Don’t You Forget About Me (34 page)

‘Right, yes, Phyllis,’ says Gramps sternly, before turning to me and muttering, ‘Who hasn’t she courted?’

I try not to laugh and elbow him to stop it.

‘Are you leaving too?’ he asks.

‘I promised I’d help Fergus learn his lines,’ I smile ruefully, expecting him to grumble, but instead he looks pleased. ‘Good girl,’ he nods approvingly, giving my knee a little pat.

‘I’ll just get our coats,’ says Fergus, walking over to the stool next to the sewing machine where they’ve been piled. Reaching for them, he pauses. ‘Is this one of your projects, Mr Connelly?’ he asks. ‘Tess told me you worked as a tailor.’

Glancing over, I realise he’s holding up the bag I’m making. My chest tightens. It’s as if he’s uncovered my secret.

‘A tailor?’

But I’m distracted by the blank expression on Granddad’s face. For a split second he looks as if he can’t remember.

‘On Savile Row, Gramps,’ I prompt. ‘He worked there for fifty years,’ I continue, for his benefit as much as Fergus’s.

‘Ah yes, I did,’ he nods, suddenly registering, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t take the credit. That’s one of Tess’s designs that we’ve been working on together. Isn’t she talented? I keep telling her she’s got the gift but she doesn’t listen—’

‘It’s just a little project,’ I cut in, cringing with embarrassment and silencing Granddad with a hug. ‘Bye, I’ll be back soon.’

‘Bye my dear.’

‘Have fun,’ waves Phyllis from the sofa, ‘and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ she winks.

By the sounds of it I’m not sure there is anything Phyllis wouldn’t do, I conclude, catching Fergus’s eye and reddening. Honestly, this is so embarrassing. When I said I wanted the first time Gramps met my boyfriend to be different this time, I meant
the evening
to be different, not the actual
boyfriend
. At the first opportunity, I’m going to have to explain there’s been a big misunderstanding. Fergus is just a friend, that’s all.

And, giving Gramps a hug, I wave goodbye. The sooner I clear that up the better.

Chapter 27

‘I’ve got a confession to make: I’m totally in love with you.’

‘You are?’ I look deep into Fergus’s eyes.

‘Yes,’ he nods, fixing me with a loving gaze. ‘Ever since that first moment when I was performing emergency open-heart surgery and you passed me the scalpel.’

‘Doctor Lawrence . . .’ I swoon.

‘Nurse Kathy . . .’ he replies huskily.

Back at Fergus’s flat in Shepherd’s Bush, we’re practising his lines for his audition tomorrow. He lives in a tiny studio, high under the eaves of a large Victorian terraced house, with sloping ceilings that mean he’s forever having to duck down so he doesn’t bang his head as he paces up and down, script in hand.

‘It’s Nurse Kelly,’ I correct.

‘Crikey, so it is!’ he curses, scraping his fingers through his scalp and tugging at his hair. ‘I keep getting that wrong.’

‘It’s fine, don’t worry,’ I try to soothe. ‘Kathy, Kelly, what’s the difference?’

‘Probably whether I get the part or not,’ he replies gloomily, a deep frown etched down the middle of his forehead.

Chucking his script onto a tea chest, he flops himself down on an old velvet chaise longue. Forget modern minimalism, Fergus’s flat is a bit like Aladdin’s cave. It’s decorated with an eclectic mix of vintage maps, a large Indian wall hanging, piles of leather books – the type with gold lettering on the spines – and old-fashioned tasselled lamps over which are hung silk scarves to emit a soft, rosy glow.

Everything, I learn, has a story attached, and none of them has anything to do with a trip to IKEA. Instead Fergus found most things either on his travels or outside on the street.

‘People throw away all this wonderful stuff. I found this chaise longue chucked in a skip,’ he told me proudly when I first walked in. ‘I showed it to a friend who works in an antique shop and he told me it was turn of the century, can you believe it? It just needed re-covering . . .’ and then pointing to his lamps, ‘They were left out with the recycling; they only needed shades and they were as good as new . . .’ I listened, fascinated. For someone with a charity shop habit, this was even better. This stuff was free!

