Don’t You Forget About Me (35 page)

I smile and turn my face up to the sky, letting them land on my face. Tiny frozen flecks that instantly melt. Up high among the chimneypots, it feels a million miles away from real life. London is so manic. Even after living here for five years, I’m still not fully used to its constant noise and clamour, the crowded pavements, the never-ending buzz of traffic.

Most days I love it. I love the energy of the people; the way you can walk down a street and find an eclectic mix of Indian sari shops, Moroccan restaurants, Thai cafés and greasy spoons, all jostling up next to one another; how you can wake up in the middle of the night and look out of your window and see the city still lit up from across the rooftops.

But sometimes I can’t help wishing the city had an ‘off’ switch. A button I could press that would bring everything to a halt, like a merry-go-round ride at the fair, and allow you to get off and draw breath.

Like now.

Up here with Fergus I feel as if I’ve found that off switch. Everything is so still, so quiet . . .

A gust of wind blows and I give an involuntary shiver.

‘Are you cold?’ he frowns.

‘No, I’m fine,’ I fib, tugging my coat tighter around myself, but my chattering teeth give me away.

‘Yeh, right,’ he tuts, ‘come here,’ and, wrapping his arm around my shoulder, he pulls me towards him. He’s so tall, I fit easily underneath his woolly armpit, and for a few moments I remain there, cosy and warm, watching the snowflakes dancing around us. Tucked into the snug warmth of the gap between his ribcage and his arm.

In the nook
.

The shrill ring of my mobile interrupts my thoughts and I fumble for it in my pocket. ‘Hello?’

‘Babe, look, I’m sorry about earlier . . .’

It’s Seb, apologising about not being able to come tonight, and hearing his voice I feel suddenly guilty. As if I’ve been caught doing something wrong. I jump up from the bench. Which of course is ridiculous; I was just keeping warm.

‘It’s OK, Seb, don’t worry,’ I say quickly, walking across the terrace. It’s almost as though he’s intruding. I catch Fergus making a gesture that he’s going back inside, and as I watch he gets up, his figure disappearing through the French windows, and regret stabs.

‘Listen, I feel I should call your granddad and apologise—’

I focus back in on the phone call. ‘No!’ I cry. ‘I mean, that’s not necessary, it was fine,’ I jabber.

‘Well if you’re sure . . .’

‘Positive,’ I say firmly. In my head I get a marker pen and twice underline that mental note to call Gramps at the first opportunity to explain.

‘OK, I’m going to make it up to you,’ he continues. ‘I’m taking you away for the weekend.’

‘You are?’ I’m caught by surprise.

‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 6 a.m. Bring your passport.’

Passport? We’re going abroad?

‘Where are we going?’ is all I can manage. This is all happening so fast I’m having trouble keeping up.

‘That’s for me to know and for you to find out,’ he teases.

‘But how will I know what to pack?’

He laughs. ‘Don’t worry about anything. I’ve got everything sorted,’ he soothes, then there’s a pause and he adds softly, ‘You know I really missed you tonight.’

‘I missed you too,’ I reply, but it’s automatic rather than heartfelt because it’s only now, hearing those words, that I realise I haven’t missed him. In fact, until he rang I haven’t thought about him at all. But that’s only because I’ve been so busy with Gramps’s poker night and helping Fergus learn his lines and . . . well, everything else.

We say bye and he rings off, and for a moment I remain motionless, feeling slightly dazed at this sudden turn of events, before going back inside.

I find Fergus bent over his script, a deep cleft running down his brow. ‘Everything OK?’ he asks, looking up.

‘Um . . . yes,’ I nod, feeling a strange mix of emotions. ‘That was Seb,’ I add, rather redundantly.

‘Yeh, I heard,’ he nods.

The mood has been broken and now suddenly it feels strangely awkward between us.

‘He’s taking me away for the weekend,’ I explain, though I’m not sure why.

‘Great.’ Fergus smiles. ‘A mini-break, huh?’

