Don’t You Forget About Me (30 page)

‘I mean
honeymoon schmoneymoon
,’ I huff dismissively.

Seb is nodding away vigorously like he’s really identifying.

‘Seriously, what’s the big deal about a piece of paper?’ I continue emphatically. ‘Why can’t two people just live together?’

‘Totally,’ he enthuses, gazing at me as if he’s just found a kindred soul.

‘It’s like I always say . . .’

‘
If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,
’ we both say in unison.

There’s a pause as we both look at each other, marvelling at this new bond between us. It’s as though we’re suddenly closer than ever.

‘It’s just with them being colleagues, I feel like I have to go,’ says Seb sheepishly. ‘Would you mind coming with me? It will only be like an hour. Ninety minutes max.’ He looks at me beseechingly. ‘I’d be really grateful.’

I take a few moments to think it over – though, let’s be frank, I only really need a second. ‘Well . . . OK,’ I sigh magnanimously, while making a note to self: No catching the bouquet this time.

‘Awesome!’ grins Seb, his face lighting up and revealing his perfect white teeth. My stomach flips over and this time it’s got nothing to do with the spicy szechuan noodles. Gosh, he really is handsome. ‘I owe you big time.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ I smile, but inside I feel a happy glow.

‘In fact I know how I can repay you . . .’

‘You do?’ I smile, but I feel a slight twitch of anxiety. Oh god, I hope he’s not going to get all fruity; after last night I’m really not feeling up to doing any tricks.

But instead of moving closer, he strides over to some shelves that are filled with DVDs. ‘Wow, why didn’t I think of this before?’ he’s saying excitedly. ‘You’re gonna be stoked!’

‘Great,’ I smile bemusedly. Seb is so cute when he gets all animated about something.

‘
Ta-daah!
’ Triumphantly he pulls out a large box. ‘Here it is!’

‘Here’s what?’ I laugh.

‘Only the special digitally re-mastered edition boxed set of
Star Wars: The Complete Saga Episodes I to VI.
’ His face is flushed with exhilaration. ‘The entire series!’

Abruptly I feel a sinking dread.

‘All six movies,’ he continues enthusiastically. ‘And in Blu-ray!’

I stare at him, my brain slowly registering. Oh my god, this cannot be happening. What happened to spending Sunday lazing in bed watching
EastEnders
?

Suddenly an entire day of never-ending galactic battles is stretching out in front of me . . . All digitally re-mastered and in high definition.

‘It’s the director’s cut, so it’s got all the extra behind-the-scenes footage, and special interviews, and there’s even some never-seen-before special effects that were deleted . . .’

My smile is frozen. There are no words.

‘I knew that would cheer you up and put a smile on your face,’ grins Seb, misinterpreting my horrified silence for one of delight. ‘Just think, you can lie here all day and watch it, you don’t have to move.’ He’s already sliding out the silver discs.

That’s exactly what I
am
thinking, and it’s terrifying me. One
Star Wars
film was bad enough. But now I’ve got to watch
six
?
Back to back
? It’s like a life sentence.

‘Actually, you know, maybe I’ll just watch TV – these DVD controls seem really complicated,’ I say, finally managing to find my voice. I wave the remote and pull an ‘I’m-such-an-idiot-when-it-comes-to-anything-technical’ face.

‘No, not at all, they’re super-easy,’ enthuses Seb, steamrollering me. ‘I’ve got this new DVD recorder, it can load six discs at a time so you don’t even have to do anything.’ He presses a button and a holder pops out, and he starts merrily inserting discs. ‘It’ll run for hours. Just press play.’

‘Brilliant,’ I croak.

‘Isn’t it?’ he grins, pressing play on the remote for me.

‘In that case, why don’t you skip the gym and stay and watch them with me?’ I try vainly. Well, if I’ve got to watch them, I might as well have the fun of cuddling up to Seb.

But it’s no good. ‘Sorry, I gotta run.’ He pulls a face. ‘Enjoy!’

