Free The Wish List by Jane Costello Page A

a response into the keyboard with such force
that the F pings off and lands in my mug.
    Mr Taylor,
    You’re very perceptive. Yes, I never want to set eyes on you again and, yes, I am consumed with regrets.
    I realise that I was coming on strong. But nobody except the most morally bankrupt would’ve gone ahead with what you and I did – in
     the full knowledge that your little ‘affliction’ was guaranteed to be passed on to me.
    So, thanks for that – the ‘gift’ you left me with. It’s an unpleasant reminder of our time together that, for my part, has
     resulted in a two-hour wait in a clinic I never want to enter again in my life, and symptoms that are getting worse and worse.
    Please don’t bother to reply as I’m going to block you, which I hope you’ll interpret as a clear indication of just how much I
     don’t want you in my life.
    I pause for breath, suddenly stuck for ideas on how to end this rant.
    Thank you and goodnight.
    I hit Send and am about to block him, when I’m compelled to snoop around his page. The man’s given me a venereal disease – I’ve at least got a right to appraise the old
school pictures he’s tagged in.
    There are photos of him with a woman – an attractive woman – and three little boys ranging from about three to seven, who, it appears from the captions, are his sons.
    Aside from that, he’s tagged in pictures of his university days, and a holiday in Mexico with the same woman. He’s an intermittent Facebooker, and the last thing he posted was a
photo of his littlest son in 3D glasses.
    Trip to the cinema ended four hours ago, but Josh thinks this is a snappy new look.
    It’s just as I’m blocking him that I spot the killer line in his personal info. He’s
married
. It’s there in black and white. I suddenly feel very queasy.

Chapter 17
    ‘It’s not a sexually transmitted disease,’ the doctor tells me as I sit before him the following week in the seventh circle of hell (aka the GUM clinic).
    ‘What? But it must be . . . I’m in agony . . . that’s why I’ve come back. I’m not making this up . . . I want a second opin—’
    ‘It’s an allergy.’
    I frown. ‘I don’t get allergies.’
    He throws me a look that I imagine he thinks is sympathetic. ‘You do now.’
    ‘But I thought the results all took at least two weeks to come back.’
    ‘They take two weeks for us to
send
them to you – at the outside. I’ve got them on my computer here. They’re all negative. Of course, you’ll need to return
in a couple of months to repeat some of them, as we’ve discussed. But the only actual symptoms you have are those of a skin allergy. Have you experienced itching anywhere else? Or changed
your washing powder?’
    ‘No, I . . . Oh . . .’ My voice trails off as I remember how much Supasoapa I’ve lavished upon my laundry recently. I glance at my arms and realise I’ve been scratching
at my wrists too. I’d barely noticed.
    ‘So I didn’t get this from my . . .’ I lean in and whisper, ‘
liaison
?’
    ‘I would say not. This kind of sensitivity is very common.’
    I traipse to the office recalling every word of that Facebook message. If it were possible to die from cringing I’d be midway through the embalming process right now.
    I’m turning down Rodney Street when a text arrives that instantly makes my heart twist. It’s from Rob.
    How are things, Emma? xx
    I still can’t get over the fact that he sends me these texts intermittently, despite what I did to him. Cally thinks it’s because he wants to get back with me, but I genuinely
don’t think that’s the case – he is simply an incredibly nice person. Oh God, if only I was still with him!
    I text him back immediately.
    Good, thanks – not much to report.
    Which I know is technically not the case, but the particular details of what’s been vexing me are not for sharing.
    What are you up to? Xx
    His response arrives as I’m pushing open the door to the office.
    Day off today