The Wish List by Jane Costello Page A

and am shocked to discover a recyclables crate I completely forgot to empty after a girls’ night in a few weeks ago. I pick it up, avoiding stale
dregs of booze dribbling on the Cookie Monster PJs Dad bought me for Christmas, and stagger to the door.
    I head straight to the back of the house, but when I reach the recycling bins I realise that something’s amiss. My wheelie bin isn’t there.
Somebody
has nicked it.
    As soon as this thought flashes into my head I dismiss it. It’s hardly high value and wouldn’t be easy to pinch, even for a career criminal.
    I tiptoe round the house, surveying the area – then glance next door and narrow my eyes. I don’t
know
that my new neighbour is responsible for this wrong-doing – but I
do know that it never happened before he moved in.
    Stealthily, I make my way to the three-foot wall that separates the houses. I put down the crate, then jump over, dart underneath Rita’s old kitchen window and creep to the back. The bin
is outside his patio door. It’s unmistakably mine – I’d recognise the angle of the Bank Holiday Collection sticker anywhere.
    I silently begin dragging it to its rightful home, wincing as it creaks. When I reach the three-foot wall again, I have a choice. I can either take it all the way to the front of the house and
pull it up the driveway in full view of . . .
anyone
. Or I can try to get it over the wall quickly.
    Speed is the only option.
    I attempt to heave it over the wall, contorting myself into a variety of positions that culminate in one that makes me resemble a constipated sumo wrestler. It’s when I’m convinced
this ungainly squat will allow me to pull the bin over on my back, that I am interrupted.
    ‘Need a hand?’
    The bin slips from my grasp and I fall to my knees – arse in the air, pyjama bottoms shredded and a hideous sense of dread running through me.
    It is not even seven thirty. I seriously hope today gets better.

Chapter 23
    He recognises me the instant I stand and look him defiantly in the eye.
    It’s the only option. Trying to make my getaway is pointless. I’m going to have to face the man I shagged and ran from. With that horrible fact emblazoned on my brain I decide the
only tactic is to do as Scooby Doo would do: create a diversion.
    ‘This wheelie bin belongs to me.’
    ‘Does it? Sorry – it must have been the—’
    ‘Having to search for it at this time on a Sunday morning isn’t my idea of fun.’ Even as I’m saying it, my reaction feels over the top. I sound like a lunatic. But I
don’t care. Because the more I keep talking, the more he’ll be prevented from raising our liaison, email exchange, or the fact that I’ve been caught breaking and entering his
patio.
    ‘I’m sure. But you see—’
    ‘I don’t mean to be petty,’ I continue, contrary to evidence, ‘but you
have
misappropriated my property.’
    He frowns, focusing on my pursed lips and the hands I appear to have placed on my hips as if I’m about to start doing ‘The Time Warp’. It’s then that I notice the smell
again. The irresistible, delicious scent literally oozing from this man. I take a step back from him.
    ‘I think you’ll find it belongs to the council,’ he replies calmly. His lip twitches and I can’t work out if he’s about to burst out laughing or tell me off. I am
now crimson. Even my ears are blushing.
    ‘And the council have assigned this wheelie bin to
my
flat.’
    He looks over my shoulder to the overflowing crate of wine bottles. ‘Heavy night?’
    I don’t rise to the bait. ‘I should stress that, had you wanted to borrow the wheelie bin, or even deposit your own recyclable goods in there, I’d have had no problem at all if
you’d asked.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘As it is, not only have you removed my wheelie bin, you’ve also filled it with non-recyclable items.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘Which means that if it’d gone out on a Tuesday, the bin men would’ve put a big sticker on it, announcing to