‘Oh . . . OK, you too.’

It’s as though he’s almost desperate to leave.

Then, with a quick peck on my forehead, he’s out of the bedroom. I hear the door of the flat close behind him and theme music starts blasting:

‘
A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away .
. .’

My stomach growls loudly. Oh no, not again . . .

Chapter 24

By the time Monday rolls around, I’ve finally managed to get off the loo long enough to make it to the office. Briefly I toyed with the idea of taking a sickie, but I didn’t want to let Sir Richard down, plus there’s no way I could stomach any more sci-fi movies. Mala’s chilli beef hotpot
nearly
killed me, but Seb’s entire DVD collection might just have finished me off.

Still, there is a bright side: not only are Seb and I growing closer than ever, I’ve lost those five pounds I haven’t been able to shift since Christmas. Sitting at my desk, I take a sip of Pepto-Bismol (sadly I had to forgo my usual triple latte this morning in favour of the pink stuff). Maybe I should suggest it to Fiona as an alternative to one of her fad diets.

An image flashes across my brain of Fiona ingesting raw chillies – she’s never one to do things by halves – followed by another image of our shared bathroom being out of bounds for the next week.

Then again, on second thoughts, perhaps not . . .

Focusing back on the paperwork on my desk, I start making a pile of invoices. I’m busy sorting out the arrangements for Sir Richard’s retirement party, which is happening at some swanky private members’ club in Mayfair next month.
Next month!
At the thought I’m seized by a clutch of worry. I’ve been trying to block the reality of Sir Richard leaving out of my mind, brush it away as some fuzzy, blurry event that’s going to happen in some way-off distant future. Except I can’t put off the reality forever. It
is
happening, and I
do
have to think about it.

OK, so this is what I know so far:

1) They’ve been interviewing several candidates for his job.

2) Much to everyone’s dismay, it turned out the rumours were true and one of them was Wendy (a collective groan went around the office when she went in for her interview with the board).

3) As yet there’s still been no announcement about who’s going to replace him.

4) But I do know that whoever they choose, I’ll have to reapply for my job as it was only ever a temporary contract.

My stomach knots at the prospect. Sir Richard said he’d write me a wonderful reference, but who am I kidding? I’m never going to make PA of the Year. In fact, it’s probably pointless me even applying. Even if by some fluke I did get the job, my new boss is never going to be like Sir Richard. And it could even be Wendy, I remind myself with a shudder. Which leaves me . . . where exactly? Out of work? On the dole? PA to a boss who hates me?

Heaving a sigh, I make a mental note to call up some temping agencies this afternoon. Maybe I can find another contract. One that requires someone who can type with only two fingers, create Excel spreadsheets with too many cells that crash for no reason and can do a really good impression of the answering machine.

Exactly
. I’m sure there’s heaps of jobs like that just waiting for me.

Collecting up the pile of papers that need Sir Richard’s signature, I make my way to his office. His door is ajar and when I poke my head around the corner I see he’s not there. He’s probably doing what he calls his ‘walkabout’. Sir Richard has a policy of being friendly with all his staff and on Monday he tends to do the rounds after the weekend, catching up with everyone, seeing how everyone is. As a CEO he really is one in a million.

Oh well, never mind, I’ll just leave him a note, I decide, entering anyway. I make my way across his office towards his desk and am just popping the papers next to his laptop when he comes back in.

‘Good morning Sir Rich—’

I’m stopped in mid-greeting as he charges towards me and almost flings himself on top of his laptop, snapping closed the lid under his weight. ‘Ah, Tess, yes, good morning,’ he puffs, trying to appear nonchalant as he lies prostrate over his desk.

Startled, I stare at him for a moment before quickly recovering. ‘Is . . . um . . . everything OK?’

‘Yes, fine, fine,’ he nods, smoothing down his comb-over and pushing his glasses up his nose.

I wait for him to move. Except he doesn’t. He remains lying there, head resting on his elbow, as if in some bizarre bikini pose.

