’ll be in his office if you need me.’

He headed for the stairs before I could reply and left me mopping with the fury of a woman who’d just found an alien pair of knickers in my marital bed. Such an air of entitlement! And how typical of Norris not to have mentioned him. Improving the shop’s website and social media had been my idea. If this tattooed nephew couldn’t even wield a mop, how was he going to improve our financial situation?

Eugene came through the door minutes later. ‘Good morning, fair colleague,’ he said, sweeping an arm out in front of him. Then he stopped and frowned. ‘What are you doing?’

I wrung out the mop for the last time. ‘Cleaning up after our new colleague.’

‘What new colleague?’

‘Norris’s nephew. Called Zach.’

‘I didn’t know he had a nephew,’ said Eugene, rotating his arm around his neck to unpeel his silk scarf. Then he snapped his fingers at me to get my attention. ‘Maybe he’s related to Shirley?’ he whispered.

‘No idea. Didn’t ask him.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Downstairs.’

‘I might go and say hello.’

I followed him downstairs to stash the mop and bucket back into the cupboard. Zach was hunched over Norris’s computer in his cramped office, muttering at the keyboard.

‘Zach, this is Eugene, Eugene, this is Zach,’ I said, pausing in the office doorway before carrying on towards the windowless basement room that served as both stockroom and staff dining room. On one side of it were boxes and shelves of pristine books, spines uncracked, waiting to go out to customers or replace sold books upstairs. On the other, a rickety wooden table decorated with coffee stains. The loo and cleaning cupboard led off from another door behind the table.

‘Are you joining us full time?’ I heard Eugene say to Zach as I tipped the water into the loo.

‘Not sure, to be honest, mate,’ Zach replied. ‘You don’t happen to know the password into this thing, do you? That girl upstairs said it was to do with a donkey?’

I slammed the cupboard door closed on the bucket and mop while Eugene helped him.

‘Yes, it’s Bottom123 but you need an uppercase “B”.’

‘Ah, thanks, mate, you’re a genius.’

Eugene, the traitor, laughed with pleasure. ‘Not at all. Do you need anything else?’

‘Nah, don’t worry. I’ll wait for my uncle to get here.’

On my way back to the counter, I paused at the office door. ‘I’m going to man the till. Eugene, can you deal with the deliveries?’ Then I looked at Zach. ‘Is that motorbike helmet on the till yours?’

‘Ah, that’s where I left it. Yeah. I’ll come grab it.’

‘You ride a motorbike? That’s very manly,’ said Eugene, in an awed tone.

Oh good, I thought as I climbed the stairs, more testosterone. Just what this place needed.

Norris arrived an hour later as Eugene was telling me about his latest audition for a cross-dressing role as the nurse in Romeo and Juliet.

Eugene opened the door for him. ‘We’ve met Zach.’

Norris looked blank, as if he’d never heard of a Zach.

‘Your nephew,’ I clarified.

‘Oh him,’ Norris replied, unbuttoning his duffel coat. ‘Yes, Zachary. Did I not mention him?’

‘No,’ I replied coolly.

‘He’s very good with computers and all that sort of thing so I asked if he’d help out here. We can all work together on it, of course, but Zach’s a photographer and seemed to have a few ideas so I thought, why not?’

Childishly, I refused to smile back at him as I held out a few envelopes. ‘He’s downstairs having hacked your computer and here’s the post.’

‘Thank you. Everything all right up here?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Eugene, quickly.

‘Grand. Shout if you need me.’

Norris went downstairs and I made a noise of disgust from the back of my throat.

‘I don’t get what’s so bad about him?’ said Eugene, picking up his copy of Romeo and Juliet. ‘He seems nice.’

‘I’m sure he is. It’s just that I’ve been banging on to Norris about the same ideas for months. It’s irritating to have someone else swoop in and take over.’

‘OK, but do you know what I think will help?’

‘A personality transplant?’

‘Maybe, but my suggestion is more immediate.’

‘What?’

‘More rehearsing. We’re about to get to the bit where Shakespeare makes a bawdy penis joke. Come on. It’ll cheer you up.’

‘Go on then.’

We recited lines all morning, breaking off to help the odd customer before getting back into character, then I took first lunch and went downstairs with my Tupperware.

‘Florence?’ shouted Norris, as I tried to scurry past his office to the stockroom unnoticed.

I stopped, briefly closed my eyes and retreated two steps.

