Don’t You Forget About Me (22 page)

‘Why you clever girl, how did you know that?’

‘Tailors always put them there,’ I explain, ‘my granddad taught me that.’ Grabbing my bag, I rummage in it and pull out my little sewing kit that I always carry around. ‘I’ll quickly sew it on for you.’

‘You can do that?’ Sir Richard looks incredulous.

‘It will only take a minute,’ I say, already threading the needle. ‘Why don’t you have a quick shave in the meantime?’ I gesture to his electric razor that I see on the side of his desk.

‘Oh yes . . . of course!’ Sir Richard snatches a hand up to his whiskery chin in sudden realisation. Grabbing his razor he flicks it on. ‘What would I do without you, hey Tess?’ he exclaims over the electric buzz, and shooting me a grateful smile, he begins energetically shaving over the wastepaper basket.

‘Oh it’s nothing, honestly,’ I protest, but inside I feel a faint tinge of pride. OK, so I might be useless at taking minutes, but when it comes to sewing on buttons . . . I bite off the cotton and admire my handiwork. Gramps taught me well. Still a bit crumpled, but other than that, as good as new.

Chapter 17

A few minutes later we ride up in the lift to the third floor. The doors ping open and we start to hurry down the corridor when Sir Richard slaps his forehead. ‘Goodness me, I completely forgot to brief you on the meeting.’

With everything that’s been going on, it had totally slipped my mind as well, but now, reminded, anxiety starts to knot in my stomach.

‘Don’t worry,’ he reassures me, seeing my expression. ‘It will all be splendid, just follow my lead.’ And, pulling open the door to the boardroom, he sweeps me inside. ‘Ah, good morning everyone, how wonderful to see you could all make it,’ and, without missing a beat, he begins his round of greetings like a true professional, shaking hands, trading jokes, making small talk.

We take our seats, Sir Richard at the head of the table, and me – oh shit . . . my heart sinks as I see the only free seat left is next to Wendy the Witch. There’s bad luck and then there’s
really bad luck
.

Ignoring her glares, I quickly sit down and get out my notepad and pen. I can feel her eyes on me, trying to crane over my shoulder to see what I’m writing, and I’m tempted to doodle a witch on her broomstick. But of course I’m far too mature for that.
Sadly
. Instead I write
MINUTES
in block capitals and underline it twice.

OK, so far so good.

Thirty minutes later and I’ve finished noting down the time and place of meeting and making a list of attendants, like they tell you to do in my books, and am now trying to think what other bullet points I can make.

‘So this next graph shows the recent analysis of effective branding strategies,’ drones Kevin from Accounts, who’s up at the front doing a PowerPoint presentation that seems to consist of one identical-looking slide after another of graphs and pie charts, none of which I can make head or tail of.

Sneaking a glance around the table, I remember a point in my
Minutes Made Easy!
book: ‘Avoid personal or inflammatory observations’.

So in that case, it’s probably best not putting:

1. Wendy has scoffed that entire first packet of chocolate biscuits and is now making a start on the second.

2. Adam, one of the directors, has his fly undone.

3. John from Marketing is picking his nose . . .

I watch as he has a good root around and then inspects what’s on the end of his finger. There’s a pause . . . oh god, he’s not going to do what I think he’s going to . . .

. . . and eating it.

Looking away sharply, I stare back at Kevin and try to concentrate on what he’s saying, but my mind’s like a kite. No matter how hard I try to tether it to the boardroom, it keeps drifting away – far far away from pie charts and Excel sheets – to sequins and buttons and an idea for a new, smaller type of clutch bag. I love my original bag, but this would be perfect for a night out, just big enough to hold a lip gloss, keys and a mobile phone. I could make a wrist strap out of some of that gorgeous velvet ribbon I have; it’s a dark plum colour and if you looped it over your hand . . .

And what about if I sewed peacock feathers all over the bag? I’m always finding those in charity shops, the bright green and blue of the feathers with the deep plum velvet of the ribbon . . . gosh, yes, that would look amazing . . .

