Don’t You Forget About Me (13 page)

He’s leaving. I have to stop him.

‘OK,’ I nod dumbly. Is that it? I’m never going to see him again and that’s all I’m going to say?

‘But before I do, I was going to ask you something,’ he says, turning back, and I feel a rush of relief.

‘Yes?’

His hands are shoved deep into his pockets and he’s got a nervous look on his face. My chest tightens. ‘Well, I was just wondering . . . if maybe . . . you’d like to go out for a drink with me sometime . . .’

As he trails off, his eyes meet mine, and for a split second I’m right back to that moment when we first met. The moment a year ago when, standing in a crowded bar, I turned and caught his eye and he spoke to me, offered to buy me a drink and proceeded to ask me on a date. A moment in my life when everything changed.

Only this time we’re standing in the hallway of my flat. Different time, different place. But it’s still the same Seb. It’s still the same me. Everything’s changed and yet nothing’s changed. I’m right back to where we began. Where it all started.

Except this time I can stop it from ever happening.

I can stop us before we even start.

Relief bursts like a firework. Just think, no more heartache. No more tears on my pillow. No more walking down the street and suddenly, without warning, being hit with such an intense longing to see him again it takes my breath away. I need to forget I ever met him and now, for all intents and purposes, I haven’t, have I?

It’s so simple. So easy. Why on earth would I put myself through all the heartache again? Why repeat it, when all I have to do is politely say no, close the door and never look back? I know how this story ends, and it’s not happily ever after.

‘Well?’ asks Seb uncertainly.

I open my mouth ready to turn him down; I’m already rehearsing the lines in my head, but as I look into his familiar, faded-blue eyes, all the old feelings come rushing back. They never went away, I just tried to bury them deep inside of me. And something stops me. A realisation: I might have erased an entire relationship, but I haven’t erased my feelings towards Seb. I still love him.

Well, you don’t just unlove someone, do you?

And suddenly, out of the blue, a shiver of possibility runs up my spine. An idea starts to form, grow, take hold . . . It seems crazy and yet this whole thing is crazy.

What if I can make us have a different ending?

What if I can do all the things I wish I’d done? Have the time again to make right all the regrets? They say no one ever gets a second chance at their relationship; no one gets to give it a rehearsal, to do it second time around.
But I do
. Until now I never believed in rituals, or superstitions, but somehow, by some strange, incredible, magical twist of fate, I’ve got a second chance to get it right. With the gift of hindsight I can make it work out . . .

My mind spools backwards through our relationship, rummages through the shoebox of memories, all the mistakes I made, the things I didn’t do, all the silly things I wish I could change: accidentally making fun of his favourite movie, the snowboarding trip we never went on, the book he gave me that I didn’t bother reading, having that stupid argument after I caught the bouquet at the wedding. Seriously, what was I thinking? Why the hell didn’t I throw the bouquet back?

But this time I can.

This time I can change everything.

Teetering on the edge of that moment, like a diver on the high board, I take a deep breath. And smiling at Seb, I jump right back in.

‘A drink sounds great.’

Dear Diary,

Had my first date with Seb! We went for a drink in Chelsea and I was so nervous I knocked a glass of red wine all over him. God, it was SO embarrassing! He was really nice about it but still, why can’t I be cool for once in my life? Why am I such a clumsy idiot!!!???

Chapter 10

It’s the next evening and I’m supposed to be getting ready to go out, but instead I’m sitting on my bed in my dressing gown reading my diary. I’ve printed it out from the disk and this is the entry from my first date with Seb last year.

And now I’m about to go on it all over again.

At the thought, a cage of butterflies is opened in my stomach.

I’m meeting him at the same bar I met him first time around – Seb suggested it and I couldn’t very well tell him the reason why I’d like to go somewhere different – but this time I’m going to make sure it
is
different. This time I’m not going to make the same mistakes twice; instead I’m going to be super-careful. No spilling red wine. In fact, I know, I won’t even
drink
red wine. I’ll order white instead.

