Don’t You Forget About Me (2 page)

Feeling the tears prickling my eyelashes, I hastily blink them away. Anyway, there’s no point going over it all. You don’t get to rehearse a relationship so you can get it right second time around. Seb and I are over and I need to forget all about him and move on.

‘Wow, it’s like a ghost town in here.’

I look up sharply from my computer screen to see a tall figure wearing a neon green vest and bicycle helmet striding through the foyer. Reaching into the messenger bag strapped across his chest, he pulls out a package and, seeing there’s no one on reception today, heads down the corridor towards me.

‘Where is everyone?’ he asks in a thick Irish accent, glancing around the office and the empty desks strewn with the remnants of Christmas decorations.

‘Getting engaged . . . going on honeymoon to Bali . . . having his-and-hers henna tattoos . . .’

He frowns in confusion. ‘Henna tattoos?’

‘Sorry, just ignore me.’ Batting the question away with my hand, I force a smile and take the package from him. ‘Thanks—’

‘Fergus,’ he prompts, unprompted.

‘Oh, right . . . Fergus,’ I nod.

He’s one of our regular bicycle couriers. I’ve seen him popping in and out of reception, but we’ve never really spoken before, apart from a couple of times when Kym, our receptionist, has popped to the loo and I’ve had to sign for urgent parcels. We used to employ a firm of motorcycle despatch riders and van drivers, but about six months ago Sir Richard, the CEO, went all green and sent out a memo insisting we use ‘pedal not petrol power’ and we started using bicycle couriers.

‘Grand,’ replies Fergus cheerfully. ‘Nearly had a punch-up with some wanker in a Porsche who doesn’t know his arse from his indicator, but other than that . . .’ Tugging off his helmet, he runs a gloved hand through a tangled shock of black hair. It’s the first time I’ve seen his face properly and I realise he’s actually quite good-looking. ‘How’s about you . . . ?’ Raising an eyebrow he glances at the little nameplate on my desk. ‘Tess Connelly.’ He looks up and flashes me a flirtatious grin.

‘Oh fine,’ I fib, and begin briskly shuffling random papers around on my desk. I’ve seen him flirting with all the office girls in reception and I’m not going to fall for his charms. ‘Busy.’

‘Right, yeh,’ he nods, glancing dubiously around the empty office.

‘In fact, I haven’t stopped all afternoon,’ I say haughtily.

Which is a blatant lie. Work’s been dead. Nothing ever happens between Christmas and New Year and most people have taken it off as holiday, especially as they’re doing a bit of an internal refurb upstairs. I only volunteered to come in because I thought it would help distract me, keep my mind off things and give me something to do other than sit on the sofa with Fiona watching daytime TV and working my way through the giant tin of Quality Street her grandparents sent her.

But I don’t want this cheeky Irish bicycle courier knowing that, I decide, picking up a sheet of paper and pretending to study it. ‘Ooh look, an important fax from one of our clients in Brazil.’

See, I can at least
look
like I’m a super-efficient PA.

‘What’s bums, tums and thighs?’ he asks, peering over my shoulder.

‘
What?
’ I glance down at the ‘important fax’ and see it’s a list of aerobics classes for the gym I keep thinking about joining.
Thinking
being the operative word. Only with the New Year just around the corner, I’m determined it’s going to be one of my resolutions. ‘Oh . . . um . . . it’s a new kind of Brazilian rum,’ I fluster.

‘Get away,’ grins Fergus, his bright green eyes flashing with astonishment. ‘Seriously?’

‘Well, you know what they’re like in Brazil,’ I fib, crossing my fingers underneath my desk. ‘It’s all about the body, I mean look at Gisele . . .’

‘Wow, you learn something new every day, don’t you?’

‘Um . . . yeh,’ I nod, avoiding his gaze.

‘Fancy asking for that in the pub – I’ll have a large bums, tums and thighs.’ He lets out a throaty laugh and shakes his head. ‘Jeez, wait till I tell my mates back in Dublin about this one.’

Oh fuck, me and my big mouth.

‘So, did you go back to Dublin for Christmas?’ I ask, quickly trying to steer the subject away from Brazilian supermodels and made-up drinks.

