Don’t You Forget About Me (15 page)

But of course it doesn’t matter. This is still lovely, I think, trying not to shiver as the ice-cold wine weaves its way down to my stomach.

Introductions over, we start chatting. Seb asks me all about myself, my family, what I do. I gloss over that bit – as I remember Seb was never really that interested in my job, which is understandable as he’s this big high-flyer in the City and on about a million times my salary – and chat about my granddad instead.

‘He sounds like a real character, I’d love to meet him,’ he grins as we start on our second round of drinks.

‘I’m sure he’d love to meet you.’ I have a sudden flashback to their last first meeting and Gramps suddenly turning into Tony Soprano. ‘But anyway, enough about me, what about you?’ I say, quickly getting off the topic.

‘What do you want to know?’ he laughs.

‘Everything,’ I enthuse, even though of course I know all the answers.

‘OK . . .’ He takes a deep breath as if gearing himself up. ‘I grew up in Chicago, the youngest of four brothers.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘As a kid I learned the guitar and wanted to be the next Eddie Van Halen, but sadly it wasn’t to be,’ he pulls a comic frown, ‘and so after I left college I put on a suit and went to work for one of the big financial services companies in New York, then a couple of years ago I got transferred to their London office.’ He pauses to take a thirsty sip of beer. ‘Hmm, what else? Good sense of humour, kind to animals, hobbies include helping little old ladies across the street.’ He grins and I start laughing. ‘Oh, and I love all kinds of sports and exercise . . . I like to work out, try to keep myself in shape, you know.’ He laughs modestly and pats an imaginary spare tyre.

‘I know,’ I nod, reminded of being woken at the crack of dawn by his alarm so he could go for a run
before the gym
.

‘You do?’

‘Um . . . I mean, I can tell,’ I correct myself quickly. ‘You look very fit.’

Fit?
Did I just say the word fit? I feel myself blush.

‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ he says, his mouth twitching in amusement. ‘What about you?’

My mind splits in two. In one half I think about the application form for gym membership that is languishing in my drawer at work, my ill-fated attempt at jogging along the river that ended in blisters, a stitch and a near heart attack, and the years at school spent sitting on the reserve bench because of my two left feet.

That’s the real me.

In the other half I think about Seb being sports- and exercise-mad. When he wasn’t in the office he was on the treadmill or playing tennis, and he would always disapprove of me for lying in bed at the weekend, saying he wished I was more sporty.

‘Oh, um, yeh, I love exercising,’ I nod. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a flyer pinned on the noticeboard behind his head. ‘I do military fitness classes,’ I blurt.

Seb looks galvanised.

‘Wow, really? Impressive.’ He seems to look at me with a new-found respect. ‘Those guys are tough.’

‘I know, tell me about it,’ I groan. ‘All those bench presses!’

Bench presses?
Hearing myself, I flinch. I’ve never done a bench press in my life. In fact I’m not even sure I know what a bench press is.

‘I could do with some of that military fitness. I went snowboarding for a few days over the holidays and I was so out of shape it was embarrassing.’

He rolls his eyes and I indulge him with a smile. ‘Yeh right,’ I laugh.

‘It’s true,’ he protests with mock indignation, as only someone who knows it plainly isn’t true can. Like skinny girls who complain they’re fat. Or supermodels who say they’re ugly, like the one who was recently on the front cover of Fiona’s magazine with cheekbones to die for and those pillow-lips that make you want to throw away your lipstick in defeat. Inside was an interview with her going on about how she ‘hated’ looking in the mirror as she had a face like a duck and lips that were too big. I mean
please
, who is she trying to kid?
Lips that are too big?

‘Do you snowboard? Or ski?’ he adds, taking a sip of his beer.

I falter. The nearest I’ve got to ski are the yoghurts in the supermarket.

‘No, but I’ve always wanted to learn,’ I reply, blocking out thoughts of my two left feet. ‘Though I’m sure I’d be a natural at après-ski,’ I quip, waving my wine glass.

