Don’t You Forget About Me (14 page)

‘Hmm, I wonder,’ I muse, playing along. I bend down – damn these jeans are tight – and scoop up the tiny ball of tinfoil.

‘Maybe it’s Flea?’ she muses, avoiding my gaze and turning pointedly back to her saucepan.

‘Flea!’ I gasp, glancing across at him curled up on the sofa. ‘Flea doesn’t eat chocolate – he’s a cat.’

‘How do you know he doesn’t?’ she argues, a touch defensively. ‘Maybe he likes chocolate. Maybe he gets down like all the rest of us and needs cheering up.’ She starts stirring more vigorously.

‘With a hazelnut whirl?’ I stifle a giggle.

‘Well why not?’ she protests, looking a little affronted. ‘You know, just because Flea likes sleeping on your bed more than mine, it doesn’t mean you know his innermost thoughts.’

‘Well, for starters, chocolate is bad for cats . . .’ I begin.

‘It’s actually a good source of iron,’ counters Fiona sagely, turning to me and giving me her serious journalist look. ‘I once wrote a thousand-word article about it for
Saturday Speaks
.’

‘Yes, but animals aren’t supposed to eat chocolate.’

‘Well, none of us are
really
,’ she acquiesces, looking down at her thighs and frowning.

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ I say, raising an eyebrow.

‘Oh bollocks,’ she jolts upright, her face stricken. ‘I knew there was something I needed to remember . . .’ She darts over to the kitchen table and starts rummaging through the piles of face creams and hair masks that PR companies are always sending her in the hope that she’ll write about them in her column. And which are taking on mountainous proportions. I’m worried I’m going to come home from work one day and discover Fiona trapped under an avalanche of beauty products.

I can see the headlines now:

HEALTH & BEAUTY WRITER FOUND BURIED ALIVE UNDER

COLLAGEN-BOOSTING MOISTURISERS

Emergency services fought for hours to dig her out, but the sheer size and scale of the pile of hair-conditioning masks was just too much. Her devastated flatmate, Tess Connelly, was quoted as saying, ‘It was a disaster waiting to happen.’

‘Happy Birthday,’ she gasps, reappearing with a luxury seaweed body scrub and thrusting it at me.

‘Thanks,’ I smile bemusedly, ‘but it’s not my birthday.’

‘It’s not? Phew,’ she sags with relief, then frowns. ‘Well, what then?’

‘The lid,’ I gesture to the tin of Quality Street. ‘Flea might be smart for a cat, but he’s not smart enough to open an airtight cover . . .’

Two spots of colour appear high on her cheeks, and just when I think she might come clean and confess, we’re both distracted by the smell of something burning. ‘Fuck, my beans!’ she yelps, diving back to the stove. She lets out a loud groan. ‘Bollocks! They’re all black, and it’s supposed to be a red day!’

‘I don’t think black’s in the rainbow,’ I reply, amused. ‘It must be a sign.’

‘A sign?’

‘That you should give up these fad diets,’ I nag. ‘They never work, plus you don’t need them. You look great as you are.’

‘Aren’t you going to be late?’ she replies, ignoring me.

I know she’ll never listen and, taking the hint, I grab my thick duvet coat. ‘Bye,’ I wave, and turn to leave. ‘See you later.’

‘Have a fab time.’ She waves her wooden spoon after me, then winks. ‘I reckon he’s a keeper.’

It’s incredible. Only a few days ago Fiona was calling Seb every name under the sun and telling me to forget he even existed. Now I can’t believe the change. But then a lot has changed in the past few days, hasn’t it? And an awful lot more is about to, I think, a tingle flurrying up my spine.

‘Don’t you?’

I snap back. ‘Yes,’ I say quietly. ‘He’s definitely a keeper.’

And, crossing my fingers, I hurry out of the flat. Because this time I don’t want to lose him. This time I hope it
is
for keeps.