‘No, I didn’t make it back this year,’ he replies, scratching the little patch of stubble sprouting on his chin. ‘Thought I’d have a quiet one here instead.’

‘Quiet?
In London?
’ Coming from the country, I could never describe London as being quiet.

‘I’ve got seven sisters, eleven nieces and two nephews,’ he explains. ‘Imagine them all in one room. All shouting over the top of each other. Trust me, compared to that,
anywhere
is quiet.’

He rolls his eyes and I can’t help but smile at his woeful expression.

‘What about you? Big family knees-up?’

‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘My parents flew out to Australia to visit my brother who’s backpacking around the world, so I spent it with my granddad.’ My earlier resolve not to engage with Fergus is fast disappearing and I can’t help being drawn into opening up.

‘So you had a quiet one then too, hey?’

I think about Granddad Connelly. There’re a lot of words I’d use in conjunction with him, but quiet isn’t one of them. ‘Not exactly,’ I smile ruefully, my mind throwing up an image of me and half a dozen of his eighty-something friends clustered around a fold-up table in his nursing home room, feasting on mince pies and a couple of bottles of Blackstock & White whisky I brought with me, while he entertained us with his repertoire of terrible jokes.

‘My grandpa’s ninety-two and he’s always trying to lead me astray,’ he grins. ‘And there was me thinking he should be sitting in a rocking chair feeding me Werther’s Originals.’

‘Yeh, I know, right?’ I laugh, despite my mood. His cheerful humour is infectious.

‘So where’s the craic tonight?’

I stop laughing and look at him blankly. ‘
Craic?
’

‘You know, the party . . . New Year’s Eve,’ he prompts.

‘Oh, right, of course.’ I’ve been trying to block it out all day. New Year’s Eve isn’t exactly the best date in the diary for someone nursing a broken heart. ‘I’m going to a party with my flatmate.’

‘Great,’ he nods enthusiastically. ‘Where’s that then?’

I falter. Fiona’s been going on about it for weeks, but I haven’t been paying much attention. To tell the truth, I’ve been secretly hoping that if I ignored it, it would somehow go away. A bit like I do with credit card bills, and those extra five pounds I put on over Christmas. ‘Um . . . actually I’m not exactly sure . . .’

Thankfully I’m interrupted by the loud crackle of Fergus’s radio, and the voice of his controller instructing him on another job. ‘OK, well, better hit the road.’ He throws me an apologetic smile. ‘Have fun tonight . . .’

‘Right, yeh, you too,’ I nod, watching as he straps on his helmet, battling with the spikes of black hair that are determined to escape its confines. ‘See you later.’

‘See you next year,’ he winks jovially and, turning on his heel, he quickly strides across the office.

I watch his neon figure disappearing through reception, then turn back to my computer and Facebook.

Suddenly my insides freeze.

Seb’s been tagged in a photo.
At a party
.

My stomach lurches. I stare at it, like a rabbit caught in headlights.

Oh my god. While I’ve been holed up on my sofa, surrounded by soggy tissues and empty Malteser packets, wearing my scruffy old sweatpants and no make-up and feeling so depressed that even the cast of
EastEnders
appears cheerful by comparison, Seb’s been out having fun. Without me.

My mind immediately goes into free-fall. Where is he? Whose party is it? Did he go on his own? Did he meet anyone? What other pictures are there?

For a moment I gaze at the photograph, torturing myself with all kinds of thoughts, before pulling myself together.

God, this is ridiculous. I’ve got to forget about him.

Impulsively I hit delete. A message pops up: ‘
Are you sure you want to remove Sebastian Fielding from your friends?
’ And before I can change my mind, I click confirm and his photograph disappears.

He’s gone. Just like that.

For a few seconds I stare at the space where he used to be, then briskly turning my attention back to work, I peel off a Post-it note.

If only it was that easy to delete him from my heart.

