Free Be Careful What You Wish For by Alexandra Potter

Newquay and surfers come from all over the world.’ I sit down on the arm of the sofa.
    ‘Wow, that sounds awesome. I’d love to take a trip down there some time.’
    ‘It’s really beautiful, you’d love it,’ I say enthusiastically. Abruptly I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia. It’s ages since I’ve been back – I should take a trip there, visit some of my old haunts. It would probably do me the world of good. ‘You should definitely go.’ I’m talking to myself as much as to him. Perhaps we can go together, share the petrol money. I watch him tickle Billy Smith’s ears, like a pro. Perhaps having a flatmate won’t be as bad as I’ve imagined. Even if it does mean sharing the Le Creuset pans. Talking of which—
    ‘My pans are off limits.’
    ‘Your pans?’
    ‘My Le Creuset pans. They were a housewarming present. You use them for stews and casseroles and stuff . . .’
    I can see from Gabe’s dumbfounded expression that he thinks I’m some kind of loony, but he doesn’t mention it. Instead he laughs and says, ‘Hey, don’t worry about it. I’m more of a stir-fry kind of guy. One man and his wok and all that.’
    There’s a pause, which Gabe breaks first. ‘So, do I pass?’
    I consult my notebook. Admittedly he’s ticked most of the boxes. But . . . I hesitate. I’m still not sure. He seems nice but maybe I should wait. Interview more applicants. Not that there actually are any more applicants, but there might be if I give it a few more weeks. Wait for a non-smoking, female, tidy Japanese student who will always put the loo seat down.
    ‘You’ve dropped something.’ Gabe picks it up from the carpet and holds it out to me. ‘Looks like some kind of buttonhole.’
    I look down at the ribbon-tied sprig between his fingers. It’s the lucky heather. Suddenly I have the strangest feeling. Funny how it keeps turning up. Maybe it really is lucky.
    I take it from him. ‘So, when do you want to move in?’

Chapter Nine
     
    R emember the Boomtown Rats?
    I don’t, really, I was too young, but I remember Ed, my brother, playing their seven-inch single. He would crank up his old record-player and trampoline up and down on his bed singing along at the top of his voice to his favourite song.
    ‘I Don’t Like Mondays.’
    Over and over again.
    Until the divan springs broke. He spent the rest of his teenage years sleeping on a mattress on the floor. To this day he holds Bob Geldof responsible for his bad back. Suffice to say he never played the record again.
    But the song’s stuck with me ever since and I must say, now I’m older, I have to agree with Sir Bob on that one: I don’t like Mondays much either. But this Monday morning is different. This Monday I’m in an extraordinarily good mood and the reason I’ve got a great big smile on my face is because . . .
    ‘You’ve been shagging.’
    As I push open the frosted-glass door that leads into the small office upstairs I’m accosted by a familiar East End accent.
    ‘What?’ I scoop up the pile of mail from the mat.
    Brian is sitting with his feet up on the desk, munching a croissant and eyeing me. ‘That smile. I’d know it anywhere. It’s a shag smile.’
    Rolling my eyes, I tug off my denim jacket and walk over to the old mahogany coat-stand. Every day for the past six years it’s stood in the corner of the office like some kind of scarecrow, overflowing with old coats and jackets belonging to me and Brian that neither of us wants to claim. And every day for the past six years I have gone through the routine of wishing half-heartedly that there was somewhere to hang my jacket, giving up, then flinging it on top. Today’s no different.
    ‘So, come on, who’s the lucky devil?’
    Damn! I wish there was a free peg to hang my coat on.
    ‘There is no lucky devil,’ I retort, then fall silent. Because today, by some fluke, is different. There’s an empty peg. I stare at it in disbelief. How weird. Before slipping my jacket on