Don’t You Forget About Me (26 page)

He elbows me back, and we both look at each other and break out laughing.

‘If Nan was alive she’d make you wash your mouth out with soap,’ I giggle.

‘She’d do more than that, all right,’ he chuckles, but there’s a glint of sadness in his eyes and he glances towards a black-and-white photograph on the side table. It’s their wedding photograph, taken nearly fifty-seven years ago. They look so young – her in a simple white dress and him in an old-fashioned suit – and they’re smiling excitedly at each other, their whole lives ahead of them.

‘I do miss her, you know,’ he says quietly.

‘I know you do,’ I nod, the understatement of his words causing a lump in my throat. Reaching out I clasp his worn hand in mine. ‘We all do.’

For a moment we stay like that until, giving himself a little shake, as if to stir himself out of the past, he turns to me. ‘Now then, young lady, about those buttons . . .’ Hoisting himself up from the sofa, he grabs his cane and walks over to his sewing machine table. ‘I had a good look through all my old ones I’ve kept, and I found these . . .’ He reaches into a drawer, then falls silent.

‘Gramps?’ I look across at him. He’s just standing very still, a confused look on his face. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘They’ve gone!’ He shakes his head.

‘Oh, I’m sure they haven’t, they must be there somewhere, you must have misplaced them . . .’

But he doesn’t reply, rummaging around in the drawer with increasing frustration.

‘Hey, let me help you . . .’ I jump up from the sofa and cross the room, but he’s already emptying it, the contents scattering on the floor.

‘Someone must have stolen them!’ He looks up at me, his blue eyes filled with panic.

‘Gramps, please, let me help.’ His distress is obvious and I feel a clutch of anxiety. This is the behaviour the nurses have been talking about. This isn’t just a bad memory. It’s more than that. ‘No one will have stolen them,’ I say reassuringly, trying to calm him down.

‘It’s not the first time, you know. Things keep going missing,’ he accuses, turning back to the drawer.

‘Here, are these them?’ Out of the corner of my eye I suddenly spot a small bag of buttons on the mantelpiece, and snatching them up I hold them out.

Immediately he stops what he’s doing and his face relaxes. ‘That’s them! You clever girl! Where were they? I didn’t see them.’

‘Oh . . . they’d fallen on the floor,’ I fib. ‘They must have slipped when you were emptying the drawer.’ I don’t want to tell him they were in a completely different place; it will only worry him and he’s upset enough.

Or was. Because now he’s found the buttons, it’s like the storm has passed as quickly as it came, and his calm demeanour has returned. His old self is back and it’s as if it never even happened. Like he’s forgotten about it already.

‘See, aren’t they beauties?’ he’s saying now, emptying the bag’s contents into his hand and holding them out for me to see. There, in the criss-crossed palm of his hand, are perfect flat discs. Made from mother-of-pearl that seems to glow and shimmer in the light.

‘Gosh, they’re perfect!’ I break into a smile.

‘Aren’t they?’ He nods, looking chuffed.

‘And look, I found these . . .’ Now it’s my turn and, grabbing my carrier bag, I pull out my charity shop finds. ‘Look, it’s an old pair of men’s dungarees, I thought we could use the leather braces as handles . . .’

‘My, you’re full of ideas, aren’t you?’ Taking them from me, Gramps turns them over in his hands, ‘Aye, that might work, though we’ll need to make sure the leather’s stitched firmly into the seam . . .’

‘Oh, and I found more vintage flour sacks to make more bags!’ I say excitedly.

‘Wonderful,’ he nods, the corners of his mouth curling up in amusement, ‘but perhaps we should finish this one first, hmm?’ He lays a steadying hand on my shoulder.

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ I say quickly, realising I’m getting completely carried away. Familiar doubts prickle. Gramps is right, I need to finish this one first. After all, what if it doesn’t work and ends up looking rubbish? Glancing across at my half-finished bag, I feel a sting of self-doubt. It’s probably all a stupid idea in the first place anyway.

‘Oh, and I wanted to ask you . . .’

