I didn’t know where to start, everyone needed something. Mum and Dad, Cerys and Manny and even though she claimed she didn’t, my beautiful, lonely Nan.
‘I just want everyone to be happy,’ I whispered.
‘That’s a lot to ask of a sixpence.’ She placed her mug and teaspoon in the sink, on her way to bed. ‘Make awish for yourself then make it come true, don’t leave the important things up to anyone else, not even fate.’
It was sound advice.
‘I’m off to bed,’ Nan said with a tiny ladylike yawn. ‘I only came to make that Horlicks to help me sleep. That bedroom’s like a furnace, your father must be made of money the way he heats this house.’
Whenever a major decision had to be made in the Baker household, it was made at the kitchen table. So many decisions had been made here, big and small, difficult and easy, from which pizza toppings to get to which universities to apply to. The close proximity to the kettle made it a far more sensible choice than the dining-room table, plus the back door was right there in case anyone needed to make a speedy exit. I could still remember the happiness on my dad’s face when we sat here together and filled out my application for the Abbott & Howe trainee scheme. We went through the best part of an entire box of teabags that day. Now I could simply wish for anything in the entire world and make it happen, no debate necessary.
When I closed my eyes, the first thing I saw was Dev. I could wish for him to fall in love with me and whisk me away to a life of endless bliss. Imagine it, the two of us together for ever. But how dependable and legally binding were these wishes? What happens after the happily ever after? As someone who did not consider direct-to-DVD Disney films canon, I realised you never really did find out what happened after the credits rolled. Were there any loopholes when it came to wishing on a star? As a lawyer, I would like to see the contract first.Imagine if you only found out Prince Charming was actually a racist who never cleaned the toiletafteryou married him? Poor Cinders. You had to assume divorce law was complicated in those times.The Little Mermaidwas the perfect example of someone who didn’t read the fine print. Make a deal with a Sea Witch, almost end up as plankton. And I never had been convinced of their happily ever after, emotionally healthy young men don’t marry a sixteen-year-old fish-child simply because they’re very pretty, good at karaoke and their dog likes them. That marriage was doomed from the start.
I didn’t want Dev to be with me because I’d wished for it. Life was about choices, me making mine, him making his. As someone who struggled to choose between a hoisin duck wrap and a pole-caught tuna baguette at lunch, I couldn’t think of anything more romantic than someone choosing you and you choosing them right back, every single day for the rest of your lives. Wishing for it wouldn’t feel right.
Placing the sixpence on the table, I pushed it around in circles with the tip of my finger, thinking of everything that had happened over the last ten days. Confronting Michael, fixing things with Cerys, telling my dad I’d decided to leave my job, and so much more. I’d done those things all by myself, I made them happen. I had so much more power than I knew. I hadn’t been stuck for the last ten days, it had been much longer than that. Months. Years maybe. But no more.
‘All I want is tomorrow,’ I said, sliding the coin off the edge of the table and squeezing it so tightly, I was sure it would leave an imprint on the palm of my hand. ‘That’s my wish. I wish for tomorrow.’
It wasn’t very romantic. It wasn’t dramatic or spectacular, but it was more than anyone had the right to ask for. To wake up in the morning and find the world still turning.
Slipping the sixpence into my pocket, I walked over to the sink and washed out my mug, looking out at the snow-covered garden. Everything sparkled with stillness, not a single footprint in the snow, and I wondered if it would still be there when I woke up or if I’d be right back where I started. You could keep your endless riches and your prince charmings.
A tomorrow would be more than enough for me.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I woke up to the sound of someone banging on my door and calling my name.
‘Gwen? Are you up?’
So the sixpence hadn’t worked.
It was crushing. I’d really believed it might be different this time. I stayed under the covers, refusing to cry, and tried to think happy thoughts. Chris Hemsworth’s triceps, Cadbury’s Caramilk chocolate, Bennifer getting back together. I had been gifted with an eternity to read all those daily deal books I’d downloaded to my Kindle and never, ever even opened. Or at least start a couple of them. I would find a way to deal with this. I would find a way to survive. Except I didn’t have any Caramilk and all the shops were closed.
I would never eat Caramilk again.
‘What are you doing still in bed?’ asked the voice at the door.
‘Contemplating existential dread,’ I said, choking back a sob from underneath my blankets.
‘Well can you do it somewhere other than the dining room? I want to hoover up before lunch.’
My dad wanted to hoover? I wasn’t even sure Steven Baker knew what a vacuum cleaner was. I threw off a blanket that was not my duvet and rolled into the red-hot radiator, searing the flesh on my arse and waking me right up.
‘What day is it?’ I yelled, fighting with the camp bed as I scrambled upright. The disembodied voice at the door was not my father’s, it belonged to my mum, and I wasn’t in my bedroom, I was in the dining room, right where I’d gone to sleep the night before.
‘It’s Monday, Boxing Day,’ she replied, standing over me in a pair of jeans and the deep green jumper Cerys gave heryesterday. ‘How much did you have to drink last night?’
The sun shone brighter, the sound of children’s laughter filled the air and the world even smelled sweeter – or had Mum finally uncorked the bottle of Estée Lauder Beautiful I’d watched her unwrap ten times? Didn’t matter. Whatever it was, it was glorious. My life had meaning again. The promise of Caramilk was back on the table.
‘I don’t believe it,’ I said, scrambling around on the floor for my phone. There it was. December 26th. Zero texts from Aunt Gloria and one WhatsApp from Manny that just said ‘thank you’ seventy-four times in a row with an aubergine emoji at the end.
‘Gwen, are you feeling all right?’ Mum asked as I leapt to my feet, the camp bed snapping shut like a Venus flytrap behind me.
‘Better than all right,’ I replied, sweeping her up in agiant hug and squeezing until she squealed. ‘I’m amazing, everything is amazing. It’s Boxing Day, it’s the day after Christmas. It’s the best day ever!’
She fought me off with a Dyson stick and gave me a suspicious look. ‘Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?’