Don’t You Forget About Me (27 page)

‘No, I got an email from someone on Sassy Soul Mates . . .’ She starts reading: ‘
Hi, my name’s Steve and I’m searching for that special someone for a committed loving relationship—
’

‘Sounds promising,’ I interject encouragingly. ‘He mentioned the word “commitment”.’

‘Exactly,’ nods Fiona. ‘Unlike the men I’ve met who can’t say it without coming out in a rash.’

‘So are you going to go on a date with him?’

‘Well here’s the thing . . .’ She glances back down at her computer screen and continues reading, ‘. . .
and to share my great passion in life: campanology
. . .’ She breaks off and we exchange glances.

‘Well, I suppose it’s different,’ I say, trying to sound positive.

‘I’m widening the net, not looking for Quasimodo!’ she protests, hitting delete firmly on her keyboard. Looking up, her gaze lands on my bags. ‘Oooh, you’ve been shopping,’ she says, diving on them excitedly. Nothing can distract Fiona like a shopping bag. ‘Wow, very sexy,’ she nods approvingly, pulling out my peek-a-boo bra and holding it up against her own large chest. Fiona is forever complaining that she can never find any nice bras as her boobs are too big and she has to resort to buying these huge, cantilevered things that leave deep red grooves in her shoulders and are deeply unflattering.

Seeing it’s way too small, she lets out a little sigh of disappointment and puts it back reluctantly. ‘What else have you . . .’ She breaks off as she peers inside the other bag. ‘Hang on, who’s all this sports gear for?’

‘Me,’ I say, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, flicking on the kettle.

‘
You?
’ Her gaze flicks from the sweatbands and back to me in astonishment. ‘But you hate sport!’

‘I watched Wimbledon last year,’ I say defensively.

‘Only because you fancied Nadal,’ she reminds me, and we exchange lustful looks. ‘The last time you played any sport was netball at school, remember?’

Reminded, I have a flashback of me completely missing the net for the umpteenth time. In all the years I played, I never once scored a goal. ‘OK, so maybe I need to work a little on my hand–eye coordination,’ I admit, reaching for the teabags and chucking them into two mugs. ‘But I’m not that bad.’

The teabags miss completely and land on the floor.

‘Anyway, it’s not about sport, it’s about doing exercise and keeping fit,’ I say quickly, avoiding Fiona’s gaze and scooping them up. ‘As you well know, being a
health
and beauty writer,’ I add pointedly.

‘I’ll have you know I’ve taken Tallulah for two walks today already,’ she boasts proudly.

‘Wow, really?’ Going to grab the milk from the fridge, I turn to her, impressed. ‘Where did you walk, along the river?’

‘No, to Primark. Have you seen their sale? It’s amazing.’

I burst out laughing. ‘You took Tallulah to Primark?’ I don’t know which is more funny: that Fiona thinks that constitutes taking a dog for a walk, or imagining Pippa’s reaction if she knew her beloved puppy had been in Primark and not Prada.

‘And Waterstones,’ adds Fiona, looking a bit miffed by my reaction. ‘I bought a book by the world-renowned dog expert Cesar Millan,
How to
Raise the Perfect Dog
.’

‘That’s great,’ I nod, trying to make my face serious. Fiona is obviously taking her dog duties very seriously.

‘In fact I think I’ll take her out again now,’ she continues, shutting her computer and reaching for her coat. ‘Tallulah, walkies!’ Something stirs on the rug and I notice it’s Tallulah. ‘You have to establish leadership with your new dog,’ says Fiona authoritatively, turning to me. ‘It’s all about showing who’s the alpha.’ Looking very pleased with herself, she turns back to Tallulah, who’s still curled up on the rug, not moving. ‘Walkies,’ she repeats, only this time a little more shrilly. Tallulah lazily opens one eye, then promptly closes it, as if to say,
You’re out of your mind, woman, it’s goddamn freezing out there
.

‘What does Cesar say to do if they ignore you?’ I ask, trying to stifle a smile.

