Don’t You Forget About Me (16 page)

‘Yes, absolutely,’ I say brightly. ‘Just sorting out the visas for India,’ I add, spotting the Post-it note on my computer. Shit. I really must remember to do that.

‘Well make the most of it, as this will be his last trip as CEO. Very soon you’ll have a new boss . . .’ She gives a knowing smile, her scarlet lipstick looking like a gash across her white face. That’s another thing about Wendy: she always wears so much pan-stick foundation and red lipstick that her face looks like a Japanese Kabuki mask. ‘And I’m sure there’s going to be lots of changes around here—’

‘And what kind of changes might those be?’ asks Sir Richard, poking a tousled head out of his office. Together with his new green policies, he decided the company needed to ‘break down barriers and get rid of the old hierarchy’, so he recently moved his office down to the ground floor. Most of the senior management said, ‘What a brilliant idea’, while clinging steadfastly to their plush corner offices on the upper floors. Including Wendy, who was overhead calling him an old hippy and shrieking, ‘Over my dead body!’ Which sadly, turned out to be only a threat.

Startled by his appearance, Wendy opens and closes her mouth like a goldfish. ‘Ah, Sir Richard, I didn’t realise you were in today,’ she splutters.

For some people, having the boss on the ground floor has taken a bit of getting used to.

‘Why shouldn’t I be in? I’m still the CEO,’ he says, an edge in his voice that I’ve never heard before. Emerging from his doorway in his shiny brown suit, which seems to look even more crumpled than ever, he eyes Wendy critically.

‘Well yes, of course, of course,’ she nods, looking very uncomfortable. ‘I was referring to all the huge changes that would be needed to try and compensate for the loss of your expertise and leadership . . .’ She swallows hard, her beady eyes blinking rapidly, ‘And . . . um, your valuable experience,
Sir
.’

‘Is that so?’ Sir Richard raises a bushy eyebrow. ‘Well in that case it’s going to be very difficult to fill my shoes then, isn’t it?’

‘Well I’m sure I . . . I mean,
whoever
the successful applicant is will have to be truly outstanding . . .’ Drawing herself up to her full five foot four, she lifts her chin and strikes a pose that she obviously thinks makes her look outstanding. It’s the same pose she struck for the company catalogue. Rumour is she copied it from a photograph of Hillary Clinton.

‘Indeed,’ murmurs Sir Richard. To tell the truth he doesn’t look impressed.

I look across at Wendy, still with her chest puffed out, and I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for her. She thinks she’s this super businesswoman – what she doesn’t realise is that everyone just thinks she’s really sad.

But Wendy is oblivious and, mistakenly believing she’s made a good impression, is trying to make small talk. ‘So what are you planning to do when you retire? I’m sure you and Lady Blackstock must have lots of plans.’

At the mention of Lady Blackstock, Sir Richard suddenly looks uncomfortable and attempts to smooth down his comb-over. It rebels like a teenager and pings back up again. ‘Well . . . um, I’m not quite sure,’ he says awkwardly.

‘You should go on one of those round-the-world cruises,’ hoots Kym, who’s been eavesdropping the whole time. ‘That’s what my nan and granddad did when he finished at the council.’

Wendy throws her a scowl. ‘Thank you, Kym. If you don’t mind, this is a conversation between senior personnel.’

‘Well I was only saying—’

As the commotion continues between these two, I glance back at my boss. He looks unusually nervous and I notice he’s carrying his briefcase.

‘Well I must go, I have a meeting,’ he interrupts.

I frown. That’s odd; there’s nothing in the diary.

‘If you’d be so kind as to take any messages, Tess,’ he says, turning towards me, then adds in a low voice, ‘I’ll be out for most of the afternoon and I’ll have my mobile turned off.’

‘Of course, no worries.’ For a moment I wonder if I’ve missed something and do a quick sweep of the scribbled Post-it notes, but there’s nothing. I might not be the best PA in the world, but wherever Sir Richard is going, he obviously doesn’t want anyone to know.

He smiles gratefully. ‘And don’t you be working through lunch,’ he reprimands good-naturedly before striding off towards the lift.

I smile to myself. He really is the best boss in the whole wide world.