Chapter 11

The tube ride from Hammersmith is only four stops, but it’s still almost eight o’clock by the time I arrive at Gloucester Road. As I leave the station I have a flashback to me on my last first date, trying to rush in those high heels, twisting over on my ankle as I hurried along the slippery pavement, wincing as I felt blisters the size of marbles forming, looking at my watch and panicking that I was going to be horribly late.

But not this time. Oh no. Now I stride out in my comfy flat boots, overtaking girls in their stilettos who are tottering along cautiously, trying not to slip on the patches of sheer ice that have turned the paving stones into a skating rink. Gosh, this is so great! I could walk for miles in these boots, I think with satisfaction, relishing their crepe nonslip soles as I advance effortlessly along the street, breathing out clouds into the wintry air.

In what feels like no time at all I see the pub ahead on the corner. A large Victorian building with huge curved, etched windows and, outside, a few tables and chairs around which a brave few are huddled, smoking cigarettes. Approaching, I suddenly feel a jangle of nerves at the thought of seeing Seb again.

Which is mad as I went out with him for nearly a year, I remind myself firmly. It’s not like he’s a stranger. Well, not to me anyway. Still, I suppose it’s a bit like actors when they’re about to go out on stage for the first time. It doesn’t matter how many rehearsals they’ve had, once the curtain goes up, that’s it. There’s no more room for mistakes; this time they have to get it right.

This time
I
have to get it right.

I pause at the door and take a deep breath. OK, just relax. Remember, nothing can go wrong because I’ve done it all before. I glance at my watch. See! Last time I was late, and now look, perfect timing!

And, for the first time since Seb asked me out, the nerves disappear and I feel a burst of excitement. Reassurance. Hope. Because, although I’ll never understand how this can be happening, it
is
happening. Some incredible bit of magic got into my corner of the universe, and I have to trust in the universe that it’s happening for a reason.

Curling my woollen fingers around the handle, I push open the door.

This is going to be a perfect first date.

Entering the pub I’m hit by the beery warmth and noise of chatter. It’s one of those gastropubs, with stripped floorboards, lots of wooden tables and chairs, and a big chalkboard menu featuring things like overpriced fishcakes and
moules-frites
. Gastropubs, for some reason I’ve never worked out, like to write their menus in French.

I scan the crowds for Seb. Last time he was sitting near the open fire, on the old leather sofa, reading a book and waiting for me. I glance across towards it, and sure enough, there he is. He’s wearing jeans and a pale blue shirt that matches his eyes. My heart skips a beat; he looks as gorgeous as ever. Pulling off my scarf and gloves I make my way over.

‘Hi,’ I say as I reach him.

He looks up and a big white smile breaks over his face. God, Americans have such great teeth. ‘Hey,’ he greets me in his easy drawl and jumps up to give me a hug. He has none of that English awkwardness when you first meet someone, the clumsy kiss on the cheek, the not-quite-sure-what-to-do-with-your-hands dance where you hover around each other like teenagers at a school disco.

Instead he confidently puts his arms around me, pulling me close in a friendly embrace. As he does, my cheek brushes against his freshly shaved one and I inhale his familiar scent. I feel a warm glow inside. It’s the same kind of feeling you get when you come home after a long journey.

‘You look great,’ he smiles, breaking apart, his eyes sweeping over me.

‘Thanks,’ I smile back. ‘You too.’

For a brief moment we stand opposite each other, drinking each other in, then he seems to remember himself and starts clearing space on the sofa, ‘Sorry, for some reason I thought you might be late . . .’

‘What? You think all girls keep men waiting?’ I tease, sitting down next to him.

I feel a beat of pleasure. I’m off to a really good start, thanks to my diary and knowing to wear my flat boots. Otherwise I would have still been puffing and panting down the street like a steam train.

And not sitting next to him while he smiles at me sheepishly.

‘Sorry, I should have known you’d be different,’ he says, his eyes searching out mine.

‘I hate being late,’ I say, meeting his gaze. Which is true, I
do
hate it. Unfortunately, however hard I try, I usually am. It’s as if my keys hide themselves down the sofa on purpose. Or tube trains intentionally sit in tunnels.

