Don’t You Forget About Me (40 page)

‘Why, thank you,’ I reply, almost blushing at his compliment.

‘No,
thank you
, Tess. This isn’t just another business trip, it’s much more than that, and I felt it was important for you to know how significant all your efforts have been, and for me to thank you for the part you’ve played in all this. Especially during what’s been quite – how shall I put it? – a
transitional
period in my personal life,’ he adds awkwardly.

‘Oh, don’t mention it, I was only doing my job,’ I say breezily, trying not to think about that time I found him on the sofa a couple of weeks back, all crumpled and unshaven. To be honest, that seems so long ago now. Since then he’s all smartened up and got his mojo back – it’s like he’s a changed man.

‘I shall miss this company but I shall take solace in the fact that I’m leaving it in the best position it’s ever been in.’

‘I know you will,’ I smile. ‘I’ve got every faith. We all have.’

‘Splendid.’

He makes to stand up, which I take as my cue to leave, and I get up out of my chair.

‘Oh, and I’d prefer it if we just kept this between ourselves,’ he adds. ‘I don’t want anyone worrying about their job security, especially in this recession. Fingers crossed they won’t have to.’

‘Of course,’ I nod. I think about Kym and her holiday booked to Ibiza next year, the girl in Accounts who’s having a baby, John in Marketing who’s just got married and is buying a house.

‘Oh, and Tess, just one more thing.’

I turn.

‘I just had a quick look through all the paperwork for the India trip and it all seems to be in order, except you haven’t returned my passport. I know it was sent off to the embassy for the correct visa, so I’m assuming you must still have it.’

‘I’ll go and fetch it,’ I reply confidently. ‘I’ve probably filed it away in a drawer, or in my in-tray.’

‘Just as long as it’s not been lost in the post,’ he chuckles jovially.

‘Ha, yes,’ I laugh.

Leaving his office, I go back to my desk to get his passport. To be honest, there’s been so much going on in the past few weeks that I can’t
actually
remember sending it off to the embassy, but I must have, as there are no Post-it notes about it on my computer screen. I only peel them off when whatever it is it’s reminding me to do is ticked off my list. Maybe not the most orthodox of organisation systems, but it works perfectly for me.

So if I hadn’t sent it off, it’d still be left on there. And it’s not, I tell myself firmly, turning my attentions to my in-tray.

I rummage around for a bit, but there’s no sign of any passport. How odd. I wonder if the embassy sent it back? Gosh, I do hope so, I muse, feeling a flicker of worry. I quickly dismiss it and start going through the piles of paperwork on my desk instead. I always pay the extra fee to get the visas expedited and couriered back. So it can’t have got lost; it must be here somewhere.

Out of the corner of my eye I spot a flash of pink. A scrap of colour almost hidden in the gap between the monitor and the bit where all the cables go. I feel a slight iciness around the bottom of my spine. What’s that? I try to reach it with my fingers but it must have fallen down the back and become wedged. Grabbing a ruler, I try to poke it out. The iciness is creeping up my spine but I pay no attention. It’s nothing. Probably an old flyer. Or something that’s fallen out of a magazine. Nothing important at all.

It’s a Post-it note.

All scrunched up and torn where I’ve stabbed it with the ruler, but most definitely a Post-it note. Realising my mouth’s gone dry, I swallow hard, then, with trepidation, smooth it out.

I stare at my scrawled handwriting with disbelief.

VISA

Just one, seemingly innocuous word, but it’s enough to send me reeling. Oh no. Please tell me I’m wrong. Please tell me . . . I can’t even finish the thought before I’m gripped with panic.

OK, come on, calm down, I instruct myself firmly. Let’s not jump to conclusions. So I’ve found a Post-it. So what? It’s a ridiculous bloody system anyway. Sticking Post-it notes as reminders on my computer screen. Honestly! It doesn’t
definitely
mean I haven’t done it. I’ve applied for dozens of visas for Sir Richard in the past. Admittedly I always leave it until the last minute to send it to the embassy, but I’ve never just
forgotten
.

