Don’t You Forget About Me (23 page)

‘Thanks,’ he smiles, high-fiving her back.

We’re interrupted by the shrill ring of Kym’s phone, and as she picks up I glance back across at Fergus. Only his smile’s slipped and he’s suddenly looking a bit nervous. Almost as though he’s not quite sure what he’s done.

‘So now what?’ I ask him.

Turning to me, he shrugs and throws me a hopeful look. ‘I guess I just have to wait.’

Chapter 18

At the end of the day I leave the office and catch the bus to Kensington where I’ve arranged to meet Fiona after work. She called earlier, offering me the chance of a free pedicure if I went with her to Oceano
,
a new Japanese nail salon that’s just opened.

There was only one catch:

‘It’s not a regular pedicure, it’s of the fishy variety,’ she confessed down the phone.

‘Nuh-huh,’ I replied, ‘I happen to like my toes.’

‘Oh c’mon, it’s for my column,’ she pleaded.

‘You’re scared, aren’t you?’ I said, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice.

‘Scared? Don’t be silly! Of course I’m not scared!’ she protested hotly. ‘I just thought it might be fun if we go together.’

‘You mean like safety in numbers?’

There’s a sulky pause.

‘By the way, you know I still can’t find my Diptyque candle . . .’

Oh fuck. With everything going on I’d totally forgotten about that.

‘Actually, on second thoughts, you’re right, that does sound like fun. What’s the address again?’

Despite detailed directions, I still get lost, and it’s only after circling the block a few times that I eventually find it, tucked away on a cobbled side street. From the outside it looks like any other nail salon, but pushing open the door I’m greeted by a row of tanks, all lined up, full of fish ready to feast on strangers’ feet.

I try not to cringe.

‘Tess!’

I look up to see Fiona, trousers rolled up to her knees, being led barefoot towards one of the fish tanks by one of the kimono-clad assistants, a look of fear on her face. It’s like that scene from the Bond film with Helga Brandt when she’s fed to the piranhas.

‘Sorry, I got lost—’ I begin, but she cuts me off.

‘No worries, I’ll wait for you.’ She hastily signals to the assistant.

‘It’s OK, you go ahead,’ I say, tugging off my winter boots.

She turns pale underneath the spotlights. ‘No, it’s fine, honestly . . . In fact, guess what? I must dash to the loo . . .’ and making her excuses, she disappears behind a curtain at the back. It’s like the time we were at school and accidentally broke the headmistress’s window with a rounders ball, and Fiona ran off and left me to face the music.

Only this time it’s hundreds of tiny little fish. I wince as I’m shown to my chair a few moments later and tentatively lower my feet into a tank. Immediately they dive upon my toes and I brace myself as they start nibbling. Oh my god, this is going to hurt, this is going to be painful . . .

I let out an unexpected giggle.

Oh my gosh, it’s so ticklish!

‘How is it?’ asks Fiona, re-emerging from the Ladies and sliding onto the seat next to me. For a split second I’m about to tell her how nice it feels. Then I change my mind. Well, I still owe her payback for that broken window.

I stifle the giggle rising up inside me and force my face into a grimace. ‘Agony,’ I gasp.

‘Oh my god, you’re serious?’ Fiona pales.

I nod mutely, doing my best to suppress my laughter.

‘Argh,’ I let out a yell.

‘What?’ Startled, Fiona jumps a mile.

‘My toe!’ I gasp. ‘I think they’ve chewed off my toe!’

‘Fuck! You’re kidding!’ she gasps back, a terrified expression on her face.

It’s too much. I can’t pretend any longer and I burst out laughing. ‘Of course I’m kidding,’ I snort, trying to catch my breath.

It takes a moment to register and then, ‘Tess!’ she yelps indignantly, bashing me on the shoulder. ‘That’s so mean!’

‘Well you deserve it,’ I reply, wiping the tears of mirth from my eyes.

‘That’s so unfair! I was really worried!’

‘So worried you ran away and left me to face the fish alone?’ I say, still grinning.