‘Yeh,’ I smile back.

The conversation drops and there’s an uncomfortable pause, then, ‘Well, I should go,’ I say brightly.

‘You OK to get back?’

‘Yeh, it’s not that late, and Granddad gave me money for a cab.’ Though ‘forced it into my pocket’ might be a better description.

‘Hang on, I’ll walk you outside,’ he says, grabbing his keys. Leaving the door on the latch, we clatter down the stairs to the main door of the building, which thuds behind us as we step out onto the street.

It’s still snowing but the ground is so wet it’s refusing to settle, and instead it’s melting into little grey slushy piles. I glance across at the yellow neon sign of the kebab shop across the road, the gangs clustered outside, the traffic as it rumbles by. The rooftop seems like another world, a magical place far away from down here where reality bites.

A cab pulls up, and we jump back to avoid being sprayed.

‘Well, have a great mini-break,’ he cheers, kissing me goodbye on the cheek.

‘Thanks,’ I smile, pulling open the door and climbing inside, ‘and good luck tomorrow with the audition. I know you’re going to get it. I’ve got a good feeling.’

‘Was that the same good feeling you had when you suggested posting a Missed Connection?’ he jokes half-heartedly. ‘She never did email you know.’

I feel a knot of guilt. ‘No, this is completely different,’ I say determinedly. ‘Completely.’

He gives a little resigned smile. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Like I said, I’m used to rejection – it comes with the territory,’ and, closing the door behind me, he throws me a wave as I pull away into the night.

Later, back at home, I pack a few things for the weekend and get ready for bed. The flat is empty. Fiona’s not back yet. In fact, I’ve barely seen her the past few weeks as I’ve been staying most nights at Seb’s and she’s out every night with Tallulah. Apparently they’ve been on some intensive doggy obedience course, but the times I
have
stayed at the flat she’s never been back before midnight and, although I admire her dedication, surely even dogs need an early night once in a while?

Anyway, I sent her a text telling her about my surprise weekend away and making sure she could look after Flea and she immediately replied:

Wow!!!! Yes!!!! Call me tomz!!!!

Which, to be honest, made me feel a bit guilty as her reaction was a lot more excited than mine had been. Not that I’m
not
excited. Of course I am! What girl wouldn’t be? It just came as a bit of a surprise, that’s all . . . Spying another jumper, I shove it into my already bursting holdall. I have no clue what to take, so I’m doing my usual and taking everything.

Zipping up my bag, I climb into bed with Flea. OK, now I’ll just do a bit of reading before I turn out the light. I reach for the book on my bedside cabinet, open it, then promptly close it again. Try as I might, I just can’t seem to get into it. Obama might be the most fascinating man to millions of people, and I know I should be gripped, but . . . well, I’m just not.

Shoving it back on the bedside cabinet, I lie back on my pillows and tickle Flea behind his ears. I’m tired but my brain’s still buzzing, and my mind starts throwing up snapshots of this evening, Gramps’s poker night, Fergus rehearsing his lines, Seb’s phone call . . . I really should try to get to sleep. Seb’s picking me up at 6 a.m. Anticipation flutters. I wonder where he’s taking me? Maybe it’s Paris, or New York . . . no, that’s too far for just one night.

‘
She never did email you know
.’

Fergus. My mind flicks back. To the soft lilt of his Irish accent. To the little resigned smile he gave me as I wished him luck.

That guilty feeling returns. If only I hadn’t suggested he post that stupid ad. It’s all my fault. He’s so talented but it really knocked his confidence and I’m responsible. He’s never going to get the part by being so negative. All this talk of rejection, it’s as if he’s talking himself into not getting the part before he even goes for the audition.

Thumping my pillow with my fist to make it more comfortable, I turn over. I wish I could give him a confidence boost, make him a bit more positive, show him that he is great, but how?

How?

And then suddenly I hit the seed of an idea, which grows, takes hold, comes together. Of course! Why didn’t I think of it before?