‘And you?’ he says chirpily, as if everything is perfectly normal.

‘Um . . . yes,’ I say unsurely. His behaviour is off the wall, even for Sir Richard. Out of the corner of my eye I notice there’s one of those little webcams on the desk. What on earth is he up to?

‘Well, unless you need me for anything . . .’ he trails off, and I suddenly remember the papers.

‘Oh, yes, sorry. I need your signatures on these.’ I gesture to the pile of invoices and forms. ‘If I just leave them here . . .’

‘I’ll get them signed and straight back to you,’ he finishes, still not moving.

‘OK, great,’ I smile brightly and, leaving him still lying there, I turn and walk out of his office.

What on earth was all
that
about?

I’m still thinking about it when I get back to my desk to find my phone ringing. I snatch it up. ‘Hello, Blackstock and White, Sir Richard’s PA speaking.’

‘You dirty stop-out!’

It’s Fiona.

‘Where were you all weekend?’ she demands teasingly. ‘I nearly sent out the search and rescue services.’

‘I’m sorry, I meant to text,’ I smile, winding the telephone cord around my hand and sinking back into my chair.

‘But you got distracted with all that love stuff,’ she finishes, inhaling loudly on a cigarette.

‘Something like that,’ I say, feeling myself blush. ‘So how are you? How’s Tallulah?’ I ask, focusing back on her before I get all gooey.

As if on cue there’s a sharp barking in the background and I hear scuffling.

‘Oh, coming along. I’m taking her to an obedience training class tonight,’ she replies airily, but her voice rises sharply. ‘So, things are really hotting up between you and Seb, then?’ she says, swiftly changing the subject.

‘Yes . . . I think so,’ I reply, reaching for my bottle of Pepto-Bismol. ‘Hotting’ quite literally being the operative word, I grimace, taking a hefty sip.

‘Well, if a guy wants to spend all weekend with you, it sounds like he’s really serious,’ she reasons.

I nod wordlessly, but doubt prickles. It’s not that I don’t think Seb is serious. He invited me to a wedding, remember? But is spending all day Sunday by myself watching
Star Wars
films while Seb is at the gym, the same as spending all weekend together? I’m distracted by the sight of Sir Richard emerging from his office and heading towards my desk. ‘Hang on a mo,’ I hiss, quickly covering the receiver with my hand.

‘Here you go.’ He waves the pile of papers at me. ‘All signed,’ he says cheerfully.

‘Oh, thanks,’ I reply, taking them from him.

‘Who was that?’ demands Fiona as he strides away.

‘Sir Richard, my boss,’ I answer, taking my hand off the receiver. ‘I went into his office earlier and asked him to sign these invoices for his retirement party—’

‘Uh . . . mmm . . .’

I can tell Fiona has already lost interest and zoned out. Individually the words ‘office’, ‘invoices’ or ‘retirement’ are enough to send her to sleep; strung together in a sentence and I’m amazed she’s not already comatose.

‘ – and he was acting really weird.’

She snaps back. ‘Weird? How?’

Now someone acting weirdly is a different matter altogether.

I pause and surreptitiously glance around to make sure no one is listening. There’s only Kym nearby and as usual she’s engrossed in her Missed Connections. I slink down further behind my computer. ‘Well, you know he’s getting divorced,’ I whisper into the mouthpiece.

‘Hmmm, do I?’ she says vaguely.

Admittedly I don’t take my work home with me so maybe I haven’t mentioned it. My mantra’s always been, ‘What happens in the office, stays in the office’.

‘Well, anyway, I was just in his office, and when he saw me in there he slammed his laptop shut and looked really secretive. It was like he was up to something.’

‘Well of course he’s up to something,’ she snorts, as if it’s obvious.

‘
He is?
’ I say in surprise, then quickly lower my voice again. ‘What?’

‘Internet porn,’ she replies matter-of-factly.

I gasp in horror. ‘No, not Sir Richard!’ I protest.