Don’t You Forget About Me (31 page)

‘Divorced, lonely . . .’ she continues.

At that moment an email pings through to Sir Richard’s email account, to which I have access. It’s from an ‘undisclosed website’ and tells me that his ‘
credit card payment for the subscription fee has been processed and you now have full member access, including all videos and live webcams
.’

I stare at it, frozen. Oh my god. Fiona’s right!

‘Trust me, we did an article on it at
Saturday Speaks
, one of those real-life stories . . .’

But I’m no longer listening. I’m trying to imagine Sir Richard—

I slam on the cerebral brakes.
Argh, no!
Stop it, Tess. Scrub that image from your brain right this minute. Giving myself a little shake, I quickly compose myself. I’m being immature. After all, there’s nothing wrong with a grown man using such a . . .
an online resource.
I mean it’s perfectly normal. Everyone has needs. Even Sir Richard—

Oh god, I’m doing it again. Stop it.

‘Fiona, I need to get back to work,’ I say abruptly.

In full flow about someone who was addicted to internet porn and ran up thousands in credit card debt, she breaks off. ‘Oh, OK,’ she says cheerfully. ‘No worries, see you later.’

‘Yeh, bye.’

‘Bye.’

Putting the phone down, I stare at the email for a second more, chewing my thumbnail, then with a flick of my mouse I quickly hit delete.

For the rest of the morning I get on with work and try to put all thoughts of Sir Richard out of my mind. Like I said, he’s a grown man – it’s his business what he gets up to. But still I try to avoid him, and when I need a signature on a letter, I have a flashback to the email reference to ‘live webcams’ and initial it myself, rather than go to his office. Well, I don’t want to interrupt anything, do I?

So I’m quite relieved when it gets to lunchtime and I can escape to the café across the street to meet Fergus. He left a message with Kym earlier that he needed to speak to me urgently.

‘What’s up?’ I ask, squeezing between the tables and plopping myself down opposite him. He looks as if he hasn’t shaved all weekend and is almost sporting a beard, while his thick black hair is sticking out in crazy tufts all over his head.

‘Two days twenty-three hours and eight minutes,’ he deadpans.

‘’Scuse me?’ I look at him blankly. I know I’m late as I had to send an urgent fax, but I’m not that late.

‘And I’m still waiting.’

‘Sorry Fergus, you’ve lost me.’

‘My Missed Connection!’ he gasps, as if it’s obvious.

Suddenly the penny drops. ‘Is this what was so urgent?’

He looks at me as if to say how could I ask such a question. ‘She hasn’t replied!’ he says pointedly.

‘
Yet
,’ I add, equally pointedly.

A waitress appears and puts a large baked potato down in front of him, heaped high with sour cream, cheese and black beans. ‘Can I get you anything?’ she asks, turning to me.

‘Just a plain potato, thanks,’ I reply, looking at Fergus’s plate warily. Sadly I’m zero topping. I daren’t risk it. Not after Mala.

‘She’s not going to, I just know it,’ continues Fergus, as the waitress disappears. He eyeballs his smartphone, which sits silently on the table between us. ‘It was a stupid idea, I’m an
eejit.
’

‘She probably didn’t even see it,’ I argue. ‘How do you even know she reads Missed Connections?’

‘Hmmm.’ He looks unconvinced and opens his mouth to say something, then seems to change his mind. ‘So what are you up to this week? Anything fun?’ he asks, digging into his potato.

I run though my diary in my head. Last week I signed up for military fitness and tonight’s my first class. Earlier I was a bit worried I wasn’t going to make it because of my stomach, but now I’m feeling back to normal. Still, I’m not sure it’s exactly what I’d call fun. Then there’s the wedding Seb invited me to, but that’s not till next week anyway, plus I know enough about men to know it’s unlikely Fergus would class that as fun either.

‘Seb’s taking me to a concert tomorrow night,’ I proffer instead. He managed to get two tickets on eBay for one of his favourite bands and he just texted earlier to tell me the good news.