‘Lots of changes,’ repeats Wendy sharply.

I look over to see her glaring at both me and Kym, who blanches beneath her tan, before turning on her crepe soles. She continues her march up the corridor, accompanied by the rustling sound of her flesh-coloured tights rubbing together. What with the nylon carpets, I’m surprised she’s not constantly getting electric shocks from all the static.

Though that’s probably just wishful thinking.

I turn back to my computer to continue my search, but after a few minutes I’m ready to give up. This is ridiculous. I’m never going to get a copy of
Star Wars
, I think, despairingly trawling through endless websites without any luck. I stab the delete button on the keyboard.

‘Hey, how’s it going?’

‘
Shit, bugger, bollocks!
’

‘That good, eh?’

I pop my head out from behind my laptop screen to see a pair of bright green eyes peering at me quizzically.

They belong to Fergus, the bicycle courier.

‘Oh god, did I say that out loud?’

‘Don’t worry, I’m the only one in earshot,’ he grins with amusement, and I glance over to reception to see Kym’s desk is empty. She must have made a break for it when The Witch disappeared.

‘Sorry.’ Turning back I throw him an apologetic look and let go of my mouse to sign for his delivery. As I do, I realise my fingers have gone stiff as I’ve been gripping it so hard. ‘I’m just trying to find a DVD and no one has it,’ I explain, wriggling my fingers to get the circulation going again.

‘Have you tried that little rental place near the station?’ he suggests helpfully.

‘It closed down ages ago,’ I reply.

‘It did?’ He looks surprised. ‘Tower Records?’

‘Ditto.’

‘Blockbusters?’

‘Closed for refurbishment.’

‘Crikey, you’ve really done your research,’ he says in admiration. Unfastening his helmet he shakes out his flattened hair. ‘I know, what about just buying it?’

‘Everyone I’ve tried is out of stock and buying it online takes a few days.’ I pull a face.

‘And you can’t wait?’

‘No,’ I sigh, shaking my head. ‘I have to watch it before I go to see it.’

He scratches his head. ‘Sorry, can you run that bit by me again?’

I feel my cheeks colour. ‘I just need it sooner, that’s all.’

He beetles his eyebrows together. ‘Hmm . . . there must be somewhere . . .’ he mutters, thinking hard.

‘It’s hopeless, I’ve tried everything,’ I sigh resignedly.

That’s it then. My plan of being the perfect girlfriend and Seb falling madly in love with me this time around has failed before I’ve barely even started. Well done, Tess. Another one of your huge, groundbreaking successes in life.

‘I know!’ Fergus suddenly slams his fist on my desk and I jump. ‘The library!’

‘The library?’ I repeat in astonishment.

‘Yes, you know, they have them in most towns—’

‘I know what a library is,’ I gasp. ‘It’s just . . .’

‘Just what? You think they’re full of musty old books and homeless people?’

‘No, I did not think that!’ I protest.

Well, maybe a little bit, I think guiltily.

‘When did you last go into a library?’ he challenges. ‘These days they’re amazing. It’s not just books, you can get CDs, video games, e-books, DVDs . . . I’m always using my local one, it saves me a fortune,’ he enthuses, his eyes flashing. ‘You should try yours and soon, before the council tries to close it down, what with all these government cuts . . .’

But as Fergus starts on a rant I’ve already Googled my local one and am ringing them. A librarian picks up and for the umpteenth time today I gabble my request down the phone, only this time, ‘They have it!’ I hiss, putting my hand over the mouthpiece. ‘OK, brilliant, thanks, I’ll pick it up later.’ I put down the phone with a wave of relief.

He breaks off from his tirade against the government. ‘Grand,’ he grins, looking pleased. ‘What did I tell you? You see, it’s like I was saying about the government—’

But before he can start up again, I interrupt. ‘Have you had lunch?’ I ask. I suddenly realise I’ve been so distracted I haven’t eaten anything all morning and I’m starving. ‘There’s a great little café across the street that does the most amazing baked potatoes. None of the usual microwaved rubbish; these are baked in the oven so their skins are all crispy and they have all these delicious toppings . . .’

‘Mmm, sounds good, but I should probably get going,’ he says reluctantly as his radio springs to life and starts crackling.