He laughs. ‘Wish I was. Too many beers after and
wham
. That’s how I broke my phone. Still, I’m glad I did.’

I look at him quizzically.

‘Well, if it hadn’t broken, we wouldn’t have met,’ he explains, his expression softening.

‘Oh . . . right, yes.’ I say quickly, taking a sip of wine.

‘Though, if I remember, you thought you’d met me before, right?’

I nearly choke as it goes down the wrong way.

‘Hey, you OK?’

‘Yeh fine,’ I splutter, putting down my glass. Only I’m coughing so hard I misjudge the edge of the table and the glass tips forward. As if in slow motion I see the wine slosh towards the edge of the glass, Seb’s lap only inches away . . . oh fuck, I wasn’t supposed to spill it this time . . . this time I was supposed to do it differently.

Lurching forwards I grab it just at the last second.

‘Wow, amazing reflexes,’ he says, impressed.

For someone who’s never been able to catch a ball, so am I.

‘Thanks,’ I laugh, but it’s more from relief.
Phew.
Accident averted.

‘So Tess . . .’ Leaning back on the sofa, he seems to move his body closer to me and I feel a tingle of anticipation. ‘I was wondering what your plans are this week?’

‘Nothing much, just work and military fitness,’ I say, trying to sound all casual and trying not to think about the fact that I’m now going to have to sign up for real. Still that’s not a bad thing; in fact it’s a very good thing. New Year’s resolution to get fit and all that.

‘Because I wondered if you’d like to go see a movie, maybe?’

My stomach flutters. ‘That sounds great,’ I say, trying not to sound too eager.

‘Awesome,’ he looks pleased. ‘There’s that new 3D thriller coming out, I could get tickets . . .’

‘Yeh, that sounds interesting—’ I break off as a thought stirs. Hang on a minute. ‘Though actually I’m not really in the mood for a thriller.’

‘Oh, no worries, we can see something else. What do you feel like?’

My mind throws up an image of the shoebox that I threw in the fire, and that pair of ticket stubs to the first movie I ever saw with Seb:
Star Wars
.

‘Something totally different,’ I say, suddenly struck by an idea. ‘To be honest, I know this probably sounds a bit silly, but what I’m really in the mood for is some classic sci-fi.’

‘You like sci-fi?’ Seb suddenly becomes all animated. ‘No kidding? Me too!’

‘Really? What a coincidence,’ I say, trying to sound surprised.

‘Totally,’ he grins, then, leaning closer, fixes me with those big blue eyes of his. ‘So tell me, which is your favourite movie?’

‘Well that’s easy,’ I say, feeling my insides go all gooey. ‘It’s got to be
Star Wars
.’

Seb looks as if he’s just died and gone to heaven. ‘Wow, a girl after my own heart,’ he beams. ‘I must have seen that movie a hundred times!’

I know, I remember you raving on and on about it afterwards and me not being able to understand what all the fuss was about.

‘Maybe we can go see that instead? It’s probably on at some art-house cinema somewhere—’ He breaks off, suddenly looking unsure. ‘That’s if you want to, of course.’

‘I’d love to,’ I smile widely. Any nerves I might have had at the start of the evening have vanished. This date has been such a success, I can’t wait for our second.

‘So it’s a plan,’ he grins, and meeting my eyes he chinks his glass against mine. ‘Here’s to our movie night!’

Chapter 12

Except there’s a slight problem.

Early the next morning I go to Blockbusters on my way to work to rent myself a copy of the movie in preparation for our second date. It’s ages since I saw it and I’ve forgotten most of it, but not to worry, I’ve got it all worked out. I’m going to do my homework and watch it a couple of times so that when I see Seb again, I’ll know it off by heart. He’ll be so impressed! It will be fantastic.

Only when I get there I discover it’s not open. And when I hammer on the door, a grumpy-looking sales assistant curtly informs me they are closed for refurbishment. ‘Try our online store,’ she barks at me through the glass before yanking down the blind.