Leaping out of bed I grab my laptop and flick it open. As the screen lights up I log onto my email account and quickly set up a new address. There’s nothing else for it. Balanced on the edge of my bed I start typing. I caused this mess, so I’m going to fix it.

I’m going to be his Missed Connection.

Dear Diary,

Seb sent me a card with a picture of a snowbunny on the front. Inside he’d written,

‘
Can’t wait to see you on the slopes and enjoy some après-ski with you. Seb xx
’

Which is so sweet of him. Seb adores snowboarding and wants to take me away to the Alps for a weekend, but to be honest I’ve never learnt how to ski or snowboard and I don’t really want to start now. Freezing cold weather, falling over, bruises, possible broken limbs . . . doesn’t really sound like much fun.

I rang him up and thanked him tons, but then suggested a spa break instead.

Funny, but he didn’t seem that enthusiastic . . .

Chapter 28

Who doesn’t dream of their boyfriend whisking them away for the weekend? And not just that, but
as a surprise
. It’s the stuff of romantic fiction, of movies starring Julia Roberts, of wishful thinking. Not real life. And certainly not
my
life.

Until now.

I, Tess Connelly, am being taken away on a mini-break! It’s so exciting! I’m constantly reading about them in Fiona’s glossy magazines: boutique B&Bs, hip hotels, urban boltholes, spa retreats . . . Every time I flick through the pages I find myself daydreaming; heaving long, deep sighs as I stare longingly at photo-spreads of four-poster beds, kidney-shaped swimming-pools, exotic-looking cocktails . . .

So you can imagine the build-up of anticipation as we drive to the airport, me begging Seb to tell me, Seb laughing and refusing. By the time we reach the short-stay car park at Heathrow I can barely contain my excitement. Another minute and I’m going to burst.

Until finally,
finally
he can’t keep me in suspense any more and lets me in on the surprise.

‘So what do you think?’ he asks excitedly, waiting for my reaction.

There’s a split-second pause as I digest this information, then:

‘
Snowboarding?
’ I repeat. My voice comes out a bit shriller than I intended.

‘I knew you’d be stoked,’ he enthuses, his face breaking into a huge white smile. ‘I remembered you telling me how much you’d love to learn on our first date.’

‘Yes, me too,’ I smile dazedly. Oh crap, me and my big mouth. Images of being cosied up in some hip hotel in Paris are fast disappearing. ‘But I haven’t packed anything to snowboard in,’ I interject.

You never know. Maybe there’s still time to swap our snowboarding trip for Paris. To drink cosmos at the Costes. To float around in a fluffy bathrobe having spa treatments.

‘Don’t worry, we can get it all there,’ he appeases.

Or maybe not.

As he finishes unloading his luggage from the boot onto an airport trolley, he turns and wraps his arms around me, pulling me close. ‘Trust me, it’s going to be awesome,’ he grins.

Deep in his embrace, I look into his pale blue eyes and have a flashback to the card I burned in the fire on New Year’s Eve, the one with the snowbunny on the front, and his invitation to take me snowboarding inside. And I remember my regret at never having gone, remember wishing I’d done things differently.

And now I can.

I grab hold of myself. Tess, what are you doing? This is what you dreamed about all those nights you fell asleep on a tear-stained pillow and woke up with puffy eyes from crying. This is your second chance. This time you can go snowboarding! Tons of people do and they love it, why should you be any different? You’re only reluctant because you’ve never been – I bet it will be fab! You can show him what a quick learner you are, how much you love the slopes, how much fun you’re having.
You can show him just how perfect you are for each other.

‘Awesome,’ I grin back, copying him. ‘I can’t wait.’

We’re going to Chamonix. Seb’s arranged everything – or rather his super-organised secretary has – and we’re flying direct to Geneva in business class; yes, that’s right!
Business class!
Then transferring to the ski resort on a shuttle bus where we’re staying at a chalet owned by one of Seb’s friends.