‘Well that’s one thing we’ve already got in common,’ he grins. ‘I can’t be late if I try. It must be something to do with my dad being in the military. I think I must have inherited his punctuality gene,’ he laughs.

Right, that’s it. From now on I’m going to make a serious effort to
always
be on time. Early even.

‘Though usually it means I’m the poor dude who’s always waiting for everyone else,’ he continues with a wry smile. ‘That’s why I always carry something to read. I’ve got nearly half a library in there.’ He gestures to his bulging backpack on the floor, and a book sticking out of the side pocket. ‘I’m halfway through the second one by Obama.’

‘Oh, is it good?’ I ask politely. ‘I always see those types of political autobiographies on the bestseller list and think they must be really fascinating to read.’

Then I go and buy the latest chick-lit novel because I know I’ll enjoy it so much more, I think sheepishly.

‘It’s amazing, though I actually thought his first one was better. You should read it! Hang on, I think I’ve got a copy in here . . .’ Bending down, he rummages around in his backpack and pulls out a big chunky paperback. ‘Here it is! What was I saying about carrying a library in here?’ He laughs. ‘It’s a brand-new copy as I can’t find my original one. I think I must have lent it to someone.’

Yes, to me, I think, recognising the book in his hand. It’s the same one he gave me before but I never got around to reading.

However, like I said, this time I plan to do things very differently.

‘Wow thanks,’ I say as he hands it to me. ‘I can’t wait to read it!’ I have a quick flick through. Gosh, I don’t remember it being this long – almost five hundred pages.

‘It’s awesome. Believe me, it totally changed my life. It’ll change yours too,’ he enthuses.

‘Brilliant!’ And quite heavy, I realise, resting it in my lap.

We smile at each other, bonded by Obama, and for a moment I get this lovely image of us discussing the great man himself, his social reforms, his famous speech:
Yes We Can!

‘So what’s your trick?’ he asks.

I blink.

‘
Trick?
’

‘Yeh, for passing the time when you’re waiting for everyone else.’

‘Oh . . . um . . .’ Caught off-guard, I grope around for a way out, then see it – my earphones trailing from my pocket. ‘My iPod,’ I blurt, grabbing hold of them and waggling them as evidence. ‘I’m surprised I’ve got any eardrums left,’ I quip in a ha-ha sort of way.

He laughs and I feel a flush of relief.

‘So, next question . . .’

Gosh, another? I brace myself.

‘What would you like to drink?’

The embarrassing memory of me spilling a glass of Merlot all over his crotch and me diving on it with a fistful of paper towels fires across my brain. Ah, now this bit I do know. Feeling on firmer ground, I pretend to think for a moment.

Remember Tess, nothing red, nothing that will stain, just in case.

‘Um . . . I’ll have a white wine, please,’ I smile.

‘Any particular type?’

‘Oh no . . . anything, I don’t mind,’ I shrug casually. ‘Just as long as it’s not red.’

‘Red?’ He’s evidently only half listening, and throws me a puzzled look. ‘I thought you just said white?’

‘Oh . . . um . . . yes, I did,’ I fluster, realising. ‘
Durr
, I meant any kind of white.’

He laughs. ‘OK, cool, coming right up,’ he says, throwing me a smile.

‘Great!’ I reply, throwing him a wide smile back. I watch as he turns and heads to the bar. Then exhale. Actually, this might not be as easy as I thought.

But any doubts I may have soon disappear as he returns with the drinks and settles himself back down on the sofa. Only this time he sits a little closer and, as his thigh brushes against mine, I feel a delicious tingle.

‘How’s your wine?’ he asks, giving me one of his stomach-flipping smiles.

I take a sip. ‘Mmm, it’s delicious.’

And it is, really chilled and delicious. Perfect for a summer’s day.

Though probably not really ideal for a freezing January evening like tonight, I notice, cradling the icy glass in my fingers. It’s actually making me rather chilly. In fact, if I’m honest, I’d much rather have had a glass of red; after all, there’s nothing nicer in front of an open fire, is there?