Chapter 2

At four o’clock Sir Richard declares the office ‘officially closed’ and shoos me off home. ‘Haven’t you got a party to go to?’ he booms good-naturedly, smoothing down the errant piece of hair that flaps around on his head, like a restless bird threatening to take flight. Unfortunately yes, I feel like answering. But of course I don’t. Feeling depressed is one thing, letting your boss know you’re a heartbroken wreck who wants to go home and hide under the duvet until the year is over is quite another.

‘Um . . . yes,’ I nod, avoiding his gaze and shutting down my computer. Standing up, I grab my coat from the back of my chair.

‘Ah, to be young, footloose and fancy-free,’ sighs Sir Richard wistfully. Perching his large frame on the corner of my desk, he folds his arms and gazes at me with a faraway look in his eyes.

I force a smile. Bundled up in my duvet coat, with Seb firmly on my mind, and a New Year’s Eve party looming, there are many ways I can think of to describe how I’m feeling right now, and fancy-free is not one of them.

‘I remember when I was your age, the things I’d get up to on New Year’s Eve . . .’ He trails off with a chuckle. ‘You know, I once got arrested for dancing in the fountains at Trafalgar Square?’

‘You did?’ I look at my boss’s ill-fitting suit, the thick, oversized glasses teetering on the end of his ruddy nose, his sensible brown lace-up brogues that look a hundred years old. It’s hard to imagine.

‘Indeed I did,’ he nods, with more than a hint of pride in his voice. ‘Actually I streaked.’

‘
You did?
’ My voice comes out at a higher pitch. I suddenly have a vision of Sir Richard running through fountains.
Naked
.

Arggh.
No.
I bat the vision away furiously.

‘Oh yes,’ he nods gravely. ‘I was quite the rascal in my youth.’

I’m not quite sure where this trip down memory lane is heading, but I don’t want to stay and find out.

‘Well bye,’ I say briskly, pulling up my fur-trimmed hood as if in an attempt to protect my ears from any more naked streaking stories. ‘Happy New Year!’

‘Ah yes, indeed, indeed,’ he nods vigorously, snapping back and pushing his glasses up his nose. For a moment he remains there, perched on my desk, and for the first time I notice his suit is slightly more crumpled than usual, and if I’m not mistaken, he hasn’t shaved this morning. ‘Well, Happy New Year, Tess,’ he says, reverting back into boss mode. Straightening up, he stuffs his hands firmly in his pockets. ‘Have a wonderful evening.’

‘You too,’ I reply. He cuts a rather sad figure, standing by my cheese plant, alone in the office, and it suddenly strikes me that if I’ve escaped to the office, is Sir Richard escaping too? And if so, what from?

No sooner has the thought popped into my head than I dismiss it. Don’t be silly, he’s been happily married to Lady Blackstock for the past twenty years, what could he possibly be running away from? And, grabbing my bag, I give a little wave and walk towards the lift.

After the central-heated warmth of the office, outside is like stepping into a chiller cabinet. I set off briskly walking. It’s too cold to wait for a bus, even in my duvet coat, plus I only live twenty minutes away. Digging out my iPod, I untangle the earphones and, to the sounds of Paolo Nutini, head towards the river.

Two tracks later, I see the majestic arch of Hammersmith Bridge up ahead, the ornate gold detailing picked out of the darkness by the stream of car headlights. Icy blasts whip up from the river and around my frozen ears and, turning up my collar, I bury my face into my mohair scarf and keep walking. Below me the Thames is inky black, but dotted along the riverbank I can see pubs with their strings of coloured fairy lights and make out the shapes of people spilling out from the beery warmth, braving the cold to smoke cigarettes.

I turn off my iPod. I can hear the sounds of chatter and laughter carried on the gusts of wind and for a moment I pause to lean against the railings. I let my gaze drift outwards. There’s something magical about being suspended high above the river, looking down on London and life. A sense of freedom and quiet, even with the hum of the traffic behind me, that allows my mind the space to wander. To daydream. To think.

As usual I think about me and Seb. It’s getting to be a bit of a habit, replaying scenes and conversations in my head, imagining if I hadn’t said or done that, imagining if I’d reacted this way instead . . . It takes two people to make a relationship, and two people to break it, but there’s so many things I did wrong. Not great big things, just lots of little random things.