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

finally.
    I smile sweetly. ‘Sleeping with you.’
    I’m instantly astonished at the fact that these words came out of
my
mouth. Still, this is no time for subtlety, and the effect on him is astounding. He’s stunned into
silence, but one thing’s absolutely clear – he looks perfectly chuffed.
    ‘She
isn’t
– she’s coming home. Come on, Emma. Everyone’s in a taxi outside. We’re waiting for you.’
    I spin round and narrow my eyes at Marianne. ‘Look, Mother Superior, could you leave me in peace?’
    I won’t bore you with the ensuing conversation, except to say that it is a word for word repeat of the earlier one – with a few slurrier words – and culminates in a
‘FINE!’ from Marianne that’s so loud and furious it nearly singes the salsa dancers’ feathers.
    Still, at least I get rid of her, and spin back to Chris. ‘What time do you finish?’ I purr.
    He leans over and brushes my hair away from my face. ‘In two and a half hours.’
    I sit bolt upright. ‘You’re kidding?’ Keeping my eyes open for two-and-a-half minutes is a challenging enough prospect.
    ‘I’m on the late shift,’ he explains.
    ‘But that’s no good
at all
.’
    ‘I’ll make it worth your while,’ he adds with an air of desperation.
    Dejectedly, but with no better offers, I order a double Red Bull, followed by another. I am about to go for a third, but spot myself in the mirror behind the bar.
    I am not the vision of grooming I thought I was – unless you’re comparing me to an Afghan hound on the way to getting its fur washed after jumping in a puddle. One thing’s for
sure: I can’t wait around for – I glance at my watch – two hours and twelve minutes. I need to find someone else. Quickly.

Chapter 11
    Some chat-up lines are corny. Some are classy. Some are memorable, earth-shattering or stop-in-your-tracks offensive. But, even for someone who is no great authority on the art
form, I’m aware that mine is unusual.
    ‘Hello, I’m Emma. Do you think you’re likely to want to leave in the next hour or so?’
    He’s the fifth person to whom I’ve put this question and I’m not sure why I’m persevering. Not that my opening line is the only problem – in three cases I realised
instantly that, close up, they didn’t look remotely like they did from the other side of the room. One transformed from Ryan Gosling to Tom Jones at close range, and it was a similar story
with the other two. The fourth turned out to be a paramedic on his way to a woman who’d gone into labour in the restaurant upstairs.
    I’ve decided that if I don’t get talking to a serious prospect within ten minutes, I’m going home. Only . . . well, the fifth one . . . he has potential.
    ‘Probably. Why do you ask?’
    He looked like Tom Hardy from a distance and while, as with the others, he’s nothing like him up close – he’s still gorgeous. V
ery
good-looking, with dark, cropped
hair, a lovely physique and stubble that’s strangely alluring, even if it looks capable of removing the make-up from my chin with one snog.
    The other physical feature that can’t go without mention is his smell; it’s nothing less than knee-trembling. They say physical attraction is a chemical thing, influenced by the
mingling of pheromones and stuff (clearly, I am paraphrasing the relevant articles in the
New Scientist
here).
    If you buy that, all I can say is his pheromones and my pheromones are getting on like a house on fire. I could sit here and sniff this man all day, if that were considered in any way socially
acceptable.
    ‘I need someone to share a taxi with.’
    He frowns, amused. ‘We might live in totally opposite directions.’ His voice is accentless, erring towards posh.
    ‘Where do you live?’
    ‘At the moment, Crosby.’
    In totally the opposite direction. ‘That’s on the way!’
    He eyes me suspiciously. ‘Are you okay? You seem a little . . .’
    Flirtatious?
    ‘. . . drunk.’
    I straighten my back. ‘I