‘Er, well, I haven’t got to that bit yet . . .’ Snatching up the book, Fiona starts flicking through, then gives up and closes it. ‘But I’m sure there are always occasions when you need to take a more hands-on approach.’ Clipping on Tallulah’s diamanté lead, she tugs on her collar. ‘See, I’m not completely useless with animals,’ she adds, as Tallulah reluctantly gets up and follows her across the kitchen, dragging her paws. ‘The gerbils were just an unfortunate accident.’

‘Unfortunate,’ I nod in agreement.

She colours up.

‘Anyway, is it OK if I borrow your scarf?? The red one with the glittery bits?’

‘If you can find it,’ I reply, kicking off my shoes and hanging up my coat. ‘I haven’t seen it since you borrowed it last time.’ Fiona is always borrowing things and she never puts anything back. ‘It could be anywhere . . .’ I break off to see it’s already tied around her neck.

‘Brilliant, thanks,’ she smiles brightly. ‘Right, must dash.’

Hearing the door close, I flop on the sofa and flick on the TV. Bliss. At home on Saturday night, slobbing out in front of the TV, just what I feel like. Flea curls up in my lap and, sipping my tea, I reach for the tin of Quality Street that’s balanced on the side of the sofa, and dip my hand in it. Except, hang on . . . my fingers scrabble around and, dragging my eyes away from
The
X Factor
, I peer inside . . . it’s completely empty. Someone’s eaten them all!

And of course it isn’t Fiona
, I think wryly, remembering her vehement denial and how she tried to pin the blame on Flea. I tickle him protectively under his chin and he purrs loudly, oblivious to the fact that he was very nearly the fall guy. ‘It’s a mystery, isn’t it?’ I coo, grinning to myself – a complete and utter mystery.

I’m distracted by the shrill ring of my phone. I snatch it up and glance at the screen. It’s Seb. I feel a flash of surprise. He’s calling me from Geneva!

‘Hi,’ I say, picking up with delight.

‘Hey there,’ says Seb with his distinctive American drawl. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Great,’ I smile. ‘What about you?’

‘Great now I’m talking to you,’ he replies, and I feel a beat of happiness. It’s only been a week but there’s no playing games. We can just be totally honest with each other.

‘So what are you doing?’ he continues cheerfully.

For a split second I think of Seb staying in some five-star hotel in Geneva, about to spend the evening in some swanky restaurant with all his expensively suited business buddies, and suddenly I don’t want to admit I’m lying slobbed out on the sofa, watching some random reality show with my cat on a Saturday night.

‘I just got back from a military fitness class and a run,’ I say, quick as a flash.

Well, honesty isn’t
always
the best policy, is it?

‘Wow, on a Saturday evening? That’s dedication,’ he says approvingly.

Plus where’s the harm? He’ll never know.

‘So how far did you run?’

‘Oh . . . er . . . not far, about ten miles,’ I say, plucking a number out of the air.

‘Wow, that’s far!’ He sounds impressed.

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ I agree. God, why did I go and say ten miles? Three would have done it.

‘You must be all sweaty,’ he continues wickedly.

‘Very,’ I reply, playing along. What am I worrying about? I could have said I’d run a marathon, Seb will never know, he’s in Geneva. Plus my exercise regime starts on Monday as I’ve signed up for my first military fitness class, so it’s not like I’m
completely
making it up. I’m just getting a bit ahead of myself. I fully
intend
to run ten miles. I just need a bit of practice first, that’s all.

‘So you’ll be needing to get in the shower, won’t you?’ he continues.

‘Well, first I’ve got to take all my clothes off,’ I say flirtily.

‘Get all naked you mean?’

‘Completely starkers. Just me and a bar of soap.’

‘Mmm, sexy,’ he says and I laugh.

‘So, how did your meeting go?’ I ask, steering the conversation back before it gets totally X-rated.

‘Awesome,’ he enthuses. ‘We brokered the deal.’

‘Gosh, that’s great,’ I say, feeling proud of him. I’ll never understand Seb’s job in the mind-boggling world of finance, but I do know he’s incredibly good at it. ‘So what are you doing to celebrate?’

‘Taking you out for dinner,’ he quips.

‘Ha ha, very funny,’ I quip back.