‘My treat, for coming to my rescue,’ I tempt.

He hesitates, then flicks off his radio. ‘OK, sold,’ he grins.

‘Great,’ I smile. ‘Let me just grab my coat.’

Chapter 13

Being lunchtime, the tiny café is crammed with diners, but we manage to find a wobbly table in a nook by the window.

‘So, how was your New Year’s Eve party?’ he asks, folding his long frame into one of the small plastic chairs.

‘Great!’ I fib, sitting down opposite. Until now I hadn’t realised how tall he was and I watch as he has to scrunch himself up like a concertina to fit his knees underneath the table. ‘How was yours?’ I ask politely.

Now we’re out of the office and alone in the café together I’m wondering if this was such a good idea. I suddenly feel a bit awkward. After all, I barely know him. What are we going to talk about?

‘Pretty shite,’ he grins cheerfully.

His answer catches me by surprise.

‘It’s the same every year,’ he shrugs matter-of-factly. ‘Everyone else always seems to have a great time, but I just don’t enjoy it. In fact, I don’t even bother to go out. This year I spent it like I always do, by myself on the sofa, watching bad TV and wishing it would hurry up and be over with.’ He laughs. ‘I know, I probably sound like a weirdo . . .’

‘No . . . not at all,’ I protest, feeling a sudden affection towards him. ‘I’m the same.’

‘You are?’ He frowns and peers at me across the table. ‘Well, then it’s a date. Next New Year’s Eve. My sofa or yours?’

I laugh, feeling myself relaxing.

‘So what’s good here?’ he asks. ‘I’m bloody starving.’

‘Oh . . . all the different fillings are on here,’ I say hurriedly, passing him one of the small plastic menus.

Screwing up his eyes, he squints at the writing. ‘Hang on a mo . . .’ He fumbles around in the top pocket of his jacket and digs out a pair of wire-framed glasses. ‘Ah, that’s better, now I can actually see what I’m going to eat,’ he says, shoving them up his nose.

‘I didn’t know you wore glasses,’ I say, taking in this new bespectacled Fergus.

‘I ran out of contacts,’ he explains, ‘used the last pair for an audition.’

‘An audition?’ I repeat, looking at him in surprise for the second time in five minutes. Fergus, I’m fast realising, is full of surprises.

‘Ready to order?’

We’re interrupted by a frazzled-looking waitress.

‘Oh, um, just the goat’s cheese and sundried tomato,’ I say quickly, choosing my usual.

‘And I’ll have the black bean chilli,’ chimes in Fergus.

She scribbles it on her pad and disappears. I turn back to him. ‘What kind of audition?’

‘It was for some TV show,’ he shrugs, then, seeing my confused expression, explains, ‘I’m an actor.’

‘You mean like Johnny Depp?’ I say stupidly, before I can stop myself. I wince with embarrassment. Honestly Tess, sometimes you should try putting that brain of yours into gear before you open your big mouth.

But if Fergus thinks I’m an idiot, he doesn’t show it. ‘Not quite,’ he says evenly. ‘I don’t think Johnny Depp doubles as a bicycle courier to pay the bills. Captain Jack Sparrow on a pushbike? Maybe I’m wrong but I don’t think so . . .’  There’s a flash of amusement in his eyes.

‘No, I suppose not,’ I nod, smiling despite myself. ‘So have you been in anything?’

‘I did a bit of theatre when I was at drama school,’ he shrugs, ‘and I’ve done a few commercials.’

‘Ooh, which ones?’ I look at him agog across the table. Well, I can’t help it. It all sounds so exciting and glamorous.

Now it’s his turn to look embarrassed. ‘Well, I recently played the dad in a toilet-roll commercial,’ he confesses. Avoiding my gaze, he starts fiddling with the condiments.

‘No way!’

‘Now who’s the one acting?’ He raises a thick black eyebrow.

I look at him nonplussed.

‘Well c’mon, don’t tell me you’re actually impressed?’

‘But I am!’ I protest. ‘You’re on the TV!’

‘Selling bog roll,’ he reminds me with a glum smile. ‘Not exactly an Academy Award-winning performance.’