Don’t You Forget About Me (19 page)

I’ve been to Seb’s apartment so many times I could do the route with my eyes closed, and I have to keep stopping myself from automatically turning a corner, or crossing a street. At one point I almost blurt out, ‘No, it’s quicker this way,’ and lead him down a little alley I always used as a shortcut.

Before I was forever telling him it was quicker this way, and he was forever telling me it wasn’t. Once we got into such a disagreement about it that we each went our separate ways and Seb insisted on timing us both to see who was quickest – he could be really competitive like that – and he said his way was six-tenths of a second faster. (He has one of those super-chunky top-of-the-range sports watches, so I couldn’t disagree.) Saying that, I could have
sworn
he was a little flushed, as if he’d been running, but he was adamant he’d walked the whole way and it was just the wine we’d been drinking.

But then this was nothing unusual. Seb and I always used to squabble about directions. It didn’t matter where we went, we’d always end up disagreeing and it would often deteriorate into a full-scale row, with him grabbing the map from me and declaring I’d taken us ‘the wrong way!’ Which I don’t think is very fair. I mean, I’m not one of those people who have an inbuilt compass, but I can navigate my way around H&M
even in the sale
, and believe me, that’s saying something.

In the end I bought him a Sat Nav for his birthday. Brilliant. Problem sorted! But that didn’t work either, as he just disagreed with that as well. And it was Stephen Fry giving the directions. I mean, who disagrees with Stephen Fry, for goodness’ sake?

Now, however, I let him lead the way and we arrive at his address without any squabbles. Not so much as a cross word (though I do still think my way is quicker) and, after he punches in his security code, we step inside the carpeted foyer. Seb lives in one of those prestigious portered blocks, with shiny brass nameplates and a lift with a sliding grille to whisk you up to his flat on the second floor. It’s a whole world away from Arminta Mansions with its Tipp-Ex-ed buzzers and lung-busting flights of stairs.

‘So here we are,’ says Seb, as we walk out of the lift and down the corridor to his flat. Sliding his key in the door, he pushes it open. ‘Welcome to my humble abode.’

That’s just Seb being modest. Trust me, there’s nothing humble about his apartment. It’s twice the size of mine and Fiona’s, and is all open-plan with these big lovely windows and polished parquet floors. It reminds me of a New York apartment – not that I’ve ever been in a New York apartment, but you know what I mean. The colour scheme is all muted greys and white with cool abstract paintings on the walls, and he’s got this huge grey sofa that could seat about twenty people and a glass coffee table with three legs by some designer whose name he told me once but I can’t remember.

‘This place is amazing,’ I say, looking around and feeling wowed all over again.

‘Thanks,’ he smiles, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t take all the credit.’

‘You can’t?’ I stop gawping at a pair of fancy modern lamps, and turn to him.

He shakes his head. ‘No, when I moved in I had an interior designer come in to decorate. She chose all the furniture, even the artwork,’ he explains. ‘I was too busy at work.’

‘Oh . . .’ He had never told me he didn’t decorate it himself. I turn back to look at the apartment, but instead of feeling impressed, now I can’t help feeling disappointed. ‘What a shame,’ I console. ‘I’ve always imagined the best bit about getting your own place would be buying those little tester pots and painting patches of walls all kinds of weird and wonderful colours until you work out what looks amazing.’ I turn back and catch his expression, only instead of nodding in agreement he’s looking at me as if he doesn’t understand what I’m saying.

‘Seriously?’ He frowns in surprise. ‘Wow, not me. I’d rather have a professional choose my colour scheme for me.’

‘But that’s half the fun,’ I protest.

‘Maybe for you, but I’m pretty colour blind,’ he laughs. ‘I’d probably end up with purple walls.’

‘Well what about all the other stuff??’ I laugh. ‘Like spending weekends rummaging around the markets, like Spitalfields and Portobello, hunting out all the weird bits and pieces and junk you can transform. Like a ratty old armchair you could cover with some vintage fabric, or even a whole sofa – and what about a lamp that you could make a new shade for?’ Getting carried away with ideas, I start gesticulating enthusiastically.

