Free The Wish List by Jane Costello

you.’
    ‘Not too much, I hope! So, is your job keeping you busy? I’d love to have a good chat to you about it.’
    According to Marianne, Brian is fascinated by my job because of his own aspirations to be a television writer. I’m really trying not to be too sceptical – I mean,
I
manage
to make a living as a scriptwriter despite it being notoriously competitive.
    The difference is that I have a steady job working for an established company, and I’ve learned the ropes over the course of eight years. Brian’s on-the-job experience is limited to
operating the jet wash at Gleamers.
    Despite that, I can’t deny he seems nice; he’s funny and unassuming and he obviously adores Marianne.
    If I hadn’t ever met Johnny – dynamic, entrepreneurial, charismatic Johnny – I probably wouldn’t think twice about her new boyfriend. But I have. And the stark, glaring
contrast between them means it’s impossible to conclude anything other than that Brian is punching above his weight with my sister.
    When I end the Skype call, the rest of my evening becomes dominated by one other very pressing matter: what’s going on – to use Cally’s phrase – ‘down there’.
I will spare you the detail, but say simply this: there is not a shadow of a doubt that something is wrong. Very wrong.
    As I grimly open the fridge, I spot the list and gaze at Cally’s teenaged handwriting.
    After almost two weeks, I’ve managed to cross off only one ‘achievement’ – a one-night stand – and add another unexpected one: I’ve contracted my very first
sexually transmitted disease. What a proud moment. I wonder if I get a certificate?
    The only thing I’ve got in for dinner is a ready meal that claims to be ‘beef hotpot’ but actually contains so little meat I’m convinced the Vegetarian Society would
approve it. After my three-and-a-half-minute dinner, I log onto my laptop in front of the TV for another fun-packed session of Googling medical conditions.
    I flick onto Facebook first. Only, my usual unquenchable desire to look through the wedding photos of people I have never met and never will meet is diverted by the notification of a friend
request. As I scrutinise the name and picture, a tight knot develops in my stomach that I know has nothing to do with the hotpot.
    Matt Taylor.
    My mouth widens enough to swallow a whole mango. It’s
him
. My one-night stand. I click the link to a message.
    Hello Emma,
    I hope you don’t mind me contacting you – you suggested when we met that I should either phone or look you up on Facebook. The number
     you left had seventeen digits, several of which I could recognise only as Ancient Sanskrit, so that was out.
    I just wanted to say that it was nice to meet you. I thoroughly enjoyed the brief time we spent together and your job as an air hostess sounds
     fantastic – I’ve never seen anyone so passionate about what they do for a living.
    Sorry I missed you on Sunday morning. Despite my battered ego struggling to come to terms with the possibility that you never want to set eyes on
     me again, the born optimist in me thought I’d drop you a line in case you were interested in getting together again.
    If not, fair enough. But I couldn’t let you go without saying I think you’re a fantastic woman with an amazing sense of humour and,
     given the choice, I’d love to get to know you. If not, I feel duty bound to say anyway that you do the best in-flight safety demonstration I’ve ever seen.
    Take care and best wishes,
    Matt
    xxx
    PS I
really
hope you didn’t wake up with regrets about Saturday night. If you did, rest assured that I’m a model of
     discretion.
    Regrets? Re-bloody-grets? Well, yes, I’ve got a few, thank you very much, Mr Matt Itchypants Taylor. And that’s without knowing the full details of my in-flight demonstration.
    I storm into the kitchen and make myself a Horlicks to try to calm myself down. It doesn’t work. So I return to my computer and begin hammering