‘Ah yes, I forget, some of us have a love life,’ he says glumly.

Which reminds me
. . . Ignoring Fergus, I grab a pen out of my bag and scribble on my hand.

‘What does that say?’ he asks, trying to read my terrible handwriting.

‘Earplugs,’ I say, turning my hand around to show him the black scrawl.

‘Am I that boring?’ he frowns sulkily.

‘No, silly, they’re for the concert.’

‘You’re wearing earplugs at the concert?’ Fergus looks bewildered. ‘Forgive me if I’m getting this wrong here, but don’t you usually go to concerts to actually
listen
to the music?’

My cheeks grow pink. ‘Well usually, yes, but it’s not my kind of music.’

‘Who’s playing?’

‘Some indie band I’ve never heard of,’ I say, wrinkling my nose.

‘You don’t like indie music?’

I look at Fergus in his torn Ramones T-shirt and feel slightly defensive. ‘Nope. I’m afraid I’m a lot more naff than that.’

‘How naff??’ he grins.

‘Very naff,’ I smile ruefully.

‘The Nolans?’

I burst out laughing.

‘What’s wrong?’ he says with a straight face. ‘They happen to be a highly successful Irish band, I’ll have you know.’

I stop laughing and look at him curiously. He is joking, right?

‘“I’m in the Mood for Dancing” was a number one hit.’

‘It was?’ I look at him in surprise. Gosh, no, I don’t think he is joking; in fact he seems deadly serious.

‘In Japan,’ he adds solemnly.

‘Japan, wow, that’s amazing,’ I enthuse. Gosh, I hope I haven’t offended him. He’s probably really proud of them because they’re Irish. In fact, maybe they’re a national treasure, like the Queen is for us Brits.

‘I know, right?’ he nods earnestly. ‘But then it’s a brilliant song, isn’t it?’

‘Brilliant,’ I agree fervently, ‘really catchy.’

‘And the harmonising . . .’ Shaking his head in deference, he says in a low voice. ‘Respect.’

‘Respect,’ I nod, trying to look suitably reverential.

He pauses, then clears his throat. I feel a stab of alarm. Oh no, he’s not going to do what I think he’s going to start doing. Not here in the middle of the café—

But he is. And he does.

His voice is loud and baritone and I stare at him, frozen, as he starts singing ‘I’m in the Mood for Dancing’. I’m not sure which is more startling, the fact that he’s broken into a Nolans song in the middle of a busy café and people are staring, or that he’s actually got quite a good voice. ‘Come on, harmonise,’ he cajoles.

‘Um, no, I don’t think so,’ I start to protest, but he nags louder.

‘
Come on
. . .’

Oh fuck. You know when you
just know
you’re not going to be able to get out of something. My heart sinks. I’m a terrible singer. And yet I don’t want to offend him.

Swallowing hard, I join in.

‘
Atta
girl,’ he grins.

And after a few seconds I realise that actually, I’m not that bad and I’m really quite enjoying it and I’m closing my eyes and doing the chorus and . . .

Hang on, what happened to Fergus?

Realising I can’t hear his voice, I snap open my eyes to see him keeled over the table, killing himself laughing.

‘You bastard!’ I gasp.

‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist,’ he cracks up. ‘That was classic.’

‘
Harmonising?
’ I cry, bashing him with my hand.

‘Ouch.’ He clutches his stomach.

Despite myself, I can’t help breaking into laughter. ‘So anyway, what are you up to this week?’ I ask a few moments later, after I’ve wiped my eyes with a paper napkin and sworn I’m going to get him back.

‘Probably what I’ve been doing all weekend,’ he shrugs.

‘What’s that?’ I ask curiously.

He gestures to his phone, lying silent on the table. ‘Staying in, checking my emails.’

Chapter 25

At exactly six o’clock I turn off my computer and race out of the office to catch the tube to Wimbledon for my first-ever military fitness class. I don’t want to be late. I already filled in the form online and got ready in the Ladies loos at work. I’m wearing my new sports gear: black Lycra leggings, with these little go-faster stripes down my legs, and a matching sports vest; bouncy, top-of-the-range trainers, plus lots of sweatbands.