She pouts and does that thing where she pretends she hasn’t heard me. Like when I mention it’s her turn to do the washing-up, or there’s no loo roll left. I call it selective hearing, as all I have to do is
whisper
the words ‘chocolate’ or ‘he’s handsome’ and her ears prick up like a bat and she’s all, ‘What? Where?’

Steeling herself, she slowly lowers her feet into the tank. For a second there’s a look of surprise on her face, then, ‘Oooh, it’s tingly . . .’ she exclaims, as the fish begin nibbling hungrily. ‘I like it.’

‘Me too,’ I grin, settling back into my chair. Bizarre as it sounds, it’s actually very relaxing, like having a mini-massage on your feet.

‘And it’s nothing like that James Bond film,’ she reprimands, giving me
that
look.

‘Well I wasn’t to know,’ I reply innocently.

She narrows her eyes and stares at me for a moment, as if not quite sure whether to believe me or not, then gives up and shoots me a furtive smile. ‘By the way, I noticed you didn’t come home last night.’

‘I stayed at Seb’s,’ I admit, feeling all tingly again, and this time it’s got nothing to do with the Garra Rufa fish.

She leans closer, excitedly. ‘So how was it?’

‘Oh Fiona, it was amazing,’ I grin, barely able to contain my delight.

‘The sex was that good, huh?’

I feel myself blush. ‘Well yes, but it’s not just the sex, it’s everything. We’re getting on so brilliantly . . . and he’s so smart and successful . . . and handsome,’ I add with a blissful smile. ‘And he seems to really
really
like me . . .’

‘And so he should,’ replies Fiona loyally. ‘What’s not to like?’

I smile bashfully. ‘You would say that, you’re my best friend.’

‘No, I’m just being truthful,’ she says evenly. ‘You’re such a gorgeous, funny, interesting person, Tess: why shouldn’t he think you’re amazing?’

I feel myself colouring up at her effusiveness and I don’t know what to say – after all, I know she’s only being kind, and I’m glad when the assistant reappears with green tea and a stack of magazines for us to read.

‘Oooh fab!’ exclaims Fiona, ignoring the green tea and diving on the magazines with delight. ‘Here, which one do you want? Brad and Angelina, or Peter Andre?’ She holds up two covers.

‘No it’s OK, I’ve got a book,’ I say, reaching into my bag and pulling out my Obama biography. I’ve been carrying it around since Seb gave it to me and it weighs a ton.

Fiona frowns. ‘What? You don’t want to read all about celebrity cellulite?’

She flashes open the magazine and I catch a glimpse of a bikini special.

For a moment I’m tempted, but I resist.

‘No thanks,’ I say, feeling a little pious and turning over the page.

She peers at me doubtfully for a moment, then shrugs. ‘OK, suit yourself.’

We both fall silent and start reading, but after a few minutes I’m distracted by Fiona gasping.

‘Oh gosh, you should see this!’ she exclaims, and I look up. ‘Oops sorry, I forgot you’re not interested in celebrity gossip any more,’ she says, putting a finger over her mouth to sshh herself.

‘It’s OK,’ I say, turning back to my book. I can hear Fiona flicking over the pages as I continue reading and then—

‘I can’t believe it!’

‘What?’ I jerk my head up.

‘Oh, nothing,’ she shrugs, shaking her head.

Curiosity itches. What
is
she looking at? Jennifer Aniston in a minidress at a premiere? Topless pictures of Peter Andre? Some drunk celebrity falling out of a club?

Not that I care,
of course
, I’m just wondering.

Firmly bending back the spine of my book I stare down at my page. Now, where was I? Finding my paragraph I continue reading. Only for some reason I seem to be having problems concentrating. The words are swimming in front of my eyes and I’m reading the same sentence over and over . . .

‘Mmmm, he’s gorgeous,’ murmurs Fiona.

OK, that’s it. I’ve cracked. Sorry Obama. You might be the most powerful man in the world but the lure of celebrity gossip is too much. Furtively I crane my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of Fiona’s magazine pages.

Oooh look, it’s an at-home spread with that handsome actor from
Grey’s Anatomy
!