Or vodka.

Maybe even gin. No. Gin’s supposed to be a depressant. I can’t drink gin on a first date . . .

I stop myself before I work my way through the entire drinks cabinet. Whatever, as long it’s clear and won’t stain.

Just in case, of course.

For the past twenty-four hours, since Seb asked me out, I haven’t been able to think of anything else. I still can’t quite believe it’s happening. It’s so surreal I’ve spent the whole day walking around in a daze. Every so often I’ve had to stop and remind myself:
I’m going on a first date with Seb again
. A couple of times I might have even said it out loud, as the lady in the corner shop gave me the most peculiar look when I popped in there to buy loo roll earlier and commented, ‘I’m sure that will be nice.’ Which at the time I thought was a bit of a forward thing to say, even if it
was
Andrex super-quilted.

I glance at the clock on my beside cabinet. Gosh, is that the time already? We’ve arranged to meet in just over an hour, at 8 p.m., and I’m still not dressed. Feeling all excited and jittery about seeing him again, my eyes sweep over the various outfits that I’ve tried on and discarded on the bed. I just can’t decide what to wear. None of them seems right and it’s really important I make a good impression.

Which is ridiculous considering Seb’s seen me in a scruffy old T-shirt and leggings. Except he hasn’t, has he? I have to quickly remind myself.

God, this is all very confusing

I look again at my tiny wardrobe, a find in a second-hand shop that
looks
lovely, all 1930s walnut curves and delicate inlay, but is completely impractical as it’s too narrow for my modern-day coat hangers and everything’s squished in at an angle.

Meaning everything I pull out of there is a crumpled mess.

I stare gloomily at a blue silk dress that now resembles an old dish rag, trying to calculate how long it will take me to iron it: finding ironing board (5 mins), struggling to put it up (5 mins), giving up and putting towel on bedroom floor (2 mins), filling iron with water and waiting for it to heat up (4 mins), dribbling water all over dress because I haven’t waited long enough and steam function isn’t working properly yet (3 mins), turning up iron even hotter (2 mins), having another go with iron and discovering it’s now too hot and has stuck like chewing gum to the silk (2 mins), staring at horrible burn mark on dress and wondering if I can hide it with a brooch (1 min), trying it on and realising instead of the sexy vibe I was going for I now look like someone’s granny (3 mins).

Shit. I’m crap at maths, but that’s a lot of minutes, and I
still
won’t have anything to wear.

For a moment I stare, paralysed, at my wardrobe, feeling the pressure of time tick-tocking away, when I’m suddenly hit by an idea. Hang on, wait a minute. I snatch up the pages of my old diary and quickly scan down the entry:

. . . wore my jeans and a pink chiffon top I found in a charity shop. It was a bit frumpy, so I shortened the sleeves and sewed these tiny mother-of-pearl buttons down the front (with the help of Gramps of course). Seb said I looked lovely. Though my new high-heeled boots were a BIG mistake. I could barely walk in them and the bar was miles from the tube station. I turned up really late, all red-faced from rushing, with toes full of blisters . . .

Brilliant! That’s my outfit decided then.

Rummaging in my wardrobe, I find the chiffon top and pull out my trusty jeans. Well, I don’t have to do
everything
differently, not if it was a hit the first time around. Just change the stuff that wasn’t. Like, for example, those dratted boots, I decide. Shoving my heels back in the shoe hanger, I dig out my flat ankle ones instead.

Twenty minutes later and I’ve finished drying my hair, doing my make-up, and pulling on my blouse and jeans. OK, I’m good to go. Just need to check out my reflection. I don’t have a full-length mirror, just one propped on the top of my fireplace, so I do my usual trick of standing on my bed and twisting and bending myself like a pretzel, trying to check out the different parts of my body.

