The Wish List by Jane Costello Read Free Book Online Page A

retort.
    ‘Well, guess what?’ A smile twitches at my lips. ‘I’m doing it.’
    I suddenly feel outrageously confident; outrageously clear. I am free from the shackles of my constant over-thinking and have a moment of clarity that removes any doubt from my mind.
    ‘Why?’ she shrieks. ‘Because I told you
not
to?’
    ‘No, Marianne. Because I am twenty-nine years old and counting,’ I reply, spinning on my heels. ‘And I’m about to do some
living
.’

Chapter 10
    Simply saying those words makes me feel fabulously worldly-wise, a sensation that’s tripled when I make a conscious decision that this is one occasion that absolutely
requires
a fifth drink. So I buy one, before slipping through the crowd like a Bond girl, pretending I’m a woman who lives on cocktails of danger and passion, not M&S ready
meals.
    If I’m going to go to the trouble of
doing some living
, it goes without saying it needs to be with someone gorgeous. I wouldn’t usually approve of putting looks ahead of
personality, but in these circumstances I’d have to make an exception.
    The only way I can reconcile myself with unleashing my inner trollop is if it’s with someone so jaw-droppingly bootilicious that anyone could be forgiven for doing the same.
    Plus, although I’m now seriously feeling the effects of the fifth drink, I’m vaguely aware that Marianne is right and there’s every chance I might regret this. So I need to
mitigate it in the most effective way possible: by thoroughly enjoying it.
    Problem is, there’s no one here better-looking than Rob, who set the benchmark depressingly high. I look down and realise my glass is empty – so plump for one more cocktail in the
perverse hope that I develop beer goggles.
    ‘A French martini, please,’ I ask the barman, and, as I focus through my spirit-induced haze, I realise that he isn’t bad-looking. In fact, the further I lean in to examine
him, the more twinkly eyed, cheeky-smiled and adorably dimpled he is.
    ‘How are you?’ he winks, flashing me a smile that could drop knickers from ten paces.
    I grin. ‘Fine, thanks.’
    Flirting isn’t one of my natural skills; I’m better at Scrabble and cracking my knuckles. But as I force myself to pout and run my tongue subtly across my lips – noting how
well it goes down with the barman – it’s easier than usual tonight.
    ‘Having a good evening?’ He shakes the cocktail, dropping his eyes to my cleavage.
    ‘Ab-so
-lute-
ly,’ I breathe, handing over a note.
    He scrunches up his nose. ‘I’m afraid we don’t take those.’ I glance down and realise I’ve handed over three Tesco Clubcard vouchers.
    ‘Whoops!’ I mumble woozily, rustling in my purse for valid currency.
Dimples
is still smiling when I find some and he gives me my change.
    Over the course of the next half-hour – which I spend chatting intermittently to Chris, the barman – it becomes apparent that I am
definitely in
. His flirting becomes so
suggestive, I feel as though we’re in the first forty-five seconds of one of those special DVDs you can get in Ann Summers.
    I can’t be certain of how much sense I’m making. The French martini had a fairly drastic effect on my ability to think straight and the subsequent Piña Colada finished it off
altogether.
    He looks only vaguely impressed when I tell him I’m an air hostess, having suddenly convinced myself it’d be more of a turn-on than what I really do for a living. But I’m
pretty sure that the button I undo on my top doesn’t go unnoticed, nor does the hair flicking – especially the flicking, which I employ so enthusiastically I almost fall off my
stool.
    I snatch pieces of information about him and learn that by day he’s studying medicine at Liverpool University, but I need to get down to business. I’m now so squiffy I’m
seriously concerned that if I get him into bed, I’ll lose consciousness before I’ve removed my shoes.
    ‘What are you doing later?’ he asks