‘Why is it funny?’ he asks.

‘Well in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not in Geneva.’

‘Neither am I.’

‘You’re not?’ I feel a jolt of surprise.

‘No, I flew back early to see you.’

‘You did?’ I sit bolt upright on the sofa, dislodging Flea from my lap. He lets out a disgruntled meow.

‘Yeh, I’m just driving back from the airport now and heading over to yours. It’s number twenty-seven, right?’

The surprises are coming thick and fast; I’m momentarily lost for words. ‘Um . . . yeh,’ I manage to croak. ‘So whereabouts exactly are you?’ Which sounds like a innocuous question, but is really me desperately trying to gauge how much time I have. An hour and I can get in the shower, wash and blow-dry my hair
and
iron my dress. Forty-five and it’s a choice between wet hair or a crumpled dress. Less than half an hour and it’s both. Fifteen and—

‘I’m outside.’

I’m screwed.

Suddenly the buzzer goes and I nearly jump off the sofa with fright.

Fuck!

‘Yes, er, that’s right,’ I say, swallowing hard and trying to keep my voice even when inside another voice is shrieking: you just told him you’d been to military fitness! You told him you’d run ten miles! You told him you were all hot and sweaty and needed a shower! I glance down at myself, sprawled on the sofa in a pair of jeans and sheepskin slippers, with a cup of tea balanced in my lap. I couldn’t look less like someone who’s just run ten miles if I tried.

‘Come right up. Top floor. Flat seven.’

But I have to.
And in less than three minutes!

Arggghh. Putting down my phone, I leap up from the sofa and, tugging off my clothes, race naked around my flat, hiding all traces of cups of tea, shopping bags and aforementioned clothes and tugging on my new leggings, sports bra and sweatbands. Lacing up my trainers, I dash to the mirror in the hallway and glance at my reflection. Only there’s something missing . . .

Dashing into the bathroom, I dive into the airing cupboard and grab the spray bottle we keep by the ironing board. I start frantically spritzing my face and chest – I need to look like I’m all sweaty.

In the middle of spritzing I hear a knock. Oh my god, he’s here!

By the time I dash to the door and pull it open, I’m genuinely breathless.

‘Hey, look at you, all sweaty,’ he grins.

‘Yes, I know, sorry.’ I pull a face.

Wrapping his arms around me he draws me to him for a kiss. ‘Mmm . . .’

It’s like magic. Suddenly all that panic is forgotten and I feel myself melting into his kiss. Feeling his tongue, I close my eyes as we start kissing deeper and deeper and . . .
That’s funny, my face is starting to feel a bit weird
.

In the middle of snogging, the thought zips through my brain, then out again. After all, it’s probably because his five o’clock stubble is rubbing against my skin . . . I focus back on the kissing . . . mmm, Seb is such a great kisser.

Like it’s going really tight
.

Shut up! I’m having a sexy reunion with my boyfriend. I feel Seb’s hands wandering across my sports bra . . .

Actually, the word I’m looking for is stiff.

Suddenly I have a flashback to the spray bottle, to Fiona ironing that guy’s shirt for work, starching his collar . . .

And suddenly I realise.

Oh my god! I’ve starched my face!

‘I’ll just jump in the shower,’ I blurt, hastily breaking away.

Panic is shooting through my body. Any minute now and my face is going to set like concrete.

‘Oh . . . uh . . . OK,’ says Seb, visibly taken aback by my abruptness, I notice, glancing down at his trousers.

‘Make yourself at home,’ I say hurriedly.

‘Sure you don’t want me to join you?’ he asks, recovering and throwing me a sexy smile.

I try to smile sexily back but my face is having trouble creasing. ‘Um no, you stay here, relax, watch TV, I’ll be back in a jiffy.’ I turn to go.

‘Oh, hey, Tess?’

‘Yes?’ I turn back.

‘You’ve left the sales tags on.’ He gestures to my sports bra.

‘I have?’ I freeze. ‘Oh . . . um . . . they must have been on for ages and I didn’t notice,’ I fluster, trying to twist my arm around to pull them off and nearly dislocating my shoulder.