I snap back to see Granddad looking at his pocket leather diary. ‘I’m having a poker night a week on Friday. Interested?’

‘Gramps, you know gambling’s against the rules,’ I begin, but he waves away my concerns with a flick of his hand.

‘In or out?’ he challenges.

‘In.’ I smile ruefully.

‘Splendid,’ he beams, scribbling down my name.

‘Actually, can I bring someone?’ I ask, suddenly having a thought. ‘Seb, my boyfriend,’ I add, waiting for his reaction.

It’s as I expected.

‘A new boyfriend?’ His eyes light up. ‘Well, yes, of course I must meet this new chap. See if he’s worthy of my granddaughter.’

‘Gramps.’ I feel myself going red.

‘Gramps nothing.’ He clicks his tongue and scribbles down something in his diary, then tucks it back into his breast pocket and reaches for his tape measure. ‘Righty-ho, let’s get cracking,’ he says, patting the seat next to him.

Getting up from the sofa, I slide my bottom next to his.

‘Just one more thing.’

‘What?’ I ask, turning to him.

Leaning close, he presses his whiskery cheek to mine. ‘This bag is going to be amazing, my dear,’ he whispers and, before I can answer, he turns away and fires up his sewing machine.

Chapter 21

A few hours later I wave goodbye and, telling Gramps to try to keep out of trouble until I see him next week, I head to the shopping centre. Ali, the computer technician, has left a message on my mobile saying my laptop is ready to pick up.

‘It was as I thought,’ he says gravely, placing my newly fixed computer on the counter in front of me. ‘There was a catastrophic motherboard failure due to a head crash where the internal read-and-write head of the device touched a platter, though in this case it was a magnetic data-storage surface, which of course led to severe data loss.’ He looks up and, seeing my glazed expression, grinds to a halt in his explanation. ‘It works again,’ he says simply.

‘You’re amazing,’ I smile.

His mouth twitches. Ali, I’ve learned, when he’s not in shop assistant mode, is not a natural when it comes to smiling. As a baby he probably skipped learning that bit and went straight onto logarithms. Pushing his thick glasses onto the bridge of his nose, he peers myopically at me. ‘So, how are things? You seem in much better spirits.’

Reminded of how last time I burst into tears in front of him about Seb, embarrassment prickles. ‘Um, yes, great,’ I nod, feeling myself blush slightly. ‘I got back with my boyfriend,’ I confide, in explanation. Well, it’s only fair, considering last time he was having to pass me screen wipes for me to blow my nose on.

‘So he’s not such an idiot after all,’ he nods approvingly.

I smile ruefully. ‘What about you?’

‘Still single,’ he shrugs.

‘Well then, your ex-girlfriend is still an idiot,’ I say firmly.

Unexpectedly, the ever-serious Ali starts laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’ I ask in confusion.

‘Boyfriend,’ he corrects, his dark eyes flashing with amusement.

It takes a moment, then the penny drops. ‘Oh gosh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise—’

‘It’s fine, don’t worry, not many people do,’ he says, cutting off my apology. ‘It’s not easy for an Indian man to be gay. My parents are still not speaking to me; they won’t accept me how I am . . .’ He shakes his head sadly. ‘Still, I’m glad for you. I’m glad your boyfriend realised he made a mistake. It gives me hope that people can change.’

‘Yes, they can,’ I smile reassuringly, but inside I feel a bit uneasy. Because only now, hearing those words, does it occur to me that there’s only one person that’s changed.

And it’s me.

But then change is a good thing, isn’t it? I tell myself firmly as I wave goodbye to Ali. Fiona has a stack of self-help books on her shelf, and when I first broke up with Seb I started reading one and it was all about growing and changing. Admittedly I only got to about page twenty as
The
X Factor
came on, but it made the point that we all need to evolve to survive. I mean, look what happened to the dinosaurs!

Leaving the computer shop, I glide down the escalators. The original plan was to pick up my laptop and head straight home, but now I’m here I might as well get a few things, I decide, pausing by a shop window displaying lots of silky lingerie. I desperately need some new underwear. The only sexy stuff I’ve got is the bra and knicker set that Seb bought me and I can’t keep hand-washing it. Before, when it came to my choice of underwear, ‘comfort’ and ‘support’ were the key words. But not any more. Now the key words are sexy, plunging and . . .