‘Thank you Kevin, fascinating stuff,’ enthuses Wendy. ‘Don’t we all agree?’

I zone back to see her staring at my pad and I suddenly realise that I’ve been doodling the whole time. Instead of taking notes I’ve been absently sketching designs for my new bag and the pages are filled with scribbles and drawings.

Fuck. Hurriedly turning over the page, I try to focus back on Kevin, but he’s finished and is returning to his seat. Fuck, fuck, fuck, now I’m totally lost. I’ll never be able to even
attempt
to write up the notes now. I can feel witchy eyes boring into the side of my face. Oh god, she’s never going to let me hear the end of this.

Feeling doomed, I glance across at Sir Richard, who’s started talking. ‘So, just to clarify, Kevin, the main points when simplified are . . . ?’ He catches my eye and throws me a wink.

It takes a moment to register, but as Kevin proceeds to recap in words I can understand, I feel a rush of relief, and shooting Sir Richard back a grateful smile, I quickly start jotting them down.

The rest of the meeting passes without a hitch, thanks to Sir Richard and his constant need for clarification, and afterwards I quickly scoot back to my desk and spend the rest of the morning typing up my notes and sending the minutes out. It’s a personal first. I’m even tempted to hand-deliver them to Wendy. Though, on second thoughts, perhaps I don’t need to go
that
far.

Anyway, I’m feeling pretty good about everything by the time lunchtime swings around and I walk across the road to grab a baked potato to take back to the office. Putting in my order I lean against the counter to wait, which is when I notice a figure sitting in the corner. He’s half hidden behind a copy of
Metro
, and my eyes almost pass over him, but for the familiar-looking tufts of black hair springing over the headlines.

Hang on, is that . . . ?

‘
Fergus?
’

His face appears from behind the paper, looking a little startled.

‘Hey, fancy seeing you here!’ I smile.

‘Um . . . yeh, fancy that,’ he nods, his eyes darting around the café.

‘Couldn’t resist, hey?’

He looks back at me, sort of frozen.

‘The baked potatoes,’ I prompt.

‘Ah yes, of course, the spuds!’ he enthuses, making a big show of smacking his lips and patting his stomach. ‘Couldn’t keep me away from those spuds!’

I glance at his table. It’s empty, but for a Coke.

There’s a pause, and then . . .

‘OK, I’m busted,’ he confesses, following my gaze. ‘I’m not here for the spuds, I came to see if that girl was here again.’

‘And was she?’

‘Nope,’ he shakes his head.

‘How long have you been waiting?’

He pulls a face. ‘Put it this way, I’m on my fifth Coke.’

We exchange looks.

‘So, what about you? How did the movie go?’ he says, changing the subject.

‘Oh great,’ I nod, my mind flicking back to last night and feeling a delicious shiver running up my spine.

‘You liked it?’ He looks surprised and, putting on a voice booms, ‘
May the Force Be  With  You
.’

‘Well no, not the
actual
movie,’ I confess, laughing, ‘but my boyfriend did, and afterwards . . .’ I trail off, realising I’m in danger of offering too much information.

But I needed haven’t worried, Fergus isn’t even listening. Instead he’s focused on the door as someone’s just walked in. Only it’s a builder with a shaved head and tattoos. Disappointment flashes across his face. ‘Sorry, you were saying?’ he says, turning back to me.

In fact, for the next five minutes I don’t think he really hears a word I’m saying as we continue a conversation of sorts. Every time the café entrance bell pings he twirls around and glances at the door, his body inflating with excitement, before realising it’s not her and deflating like a days-old balloon.

Until finally my takeaway potato’s ready and, as he walks me back to the office, I turn to him. ‘And you’ll never guess what! A tiger came into the office and bit off my boss’s head!’

‘Um, really . . .’ he replies absently.

‘Fergus!’ I exclaim.

He snaps out of his trance. ‘What? Did I do something?’ He looks stricken.

I feel a beat of sympathy. I know how he feels. I’ve been that dreamy way about Seb. Hell, I still
am
that way, I muse, thinking about the fluffy white orgasmic cloud that transported me into work this morning.