‘So anyway, thanks for letting Gramps win,’ I smile gratefully, plopping down next to him on the chaise longue and trying to distract him from his pre-audition nerves. ‘We’re all a bit worried about him; we think he’s starting with Alzheimer’s.’ Hearing myself say those words, I realise it’s the first time I’ve admitted it out loud, either to myself or someone else.

‘My gran had that,’ he says quietly, ‘it can get pretty tough. On them and the rest of the family.’

‘I know,’ I nod, my insides twisting up as I think about Gramps. I can barely think about the future, about what’s going to happen. I’m too scared to think of losing him.

‘But by the way, I didn’t,’ he continues.

I break off from my thoughts and look up, confused.

‘I didn’t let him win,’ explains Fergus with a smile. ‘He’s a great player.’

I know he’s fibbing. At one point I snuck a glance over his shoulder and saw he had a royal flush, but he quickly switched out his cards to deliberately lose.

‘And I’m sure he’ll be a great player for a while yet,’ he reassures me.

I know it’s his way of trying to comfort me. ‘Thanks,’ I smile appreciatively, ‘and thanks for coming.’

‘Thanks for inviting me, I had a lot of fun,’ he smiles, ‘but all that gambling’s worked up an appetite. You hungry?’

‘Starving,’ I nod. I’ve barely eaten anything today and I’m ravenous.

Unfolding his frame, Fergus gets up and walks across to the tiny kitchenette, where there follows the sound of lots of rummaging around and opening and closing of cupboards.

‘Well, I’m afraid it looks like I’m out of the fresh lobster,’ he says after a few moments, his head reappearing from behind a cupboard door, ‘but I can offer you baked beans on toast.’

‘That’s lucky,’ I reply with a straight face. ‘I don’t like fresh lobster.’

He laughs and starts busying himself with popping bread in the toaster, beans in a pan, and within a few minutes he’s serving up two steaming plates of beans on toast.

‘Mmm, this is delicious,’ I rave, through a mouthful of hot buttery toast. ‘Compliments to the chef.’

‘It’s one of my favourite recipes,’ nods Fergus with mock seriousness. ‘I find the flavours are really brought out by a full-bodied can of Guinness.’

I laugh as he opens a can and pours the black, foamy liquid into two glasses, then passes me one. He’s cleared a little space and we’re sitting cross-legged on cushions on the floor, balancing our plates on the old tea chest, which is doubling as a makeshift table. For a moment my mind flashes back to the meal with Seb at Mala, with its exotic dishes and expensive prices, and I can’t help thinking how much more I’m enjoying this one.

But of course that’s only because I don’t like spicy food, I remind myself quickly, and not for any other reason.

For a few moments we eat in comfortable silence until, scooping a forkful of beans, Fergus pauses and asks, ‘So I thought you told me you didn’t have a dream?’

I look at him, not understanding.

‘That bag I saw back there,’ he prompts.

Comprehending, my face floods with self-consciousness. I was hoping he wasn’t going to mention that. Apart from to Granddad, I’ve never admitted it to anyone, never been brave enough to lay myself wide open to ridicule, but now my secret’s out. ‘Oh, that?’ I give a nonchalant shrug. I’ll just brush it off, dismiss it jokingly as nothing important.

But there’s something about Fergus’s steadying gaze that makes my dream seem suddenly possible. I don’t want to deny it. I
want
to talk about it.

‘Well, I’ve always loved making things and I had this idea . . .’ I’ve always thought I’d find it hard to express myself if I tried to explain my plan, but as I start speaking, the words come tumbling out. ‘You know how women spend a fortune on bags – well actually, you probably don’t, as you’re a guy,’ I correct myself quickly. ‘But anyway, I wanted to make a bag that was pretty and stylish but that didn’t cost a fortune and wasn’t made in some sweatshop in India or China. A bag that’s handmade from vintage flour sacks from France, so it’s also recycled and recyclable . . .’

‘So you’re also doing your bit for the environment,’ interjects Fergus.