I try to focus, but my mind is spinning. I can’t think straight. You’re looking for his passport, I remind myself sharply. Yes, of course, I just need to find Sir Richard’s passport, check the visa’s in there and then I can stop worrying over nothing. It’s like when I think I’ve lost my keys and they’re in my bag the whole time, I just can’t recollect putting them in there. It will be the same with this Indian visa, I’m sure of it.

I start emptying the contents of my desk drawers, in the middle of which Wendy the Witch strides past and makes some comment about the state of my desk and how ‘a tidy desk makes a tidy mind’, but I don’t answer. I’m too busy frantically rummaging through piles of crap . . . packet of Cup-a-Soup . . . emergency pair of tights . . . mini sewing kit . . . an envelope with some forms inside and – oh my god, here it is! Sir Richard Blackstock’s passport!

With a burst of relief I pull it out of the envelope and start flicking through it. It’s filled with visas from all his foreign travel. China . . . Hong Kong . . . Australia . . . the rest are blank pages.

No, that can’t be right. I went too quickly, I must have missed it. I start again. Slowly this time. Page by page. I reach the end.

No, it can’t be.

There’s no Indian visa.

I stare at the blank pages in horror. It’s not there! The Post-it note must have fallen off my computer screen and I never sent off his passport to the embassy.

And his flight goes first thing tomorrow
.

I glance frantically at the clock, but it’s already nearly four o’clock. It’s too late. By the time I get a taxi to the embassy, it will be closed. Plus, there’s no way they’d process it there and then.

Suddenly Sir Richard’s voice plays in my head. ‘
So far I’ve managed to avoid making any redudancies, but
I’m not sure how long this can continue for with the current market trends, which is why my trip to India tomorrow is so crucial
. . .
This isn’t just another business trip, it’s much more than that
.’ As I start to take in the consequences I feel sick. I’ve fucked up. I’ve fucked up big time.

My heart is racing and I feel dizzy.

What the hell am I going to do?

Chapter 32

‘Tess? Are you OK?
Tess?
’

It’s like I’ve dived underwater. Everything has receded and I’m only vaguely aware of muffled noises, but I can’t make out what they are. Instead there’s a growing sound in my ears as I sink lower and lower into the depths. A whooshing that’s getting louder as everything else diminishes. Fades away around the edges. Disappears into the darkness—

‘
TESS!
’

I suddenly come up for air to see Fergus peering at me with a worried expression.

‘Huh?’ I mumble. I feel dizzy. Like I’m going to faint.

‘Crikey woman, what’s got into you?’ he complains.

My mind’s like a computer booting up again. Shell-shocked, I stare at him for a few moments. ‘I’ve done something terrible,’ I finally manage in a whisper.

‘You’ve done what?’ he frowns, leaning closer to hear me.

I swallow hard, trying to slow my racing heart. ‘I’m in big trouble,’ I say in a low voice.

‘Don’t tell me, you’ve been busted for impersonating your voicemail again?’ he quips, snapping on a mischievous grin.

‘It’s really bad,’ I’m muttering to myself now as the consequences of my mistake start to run away from me like a line of toppling dominoes.

‘What’s worse than pretending to be an answering machine?’ he laughs.

‘Fergus, this isn’t funny!’ I snap, close to tears. ‘This is really serious.’

He looks taken aback by my outburst. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise . . .’ Coming around the side of my desk, he pulls out my chair. ‘Look, sit down, tell me all about it—’

‘I don’t have time!’ I almost shriek.

Kym, who’s on her way back from the Ladies, shoots a surprised look across at us.

‘What are you two up to?’ she asks, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.

God, the last thing I need is Kym finding out what I’ve done. Or haven’t done.

Though she’s going to find out soon enough, I realise, a surge of panic rising up again.
Everyone
will find out soon enough.

‘Oh, nothing,’ I say, forcing my voice to stay level. ‘Fergus is just driving me mad as usual.’ I give a tight little laugh.

‘Ha, ha, yeh, that’s right, I’m driving her crazy,’ joins in Fergus.