‘Do you want to talk about her?’ I encourage.

‘What’s there to talk about?’ he shrugs, holding the door open for me. ‘I’m never going to see her again. It was a long shot. ‘

‘Hi Fergus.’ We’re interrupted by Kym as we walk into reception. ‘How are you?’ She smiles flirtily and pats her hair to check it hasn’t moved out of place. Which, considering it’s sprayed rock-solid to her head with the can of Elnett hairspray she carries with her at all times, is unlikely, unless you took to it with a sledgehammer. Even then it’s questionable.

‘Better for seeing you,’ he grins, flicking his charm back on like a switch.

She giggles, delighted by the attention, then turns to me. ‘Hey Tess, wait till you hear this Missed Connection, you’re going to love it!’

Suddenly I’m hit by an idea. ‘I know! I’ve got a great idea! Why don’t you post one of those ads?’ I suggest, turning to Fergus.

‘Ooh, have you had a Missed Connection?’ exclaims Kym, overhearing. ‘How exciting!’

‘Well, I don’t know about that—’ he begins, but she cuts him off.

‘What do you want to put in the ad? I’ll post it online for you right now.’

‘You would?’ Fergus looks taken aback.

‘Of course! I’ve always wanted to post one of these; you know, they’re so romantic, you read these amazing stories where people get married and live happily ever after . . .’

‘Is that so?’ Intrigued, Fergus draws closer.

‘Absolutely!’ cries Kym, thrilled to have a captive audience.

I feel a beat of concern. Kym is getting completely carried away, and she’s taking Fergus with her. ‘Actually, on second thoughts, I’m not sure it is such a good idea,’ I try reasoning, but it’s too late.

‘You know, maybe I should,’ Fergus is saying now. ‘Why not? I mean, it can’t hurt, can it?’

‘Cool!’ grins Kym. ‘OK, so first we have to put it in the boy meets girl section—’ Abruptly she breaks off. ‘Unless of course it’s
boy meetsboy
.’ She gives him a look.

Fergus flushes. ‘Crikey, what do you take me for? It’s a girl,’ he gasps indignantly.

‘Well you can’t make assumptions these days, you know,’ trills Kym, her fingernails clackety-clacking on the keys. ‘OK, so what do you want to put?’

‘Hmm . . .’ He rakes his fingers through his messy black hair, his brow creased deep in thought.

‘If you want I can help with some suggestions,’ she advises.

‘Maybe he needs to give it a bit more thought,’ I say, shooting Kym a look. ‘I mean there’s no rush.’

We’re both interrupted by Fergus who, suddenly galvanised, finds his tongue and launches into a monologue.

‘
You were the beautiful girl with blonde hair in Café Lux on Wednesday at lunchtime . . . I was the guy in the red T-shirt and neon jacket who was too shy to say hello . . .
’

It’s like he’s on stage playing the Dane himself, slapping his hand against his chest, imploring the audience to heed his plight. I glance across at Kym, whose fingers are flying over the keyboard.

‘.
. . So I’m saying it now: Hello. I’d like to buy you a cup of coffee some time—
’

‘Oh come on, if you’re going to ask a girl out, you’ve got to ask her out for dinner,’ I interrupt, ‘or at least a drink.’

Well, if I can’t stop him posting the ad, I can at least help him write it.

He breaks off from his soliloquy and turns to me. ‘I don’t drink on first dates. Not after Suzy and the Malibu and pineapple incident.’

I look at him blankly.

‘Aged fifteen. My school disco.’ He shakes his head and makes a face as if he’s just eaten something sour.

I don’t need to ask him to explain. His expression is enough.

‘OK,’ I shrug. ‘Coffee’s good.’

‘Righty-ho, so all I need now is your email address,’ Kym is chirping, and as Fergus tells her it, she quickly types it in. ‘OK, so that’s it. Post!’ With a flourish of her mouse, she leans back in her chair. ‘All done!’ She flashes him an overexcited grin and holds out her hand to high-five him. ‘Good luck!’