‘Exactly,’ I enthuse. ‘And for this one we’re using my granddad’s silk handkerchief as the lining and some old ribbon and buttons, and I found these old leather braces for handles that are just perfect. So you see it’s also got a history, a past – a bit like all the things you found for your flat . . .’ Energetically I throw my hands out, gesturing around me, before turning to face Fergus. Who’s studying me with a thoughtful look on his face.

‘Oh god, sorry, I got completely carried away, didn’t I?’ I say, blushing with embarrassment.

‘So you should,’ he protests, ‘If it’s something you’re passionate about, you should get carried away.’

Passionate about
. I turn his words over in my head. I’ve never thought of it like that before, but he’s right. I am passionate about what I’m doing.

‘I think it’s really great,’ he continues, his face serious.

‘Really?’

‘Well, not that I know much about women’s handbags,’ he confesses with a rueful smile, ‘but I love the whole concept, and from what I saw it looked pretty good to me. I mean, I’d use one. If I was a girl that is,’ he adds quickly. ‘You need to make some that are unisex – why restrict yourself to just one half of the market?’

‘Hey, that’s a good idea,’ I nod, the cogs in my brain already turning.

‘I’m not just a pretty face you know,’ he quips.

I smile, then hesitate before asking, ‘And you don’t think I’m stupid?’

‘Well,
now
you’re asking . . .’

‘I don’t mean
in general
,’ I say, pulling a face. ‘I mean stupid for thinking I could design bags and somebody might want to buy one . . .’ The hope is audible in my voice and I nervously meet his eyes.

‘Well, not any more stupid than me wanting to be an actor . . .’

I smile appreciatively, and for a moment we exchange a look of mutual understanding.

‘I’ve never asked you, but why
did
you want to become an actor?’ I ask curiously.

‘Oh, it’s probably because I’m an attention seeker,’ he laughs self-deprecatingly. ‘Growing up in that great big family of mine, I was always wanting attention, for someone to notice me, and they never did . . . my mum and dad always had their hands full with one nipper or another. And then I discovered drama at school, and being on stage, and the feeling I got . . . it just went from there . . .’ He breaks off, as if thinking back. ‘And of course I thought it would be a great way to meet women,’ he adds wickedly. ‘Leading man and all that. Not that it’s quite worked out that way.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, I think Dr Lawrence could change all that,’ I laugh, then pause, and try to ask as casually as possible: ‘So, have you ever fallen in love with any of your leading ladies?’

‘Lots,’ he nods.

‘
Lots?
’ I repeat. For some reason that wasn’t the answer I was expecting.

‘Hell yeh,’ he grins. ‘When I first started acting I was always falling in love, but nothing ever lasted for more than a few months; nothing ever turned out to be anything serious. It was mostly just sex . . .’

‘Fergus!’ I pretend to chastise, and he laughs.

‘I’m kidding,’ he says. ‘Well, a little bit.’ He pauses, then looks more thoughtful. ‘None of them were ever based on anything solid, like a real friendship . . .’

He breaks off and looks at me, and for a second I feel the atmosphere change, before he suddenly looks over my shoulder.

‘Hey look,’ he exclaims, breaking into a huge smile and pointing out of the window.
‘It’s snowing!
’

Twirling around, I look out of the French windows, and sure enough he’s right.

‘Oh wow,’ I gasp, watching white snow flurries swirling around in the inky darkness.

‘Come on, grab your coat.’ He jumps up and unlocks the French windows, pushing them open to reveal a huge roof terrace, which is bigger than his entire flat. ‘This is why I took the place,’ he says, leading me outside.

It’s incredible. Stepping outside is like stepping into another world. Now I know how the children must have felt walking through that wardrobe and into Narnia. With amazement I look out across the rooftops, at the snowflakes whirling and dancing around our heads, like tiny pieces of white glitter, lighting up the darkness. It feels magical. Exhilarating. As if we’re cocooned inside one of those snow globes, and someone has picked it up and shaken it.

There’s a small wooden bench tucked away to one side, amongst the potted plants that have lost their leaves, and we both sit down.

‘You know, every snowflake is totally unique, like people,’ he says, sticking out his tongue and catching one. ‘I always thought that was incredible when I was a kid.’