I tried never to go into Norris’s office. It was too claustrophobic and untidy: dusty books and yellowing manuscripts were piled on the shelves, ketchup sachets and little salt packets lay scattered across his desk like confetti, pens and dirty forks protruded from an old mug. There should have been health and safety tape criss-crossing the doorway: Enter At Your Own Risk.

Zach, I noticed, had already carved out a small space for himself and a laptop at the end of the desk.

‘Yes?’

Norris cleared his throat. ‘I’ve told Zachary that he can take photographs of the shop floor later.’

‘Content, for the website and Instagram,’ added Zach, turning from the laptop screen to look at me.

‘Oh I see, we’re allowed Instagram now, are we?’ I raised my eyebrows at Norris.

He flapped a hand at me as if I was being hysterical. ‘Yes, yes, well, Zachary’s explained it and it seems like a sensible idea, so could you and Eugene have a tidy up?’

‘After lunch is fine,’ said Zach, his eyes dropping to my Tupperware.

‘Good of you,’ I muttered.

‘What?’

‘Nothing, nothing. Anything else? Can I get anyone a cup of tea? Coffee? A foot massage?’

‘A coffee would be amazing if you’re making one,’ Zach replied.

‘I’m not but the kettle’s in the kitchen.’ I gave him my best fake smile before heading to the stockroom.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. I didn’t even realize I’d counted each mouthful of my sandwich until I’d finished. The arrogance! What did a photographer know about running a bookshop? I’d been here for nearly ten years and suddenly this smug nephew was bossing me about. I tried to read my book but I couldn’t concentrate, so I went back upstairs, told Eugene he could go for lunch and straightened the tables of books in silent fury.

Zach appeared upstairs an hour later, by which point I was back behind the till discussing the previous night’s Masterchef with Eugene.

‘Do you mind if I leave these here?’ He put his laptop and camera on the counter and strolled around the shop floor, squatting every few minutes and narrowing his eyes across the floorboards as if he was on safari and trying to spot a lion in the distance.

‘This all seems very professional,’ Eugene said admiringly, so I kicked him in the ankle.

‘Ow! What was that for?’ he grumbled, bending to rub his leg. Such a baby. It wasn’t even that hard.

‘Trying to work out the best angles,’ Zach said, stepping back towards us and leaning over the counter to look down at Eugene. ‘You all right?’

‘He’s fine,’ I said. ‘And can you not leave your coffee there, please, because it’ll stain the wood.’

Zach picked up his mug and grinned at me. ‘Sorry, madam. Won’t happen again.’

‘Hand it over,’ said Eugene. ‘I’m going downstairs to make tea. Anyone want one?’

‘I’ll do tea,’ I said, intercepting the mug just as Eugene reached for it. I suddenly very much wanted to be in a different room.

‘Thanks. And I’d love another coffee,’ said Zach. ‘If that’s not too much trouble?’

‘No trouble. Milk? Sugar?’

‘Just milk, please.’

‘Sweet enough already,’ joked Eugene as I headed for the stairs, which made me want to kick him again.

Downstairs, I flicked the kettle on and decided to take much longer than I normally would with the tea run. I could probably stretch it out to twenty minutes or so if I really tried, but my thoughts about tea-making vanished when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket and pulled it out to see a message from a strange number.

Hello! It’s Rory, who bought the books from you yesterday. Might you be free for a spin round the Royal Academy and a coffee on Sunday afternoon?

I stared at the screen. Rory seemed the right name for him. Posh, unquestionably, but that was fine so long as he wasn’t the sort of man who still talked about what school he went to and that he wanted to marry a rugby ball. Putting my phone down, I held my breath as I opened the fridge (it always smelled like a very old mouse had died in there) and thought about what to reply. Should I wait a bit? I couldn’t. I was too excited.

That would be lovely! I typed. Was an exclamation mark immature? But the words looked too severe without, as if I was texting a grandparent. That would be lovely! Let me know what time works for you, I decided, adding an ‘F’ and a small ‘x’ before clicking send.

I’d often scrutinized couples in restaurants or in the parks I walked through, watching them laugh together. How had they got to that point? What was their secret? Maybe now it was my turn. Maybe Rory would hold my hand on Sunday and other people would look at us and think, ‘What a nice couple.’ Then I told myself to calm down. This was exactly what had happened in the past: I’d been too eager about someone, wondered how many children we’d have after the first drink and then they’d vanished. But not this time. No, no, no. This time I would get it right.