‘Like I said, I don’t have time for any of that,’ shrugs Seb.

I get the distinct feeling he’s not sharing my enthusiasm, and I feel a bit silly for even suggesting it. It’s true: he’s far too busy to be rummaging around markets. He’s got this high-flying career and he’s always at the office. Saying that, he does spend a lot of time at the gym or doing sport. Still, I guess it’s just priorities, that’s all.

‘Well, it’s still really lovely,’ I say, rather lamely.

‘Thanks,’ smiles Seb, throwing his keys on the table and taking off his coat.

Meanwhile I look around me. It all seems to be exactly the same as before. Nothing has changed, and yet everything has changed. My eyes sweep across a shelf of photographs. There used to be one of us two at a party, but it’s gone now. Sadness flickers, and for a moment I feel a sense of loss, of bittersweet nostalgia for all the times we spent together that have now never happened. Like Sunday afternoons spent reading the papers. Like the dinner party we threw last summer where we all got drunk on toffee vodka, and did karoake.

Like when we broke up
, I remind myself sharply.

Suddenly it hits me – that was the last time I was here – and out of nowhere an old hurt rises up inside. Rewind a couple of months ago and I was sitting right there . . . I glance across at that big grey sofa and it’s like
Sliding Doors . . .
there I am, hugging a cushion and trying not to cry, and sitting opposite on the armchair is Seb, staring at his trainers, the atmosphere strained and awful.

‘Everything OK?’

I snap back to see Seb looking at me, concern in his face.

But that’s all gone now. Deleted. Erased forever. Like a tape that’s been wiped clean. And now we’re recording over it again, only this time with something different. And I’m not sorry, I’m glad. The good times might have gone, but so have all the bad times. The last time I was here was the ending, but now we’re right back at the beginning. A new beginning.

‘Yeh, everything’s great,’ I smile, delighted by the thought. I still can’t believe this is really happening, that I’m getting to do it all over again. I almost want to pinch myself.

‘Good.’ His face relaxes. ‘You’re still wearing your coat, I was worried you were thinking of leaving . . .’

I suddenly realise I haven’t taken it off. ‘Oh, sorry,’ I laugh, and start unzipping it and tugging my arms out of the sleeves. ‘It just takes me a little time to warm up.’ Making excuses, I pass it to him.

‘Well in that case let me get that wine. A good bottle of red will warm you up in no time,’ he grins, taking my coat and hanging it on the stand in the corner, before walking into the open-plan kitchen.

There’s a wine rack next to the fridge and I watch as he expertly selects a bottle and grabs a corkscrew and two glasses, then turns to me. For a moment I think he’s going to say something, but instead he angles his body towards mine and kisses me gently on the lips.

It’s the first time he’s tried to kiss me and it’s so casual and relaxed that for a split second it barely registers what’s happening.

Until his lips brush against mine.

The effect is immediate and all at once a familiar ache ripples through my body. God, I’ve missed him so much. And for a heady, breathless, urgent moment, all I want to do is pull him closer, wrap my arms around him, and snog the living daylights out of him—

I slam on the brakes and my mind screeches to a halt.

Tess, no! You can’t. You’ve only just met him, remember? Plus you’ve barely been in the flat five minutes – you can’t just jump on him in the kitchen. What will you look like? You’re aiming for perfect girlfriend, not complete slapper.

Fighting the urge, I give him a quick peck on the lips.

And I thought giving up chocolate for Lent last year was hard. Believe me, that kiss took
serious
willpower.

We break apart and he holds my gaze for just long enough to make my legs go all wobbly, then says, ‘Let’s go make ourselves comfortable,’ and gestures towards the sofa area.

‘OK,’ I reply, in what I hope is a husky voice. But instead it comes out all squeaky and high-pitched, like the time I went to an engagement party with Fiona and we got drunk and inhaled the helium balloons and spent the whole evening talking like Pinky and Perky.

Only this time there’s no helium balloons. Just me and Seb. Alone in his apartment with a bottle of red wine and a whole night ahead of us. My lips are still tingling and, feeling a flutter of anticipation, I follow him towards the sofa.

