Free Be Careful What You Wish For by Alexandra Potter Page B

steps on to the platform and waited for the next approaching train. How everything had felt pretty much the same as always – same film poster of Kate Hudson with one front tooth blacked out, same chocolate vending machine to tempt me, same routine of watching the train pulling into the station, doors sliding open and me climbing aboard, scanning the carriage and wishing for an empty seat.
    At first I hadn’t been able to see a thing for jostling commuters filling the carriage, but then slowly, imperceptibly, people had shifted to the sides until, like the parting of the Red Sea, the aisle was wide open. And there, directly opposite, was – believe it or not – an empty seat.
    ‘That’s it?’ repeats Brian. ‘That’s the reason for your good mood?’
    ‘Yep, that’s it.’ Well, OK, that’s not exactly it. I suppose it’s also got something to do with waking up early, there being no queue in Starbucks, no traffic on my way back from Bath at the weekend, a parking space outside the flat. And then, of course, there’s Gabe, my new flatmate who just so happens to be moving in today.
    My stomach flutters. Not that I’m excited or anything. It’s probably just hunger pangs because I haven’t had any breakfast. ‘Toast anyone?’ Leaving Brian and Maureen staring at me, I disappear into the kitchen and dig out the bread from the fridge. Humming, I unravel the packaging, ‘Hmm . . . hmm . . . hmm . . . hmmmm,’ I take out two slices and suddenly realise I’m humming the Boomtown Rats. Only I’m sorry Sir Bob, I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind. Popping the bread into the slots I push down the lever. I love Mondays.
    By late afternoon the phone hasn’t rung once and Brian’s early joviality has turned sour, a bit like a pint of milk left out in the midday sun. I know he’s worried about the business and after looking at the diary, which is practically empty, I don’t blame him. Taking his advice, I spend my lunch-hour updating my CV, then leave him chain-smoking in the office to make a start on developing the last wedding in the darkroom.
    I usually listen to music while I work but today when I turn on the CD player I discover Brian’s replaced my Gorillaz album with Phantom of the Opera. Much to my shame, I make the alarming discovery that it’s actually rather catchy. In fact, just as I’m getting carried away thinking that maybe Michael Crawford has a better voice than Damon Albarn, I hear knocking and turn down the volume.
    ‘Hang on a sec . . .’ I finish swishing a photograph of the beaming newlyweds in a tray of fixer, then clip it to the washing-line strung over my head and open the door expecting to see Brian.
    It’s Jess. Air stewardess, fellow Zara-shopper and general all-round best friend. She’s wearing her uniform and has her wheelie suitcase with her. ‘Guess what!’
    ‘Aren’t you supposed to be in Delhi?’ I usher her and her suitcase inside the tiny red-lit room. There’s no need for hi-how-are-you between Jess and me. We dive straight in, change topics without warning, offer no explanation to random comments. It’s like we’ve been having one never-ending conversation since we met. Which I suppose we have, really.
    ‘I was. We just flew back.’ She plonks herself on to a stool, turns to me excitedly – then cocks her head to one side, frowning. ‘Heather, are you listening to Phantom of the Opera ?’
    I blush. ‘Oh, that . . .’ I turn it off. ‘One of Brian’s CDs,’ I explain, as Jess stares at me suspiciously.
    ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you that men and musicals don’t mix?’ She takes off her hat and hangs it on the back of the chair. ‘Actually, correction, straight men and musicals.’
    Closing the door, so as not to let in any light, I squeeze past her.
    ‘And I should know. Every steward I fly with is in love with Michael Ball.’ She sighs regretfully. ‘Which is such a waste – some of them are gorgeous.’
    ‘So, what am I