How much?

Having gone inside, I’ve pulled a black satin G-string off the rack and am now staring open-mouthed at the price tag. Surely that must be a mistake. £75! For what amounts to pieces of string and a triangle the size of a postage stamp? And as for comfort and support . . . trust me, those words have no place here. In fact, I saw more comfort and support in a medieval torture museum I once visited, I wince, fingering a ‘rhinestone playsuit’ with a certain trepidation.

Still, it will all be worth it, I tell myself firmly, imagining Seb’s reaction when he sees me in it. Plus, I won’t be wearing it for very long if the last time in bed is anything to go by, I think naughtily to myself as I scoop one up. Along with several pairs of French knickers, barely there G-strings, peek-a-boo bras and a basque that laces up at the back and is fully boned . . . Gosh, I wouldn’t like to wear that after eating a baked potato . . .

Momentarily I feel a wistful twinge for my comfy old T-shirt bras and big knickers. This stuff might look sexy, but it’s all so much
effort
. But then, dating Seb first time around I didn’t make
enough
of an effort. I wasn’t sexy enough. This time it’s all going to be different.
I’m
going to be different. This is the new sexy me, remember?

Handing over my credit card to the sales assistant, I try not to look at the total on the machine as I punch in my PIN, but I can’t help glimpsing a few noughts. My stomach does that churning thing it always does whenever I press ‘check balance’ on the ATM, but I try to ignore it. After all, it’s not as if I’m
spending
money: I’m
investing
it in my future. Forget cash ISAs, this is like a relationship ISA.

Pleased by my financial brainwave, I leave the shop with my big bag swinging over my shoulder. OK, speaking of investing, what other investments do I need? Ah yes, of course, something a lot less glamorous, but just as necessary. Trying not to give a little shudder, I walk next door into a sports shop. I always find these places really intimidating. All those bouncy, ponytailed assistants in tracksuits, trainers and Madonna-style headsets, ready to pounce on you and make you feel like a total moron for not knowing your Nike Airs from your Asics Gel.

Speaking of . . .

‘Hi, can I help you?’ chirps an assistant, bouncing over as I stare at the vast display of trainers on the wall, feeling completely overwhelmed.

I take a deep breath. This isn’t just the new sexy me, it’s also the new sporty me. The one who does all that military fitness. I’ve signed up for my first class on Monday so I need to get kitted out.

‘I need some new trainers,’ I say, trying to sound confident and resisting the urge to ask which are the cheapest.

‘How long have you had your last pair?’

I think about my old pair that are falling apart and buried in the back of a cupboard and try to remember. ‘Um, about five years,’ I say vaguely.

The bouncy ponytailed shop assistant’s smile slides from her face. ‘Five years?’ she gapes in horror. ‘They need to be replaced every twelve months, six months if you’re exercising regularly.’ She gives me an accusing look and I can feel my inner thighs wobble.

‘Do you overpronate?’

I have no idea what she’s talking about, but it sounds painful. ‘Um, I’m not sure—’

‘And what kind of exercise will you be doing? High impact? Running? Aerobics? Or are we talking more cross-training?’

‘Er . . .’

Twenty intimidating minutes later, I leave with new top-of-the range trainers, along with a new gym kit, some leg weights, sweatbands and a gym ball. All this investing can get very expensive. I’ve completely maxed out my credit card. I don’t even have enough money on my Oyster for the bus home and I have to walk back to the flat.

I arrive tired and broke to find Fiona at the kitchen table frowning at her computer screen.

‘What’s campanology?’ she asks, bypassing the hi-how-are-you pleasantries and diving straight into a conversation without any explanation, as only your best friend who’s known you for years can.

‘Bell ringing,’ I reply, dumping my shopping. See, there are advantages to growing up with a father who’s addicted to the
Sunday Times
crossword. ‘Why, you thinking of taking up a new hobby?’