Well they all look OK.
Separately
. I bob down to see the neckline of my blouse, then jump up and, balancing on one leg, lift up the other and waggle it at the mirror . . . It’s just I’m not quite sure what they look like put
together
. After all, it’s been a while since I wore this outfit and second-helpings of mince pies have come between me and this pair of jeans since then.

Not to mention Fiona’s family-size tin of Quality Street.

I feel a pinch of regret. My particular weakness are the pink fudges. Saying that, I’m not responsible for all the rest of them disappearing. Ever since her grandparents sent them to her, there have been tiny screwed-up balls of glittery foil mysteriously scattered all over the flat. I say
mysteriously
, as Fiona is on another one of her crazy diets and insists it’s not her. Denial, it seems, is not just a river in Egypt.

Speaking of Fiona, I don’t need a full-length mirror when she’s at home. She’s a bit like the speaking clock, only instead of telling me the exact time, she’ll tell me exactly what I look like. Hopping off the bed, I shove my diary in my bag and head into the kitchen, where I find her hunched over the stove, stirring a saucepan.

‘Ooh you look nice,’ she says, glancing up as I walk in. ‘Great combo.’ She gestures at my jeans and top with her wooden spoon and nods approvingly. ‘Give us a twirl.’

I duly twirl.

‘Wow Tess, you look amazing, you’re going to knock him dead . . .’ She suddenly pauses and fixes her gaze on my feet, an expression of confusion on her face.

‘What?’

‘You’re wearing flats,’ she says in disbelief.

‘I know,’ I nod.

‘You’re not wearing heels.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And you’re going on a date.’

She looks utterly bewildered. And well she might do because, to Fiona, I’m doing the unthinkable. Going on a date without heels is like going on a date without clothes. In fact, if she had the choice, she’d probably rather be naked than without her stilettos.

‘I thought my flat boots would be more comfortable,’ I offer in explanation.

She looks aghast. ‘Tess, you’re going on a first date! You’re not
supposed
to be comfortable. You’re supposed to look as tall and skinny as possible. Don’t you know a pair of heels adds five inches and takes off five pounds?’

She says this as if she’s asking me if I didn’t know the earth was round.

‘Um . . . maybe,’ I say vaguely. I have to admit, I like the sound of losing five pounds, but I can hardly tell her the real reason I’m wearing them. ‘So, what are you cooking?’ I ask, quickly changing the subject.

‘Kidney beans,’ she replies, turning back to the saucepan.

‘That’s it?’

‘Oh no, I’m having them with tomatoes, red cabbage and radishes,’ she says cheerfully.

‘That’s . . . er . . . an unusual combination,’ I say uncertainly.

‘I’m on this new rainbow diet,’ she explains. ‘Each day you can only eat foods that are all the same colour.’ She peers into her saucepan. ‘Today’s red.’

‘And tomorrow?’

‘Um . . .’ She pauses, then sings a little song under her breath, ‘
Red and yellow and pink and blue .
. .’ She breaks off. ‘Blue,’ she says decisively. ‘It should be yellow but what the hell, be a rebel, mix it up a little.’ She gives a throaty laugh.

‘There are blue foods?’ I ask in amazement.

‘Of course,’ she replies, and snatches up her diet sheet. ‘There’re blueberries,’ she says, reading off the list, ‘and aubergines—’

‘Aren’t they purple?’

She frowns, then, ignoring my comment, continues. ‘Anyway, the main thing is it’s supposed to be amazing for flushing away all those nasty toxins like salts, refined sugars—’

‘Oh look, there’s another one!’ I interrupt, spotting a flash of orange tinfoil under the kitchen table.

Fiona stiffens. ‘Golly, how strange,’ she wide-eyes, all theatrically.

It’s so obvious she’s fibbing. Fiona is not the kind of person who says golly. She says fuck and bollocks and sometimes even
fuck-bollocks
. Golly is strictly reserved for Pippa and her posh friends.

‘I wonder what that’s doing there?’ she continues stiffly.