As for all that other stuff, there’s plenty of time for that later.

Chapter 15

Picture the scene:

Soft lighting, the kind you get from nice, expensive lamps placed strategically around the room; ambient chill-out music wafting from concealed speakers, and me and Seb snuggled up together on the big, squidgy sofa.

Two glasses, forty minutes and quite a lot of kissing later, and I’m in heaven. As second dates go, it can’t get much better than this, I muse, nuzzling into his neck and inhaling his familiar aroma of faded aftershave and deodorant. I breathe it in deeply. Forget all those fancy expensive perfumes, this has to be my favourite scent.

‘Want some more wine?’ murmurs Seb into my ear.

‘Mmm, yes please.’ Emerging from my dreamy reverie, I sit up tipsily. I feel all fuzzy around the edges, like a pencil drawing that’s been smudged with an eraser, rubbing out all the hard lines.

‘I love this vintage,’ says Seb, reaching for the bottle and pouring me another glass.

‘Mmm, yes, it’s delicious.’ I take a sip. ‘What is it?’

‘A Pinot Noir, from one of my favourite vineyards back in the States.’

Somewhere in the back of my mind a vague bell starts ringing, and as he turns to pour himself a glass, I reach over and pick up the corkscrew that’s lying on the table. I glance absently at the cork, at its red-wine-stained bottom and, unscrewing it, turn it over in my fingers to see the embossing on the top: ‘Stanly Ranch Pinot Noir 2002’.

I recognise that name.

My mind flashes back to the shoebox I threw on the fire. To its contents. To the wine cork that I kept as a memento. It’s the same wine as the bottle we shared the first time we got drunk together. The first time we spent the night together.

The first time we had sex.

‘It’s getting late . . .’

I tune back in.

‘. . . and I was wondering . . .’ He pauses, and somewhere deep inside of me I can feel a pulse beating. I know what he’s going to say and yet it doesn’t make it any less exciting. In fact, it makes it even
more
exciting. ‘Do you want to stay?’

My groin answers for me. It must be telepathic.

‘Or I can call you a cab,’ he adds quickly, looking unsure.

I once read one of those books about dating, and it had all these rules in it about how to make a man fall in love with you. One of them was that you have to wait until the third date to have sex. Apparently, those are the rules.

I hesitate. This time I want to do it all properly; this time I want to do everything by the book.

Saying that, there are
some
rules that are made to be broken . . .

Slipping the cork into my pocket, I flash him a smile. ‘Do you have a spare toothbrush?’

A new relationship is always a bit nerve-wracking, but there’s nothing worse than reaching that tantalising moment when you might sleep together . . . only to realise you’re not ready. And I don’t mean as in ‘things are moving a little too fast and you want to get to know him more first’. I’m talking ‘not ready’ as in you haven’t had a bikini wax since last summer and the regrowth is so bad you’d give Bob Marley a run for his dreadlocks.

Or you’re wearing your comfy T-shirt bra and knickers that come in packs of three and are flesh-coloured so you can’t see them under your clothes. And
not
, as is obviously crucial the first time you have sex with a man you are crazy about, the kind of underwear that is
supposed
to be seen, i.e. little expensive, uncomfortable scraps of frothy lace that get right up your y
ou-know-what
and have you wriggling around on the tube like you’re dancing the Salsa.

Underwear like the expensive lingerie that Seb bought me last year, I note, doing a little wriggle as I get up from the sofa and follow Seb towards the bedroom. It’s too small but I squeezed into it just in case. I admit I also waxed my legs and did all my naughty bits. I even did an all-over body scrub and applied a fake tan. The whole process took hours. I had to set my alarm and get up super-early so I could do the full makeover before I left for work this morning.

And trust me, applying hot wax to your nether regions at 6 a.m. when you’ve only had a couple of hours’ sleep because you’ve been watching Luke Skywalker take on Darth Vader till gone 3 a.m. is very dangerous. I was so bleary-eyed the wax mistakenly went in some
very
painful places.