‘Is that book good?’

I snatch my head back, almost cricking my neck, to see Fiona staring at me with a raised-eyebrow look.

‘Um yes . . . really
really
good,’ I nod vigorously. ‘Seb says it completely changed his life.’

‘You haven’t got very far,’ she frowns, and I look down to realise I’m still on page two.

Page two?

As in, I’ve only read two pages?

I stare at it in astonishment. I already feel as though I’ve been reading this for days. ‘Well . . . um . . . it takes a while to absorb everything, you know,’ I say, hurriedly, ‘so you have to read it slowly and . . . um . . . sort of think deeply about all his views on life and . . . um . . . stuff.’

‘What are his views on life?’

‘Er, well, I haven’t got to that bit yet.’

‘Hmm.’ Fiona looks at me silently for a few moments, as if she’s about to say something, but is distracted by the ping of an email on her BlackBerry. ‘Ooh, look I’ve been sent some soul mates,’ she says, glancing at her screen. ‘I joined a new dating site, Sassy Soul Mates,
’
she explains, seeing my blank look.

‘You have?’ I say, relieved to be off the subject of my Obama book.

‘Yup,’ she nods. ‘Well, after Henry the Eighth didn’t work out I thought I’d widen the net – plenty more fish in the sea and all that,’ she finishes resolutely.

That’s one of the things I like about Fiona. She gets knocked down but she always gets back up again. I know she was hurt by what happened, but she refuses to show it.

‘So who are your soul mates?’ I ask curiously.

‘Hang on, it’s loading . . .’ She peers at the screen of her BlackBerry. ‘Oh dear,’ she says, frowning.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘None are my type,’ she says, scrolling down, ‘and one of them needs a serious makeover.’ Peering closely at her screen, she tuts. ‘What on earth is he wearing?’

‘Who? Let me see . . .’

But Fiona’s not listening, she’s already replying.

‘I was just sent your profile but I don’t think I’m your sassy soul mate,’ she taps furiously away at her BlackBerry. ‘However . . .’ She frowns again at her screen and shakes her head. ‘. . . I had to get in touch as I don’t think you will have much success with your photograph. I’m sure you’re a very nice man but I think you could benefit greatly from a makeover. Do you have any female friends that could help with fashion and styling advice? If not, as a health and beauty writer, I would be happy to give you some tips. Best wishes . . .’ She presses send with a flourish of satisfaction. ‘There. Done.’ She pops her BlackBerry back in her bag. ‘You know, I think if I wasn’t a health and beauty columnist I could be an agony aunt,’ she says, turning to me and looking very pleased with herself.

For a brief moment I think about pointing out that most men doing online dating are more likely after a legover than a makeover, but we’re interrupted by one of the assistants.

‘Excuse me, but the fish have finished your pedicure.’

‘Oh really?’ I glance into the tank and notice that whereas before the fish were clustered around my toes, they’re now lazily hanging around the edges.

‘Can you see how they are no longer eating?’ explains the assistant. ‘That’s because they are full.’

‘Well I’m glad someone is,’ grumbles Fiona, as her stomach makes a loud rumble. She slaps a hand over it to try and quieten it.

‘Why don’t we get a pizza on the way home?’ I suggest, lifting my feet out of the tank. Gosh, it’s amazing, it really does work. I’ve never felt them so soft.

‘I can’t, I’m still on the rainbow diet.’ She pulls a face.

‘What colour are you on now?’

‘Yellow.’

‘Well that’s easy, you can have four cheeses, just hold the tomato,’ I suggest cheerfully, drying my feet and putting my socks back on.

‘True,’ she nods, wriggling her feet into her obligatory stilettos, ‘but I don’t have time. I have to get back to the flat. Pippa and Grizzle are coming over with a few of the other girls.’

My heart sinks. ‘Oh, that will be fun,’ I say, trying to sound all jolly, which is hard when you’re speaking through gritted teeth.

‘Yes, I said we could do a beauty product party. You’ll be pleased to hear I’m going to give away the big pile on the kitchen table—’

‘I’ll call off the emergency services,’ I grin.