Before I could hold hands with Rory at the Royal Academy, however, there was a hurdle to clear: dress shopping with Mia, Ruby and Patricia on Saturday afternoon. Mia had made a wedding dress spreadsheet and emailed it to us all so we were ‘prepared’. There were dictators who’d put less effort into military coups than Mia had put into this spreadsheet. It was colour-coded with multiple columns for each dress and space for a final mark out of ten. Who was it by? Was it strapless? A-line? Did it have a fishtail? What kind of silk was it? Where was the lace from? My favourite column on this spreadsheet was the one that asked, ‘Have any celebrities worn this dress?’ I wasn’t sure whether Mia deemed this a good or a bad thing but guessed it depended on the celebrity. Meghan Markle would presumably score higher than Kerry Katona.

Mia, Ruby and I took the Tube from Kennington together. Mia and Ruby discussed dresses while I brooded on what to wear for my date the next day. I hadn’t mentioned this to them. Half of me wanted to scream about it. More of me knew that talking about it would invite unwanted speculation.

We walked down Bond Street towards the boutique. As Mia pushed open the door, I heard Patricia bullying the receptionist.

‘I don’t want too much chest on show,’ she was telling her. ‘Can’t bear these modern brides with their bosoms racing down the aisle before them.’

‘Morning, Pat,’ Ruby said loudly. Calling their mother this was a long-running joke between her and Mia.

Patricia turned round. ‘Ruby, please. You know I hate that. And Mia, I was just saying we’re after something demure. Not too much…’ she flapped her hand around her own chest and then lowered her voice, ‘cleavage.’

‘Mum, it’s my wedding. I could go down the aisle in French knickers if I wanted,’ she replied, as Patricia kissed us all in turn. Her lips left a damp patch on my cheeks.

‘You could but your father and I might not pay for it.’

Mia pulled her laptop from her bag and waved it at her mother. ‘I’ve done a mood board.’

I could already detect the roots of a headache from the candles burning in the boutique. I picked one up and squinted at the label. Meringue-scented. Candles were getting sillier.

‘This is Hilda,’ said the receptionist, as a middle-aged lady with blonde hair pulled into a neat doughnut appeared in front of us. ‘She’ll show you to your changing room.’

Hilda ushered us into a large, well-lit room with one cubicle in it. Cream walls, cream carpets, cream sofa. More meringue candles. An array of bridal magazines fanned on a coffee table.

I flung myself on the end of the sofa and picked up a magazine as Mia opened her laptop.

‘OK, so I’m thinking along these lines,’ she said. ‘Grace Kelly, but with a contemporary twist. Big skirt but structured body.’ She swivelled the screen at Patricia and Hilda.

‘Oh yes,’ said Hilda, smiling approvingly at Mia, ‘a classic.’

I looked back to my magazine. On the front was a model in a strapless dress holding a bunch of white roses. ‘White hot!’ said the cover line beside her. Underneath that, another line read: ‘Cake crazy! The most fashionable flavours this summer.’ How could a cake flavour be fashionable?

‘What his mother REALLY thinks of you,’ screamed another headline.

Our kitchen table had become increasingly weighed down with these magazines in the past two weeks, Mia’s neon Post-it notes sticking up from the pages. Fourteen days. That was all it had taken for her to transform from semi-normal person into a bridebot, incapable of having a conversation unless it was about the thickness of an invitation card.

She stepped into the cubicle but didn’t bother to pull the cream curtain closed as she stripped. For someone so uptight, Mia had a curiously relaxed attitude towards her own nudity. I’d rather have eaten spiders than stand in front of my family in a bra and thong. It made me wonder whether I had to dig out one of Mia’s lacy thongs from the back of my pants drawer for my date. Surely my underwear didn’t matter much for a trot round an art gallery?

While Hilda helped Mia into something that looked more like a marquee than a dress, Patricia’s attention shifted.

‘Florence, darling, how was your session with Gwendolyn? Was it helpful?’

I held my breath, debating how much to share. ‘It was fine,’ I replied carefully.

‘Shit, the love coach!’ said Ruby, dropping her phone in her lap. ‘Sorry, Flo, I forgot to ask.’

‘What did she say?’ my stepmother went on.

‘You guys ever heard of patient confidentiality?’

‘Oh, come on, darling, it’s only us. And Hilda. And we won’t tell anybody, will we?’

Hilda, unsure what she was agreeing to, shook her head at Patricia.

‘She made me write a list,’ I said resignedly.

‘What kind of list?’ asked Mia from the cubicle.

I leant my head against the back of the sofa, eyes closed. ‘A list of whatever I’m looking for in a man. Must be tall and have all his own hair, that sort of thing.’