It’s amazing, but just wearing it makes me feel much fitter already and I keep getting these little glances of approval from people on the tube, as if they think I’m a real athlete. So much so that by the time we cross Putney Bridge I’m starting to feel like one. In fact, I even catch myself looking disapprovingly at someone sitting opposite me eating a big bag of Maltesers and reading the
Metro
. I mean, honestly, some people!

So I’m feeling quite positive as I set off at my stop and start springing jauntily down the road towards the park, swinging my arms and blowing out clouds of white air like a steam train. Gosh, it really is quite chilly, I realise, pulling up my pink woolly scarf around my ears. Still, soon I’m sure I’ll be all warmed up and rosy-cheeked with exercise.

I smile to myself. Believe it or not, I’m actually looking forward to this class. In fact, maybe dating Seb again has helped me discover something about myself that I didn’t know. All this time I thought that I didn’t like sports or exercise, but perhaps I do. Perhaps I’ll be really good at it and it was just my school’s fault. Perhaps they made me think I was rubbish at sport, like they made me think I hated rice pudding. It was only years later, when Nan died and left me all her own recipes, that I discovered it wasn’t necessarily lukewarm with a horrible skin on the top, but hot and creamy and utterly delicious.

Turning the corner I see the floodlit park ahead. According to the instructions I read online, we all meet in the car park where I’ll be introduced to the instructors. I feel a beat of anticipation. Gosh, this is actually quite exciting. I mean I love Seb,
obviously
, but still, what girl doesn’t go a bit fluttery at the thought of meeting lots of super-hunky fitness instructors. All that testosterone and army fatigues. I should bring Fiona along . . . in fact, yes! What a fantastic idea! Why didn’t I think of it earlier? She can get fit
and
meet someone! Forget all that online dating business – military fitness is where she needs to be . . .

Making a mental note to bring her along next time, I stride enthusiastically across the tarmac. Ahead of me I can see a military van parked up, and lots of people milling around in coloured vests. Amongst them are several large muscular men in army fatigues, holding clipboards and issuing instructions.

‘You’re late!’

One of them gives a loud bark and I look around to see who he’s shouting at.

‘Girl with the pink scarf!’

His voice is like a round of gunfire. What girl with the pink scarf?? I can’t see anyone –
ooer
, hang on –
I’m
wearing a pink scarf.

Oh shit.

‘Yes, you! Got something in your ears, have you?’

Filled with trepidation I turn back around to see this very scary hulk of a man, with biceps the size of butcher’s hams, glaring at me.

‘Erm . . . it’s only five past,’ I stammer, glancing at my watch. Then promptly jump out of my skin.

‘Five past! Five past!’ he rants, charging towards me with his clipboard. ‘You were supposed to be here at eighteen hundred hours! On! The! Dot!’

Oh shitty shit shit.

My heart starts clanging hard in my chest. Lately I’ve tried so hard with my timekeeping. Ever since I told Seb I was never late, I’ve been setting alarm clocks, wearing a watch, leaving early. I’ve made a major effort, and yet it’s like it’s my default setting. It’s as if I wasn’t made to be on time. Even my mum said I was three weeks late being born and had to be induced.

Yet somehow I don’t think this is going to wash with Mr Angry Sergeant Major.

‘Where’s your form?’ he thunders, bearing down upon me like the Incredible Hulk. Only he’s not green. His face is more a kind of purple, and the veins are bulging in his forehead like wiggly worms.

‘Oh . . . here,’ I fluster, pulling it out of my backpack and ripping it in the process.

He grabs it from me and runs his eyes across it. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more nervous. ‘OK then, Tess Connelly,’ he continues, looking up after a moment, ‘my name’s Woody and I’m going to be one of your instructors.’

‘Hi Woody,’ I smile with relief. Oh, thank god, he seems to have softened up. Maybe he’s one of those ‘bark’s worse than his bite’ types.