So I do.

And yes, they have it, only it will take a few days to arrive in the post. Except I don’t have a few days, as Seb has already texted to say what a great time he had last night and:

Guess what? Our favorite movie is playing at a theater in the West End and I’ve gotten us tickets for tomorrow evening.

To which I text back:

Gr8, can’t wait.

Before nearly having an anxiety attack.

Fuck. What am I going to do? It’s supposed to be my all-time favourite film and yet I can barely remember anything about it. Except that I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about and got so bored I nodded off before the end. Now, in less than thirty-six hours, I have to become an expert. I have to be able to discuss my favourite scenes, offer insights,
quote dialogue
.

OK, don’t panic.

It’s nearly lunchtime and I’m sitting at my desk furiously Googling ‘
emergency DVD rental
’. Because of the refurb, today is the first day the whole office is back after the festivities and I really should be concentrating on tackling the emails that keep pinging into my inbox. Not to mention the pink and yellow wallpaper of Post-it notes framing my computer screen that have been there so long they’re now starting to get a bit dusty, I notice, worryingly, trying to brush them clean with my sleeve.

But right now there are more urgent matters at hand. My second date with Seb is tomorrow night and despite dozens of desperate phone calls I’ve got absolutely sodding nowhere. I need a plan of action. One that doesn’t involve throwing myself off Hammersmith Bridge.

‘Hi Kym, have you ever watched
Star Wars
?’ I call out across the foyer to Kym-with-a-‘y’, our receptionist, who’s perched behind her desk like a brightly coloured parrot. Winter has no effect on Kym. Whilst everyone else is hiding their pale limbs beneath opaque tights and Zara cardis, she looks as if she’s in Ibiza in August, with her pumpkin-orange fake tan, shimmery eyeshadow and cropped bleached hair that’s teased and perched on the top of her head like a fascinator.

She looks up from reading Missed Connections. Despite going out with Wayne, our driver, Kym is addicted to the website where people post ads trying to track down strangers who caught their eye but they were too shy to talk to. ‘Because I’m a hopeless romantic,’ she always sighs wistfully in explanation.

Which I’ve no doubt is true. But I also think she’s hopelessly sick of Wayne who, after eight years, still hasn’t proposed, and is secretly hoping one of the ads will be about her so she can find the courage to leave him.

‘Oh, is that that new reality show on Channel Four?’ she asks eagerly. ‘The one with celebrities falling out and having really big rows?’

Admittedly it was a long shot.

‘
Celebrities?
’ barks a shrill voice, and we both swivel our heads to see a short, pinch-faced woman thundering down the corridor towards us. My heart sinks. Wendy Montgomery, one of our managing directors. Otherwise known as The Witch, and not just because she always wears black. She works on the floor above us, in an office filled with silver-framed pictures of her cats, and her collection of cacti, which sit along her windowsills like prickly, misshapen soldiers.

It’s been rumoured she’s applied for Sir Richard’s job, but I’m hoping it’s exactly that,
a rumour
. Along with the one that she tried to seduce Gary in Accounts at the Christmas party, by pinning him behind the water-cooler and sticking her tongue down his throat. Apparently he rang in sick this morning so no one’s been able to find out if there’s any truth in it or not.

Though if you listen to the office gossip mill,
which of course I don’t
, he’s suffering from post-traumatic stress. Quite frankly, if the rumours are true, who would blame him?

‘What’s all this talk about celebrities?’ accuses Wendy, glaring at us both. ‘Kym, I hope those are invoices you’re so engrossed in reading.’ She glances at her computer screen with a scowl. ‘Your lunch break isn’t for another five minutes.’

Poor Kym jumps a mile and there’s a frantic shuffling on her desk as she logs off Missed Connections and onto Excel.

‘And what about you, Tess? Sir Richard keeping you busy?’ She casts a beady eye over my desk as she sweeps past in her Hush Puppies. Someone once told me she wears them as the crepe soles make no noise on the carpet so she can creep up on people.