Given he’s an actor, that laugh couldn’t be more fake. It’s like canned laughter, only worse.

‘Hmm, right . . .’ nods Kym, but she doesn’t look convinced. ‘Well, don’t leave me out if it’s some office gossip,’ she says, a little sulkily. ‘I’m bored rigid.’

‘We won’t,’ I say airily, forcing a wide smile as she continues on to reception.

Fuck. If she wants gossip, how about the company is about to collapse because I’ve just screwed up the CEO’s crucial trip to Delhi, and everyone’s going to lose their jobs?

At the thought I go cold and on impulse I grab my coat. Shoving Sir Richard’s passport back into the envelope with all the paperwork, I stick it in my pocket.

‘Where are you going?’ Fergus shoots me a worried expression.

‘I don’t know . . .’ I trail off, shaking my head. ‘I just need to get some air. Breathe.
Think
.’

‘Wait, I’m coming with you.’

Without hesitation he follows me as I rush outside, past Kym in reception, who looks up from the phone as we hurry past and opens her mouth to say something; but she’s too late, I’m already out through the automatic doors with Fergus right behind me.

‘What’s going on?’ he gasps, as the cold air hits us.

I hesitate. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to say it out loud. I’m the only person who knows right now, and if I don’t acknowledge it I can almost fool myself it’s not really happening.

‘Tess, tell me!’ demands Fergus.

My heart is hammering in my chest. I don’t want to tell him, because as soon as I do, it becomes real.

Except, who am I kidding? It’s real anyway, whether I tell him or not.

So, taking a deep breath, I blurt it all out: about the passport, the visa, the trip to India, the company hanging in the balance:

‘And it’s all going to be ruined, because of me, because of my mistake!’ I wail.

Fergus’s expression is serious. He hasn’t spoken the whole time I’ve been talking; instead he’s listened intently, a cleft running down his brow.

‘There has to be a way to fix this,’ he says finally, shaking his head. ‘There has to be.’

‘There isn’t. The embassy closes at four thirty, and even if we get there, they won’t process it in time, it’s too late—’

‘It’s never too late to try to put something right,’ replies Fergus, his voice calm and determined. Stooping down, he unchains his bike and turns to me. ‘Get on,’ he instructs.

I stare at him blankly. ‘Excuse me?’

‘We’re going to the embassy.’

‘What? Both of us? But there’s only one bicycle.’

‘I’m giving you a backie.’

I look at him in alarm. ‘Isn’t that dangerous?’

‘Very,’ he nods. Unstrapping his helmet, he passes it to me. ‘So put that on.’

I falter. There’s no way I want to risk getting on the back of that bike. But I can’t do nothing. Even if there’s the
tiniest
chance I can put this right, I have to take it. Even if that means getting squashed under a double-decker bus.

‘Come on, hurry!’

Strapping on Fergus’s helmet, I climb onto the saddle. ‘Do you think we’ll get there in time?’ I gasp, as he jumps onto the pedals.

‘I can usually do Victoria in half an hour.’ He checks his watch. ‘Damn, we’ve got less than twenty minutes before the embassy closes.’

‘Will we make it?’

‘Hold on tight, cos we’re sure as hell going to find out,’ he cries, and with a thrust of the pedals we accelerate off down the side street.

I’m going to die! Seriously, it’s going to be
One Day
all over again. Only this time there’s going to be two of us. Me and Fergus. Squashed in a mangled wreck underneath a lorry. Or a car that’s just pulled out in front of us and we’ve had to brake sharply and swerve—

Argh!

As I cling on for dear life, my arms wrapped tightly around his waist, Fergus whips the bike safely past the bonnet of the car and shoots down a side street. He’s obviously a true professional at this. Not only is he incredibly fit – I swear I have never seen calf muscles like it, they are literally pumping like pistons – but he’s also a human GPS. Nipping through alleys, zigzagging down back streets, he whizzes his way across London like a silver bullet, leaving the rest of the gridlocked traffic behind.