Don’t You Forget About Me (41 page)

Gripping onto him, I watch as the tarmac speeds away beneath us. I’m absolutely terrified. I never take risks. I don’t like danger. I’m the one who puts on her seat belt in the back of a black cab. I mean, I know you’re
supposed
to, but who does that?

Me. I do.

And yet at the same time, at least the fear is preventing me from thinking about the visa. About what’s going to happen if we don’t get there in time.

At the very thought I experience another flurry of panic. If I’m going to die, at least I’ll escape the fate that’s going to be waiting for me back at Blackstock & White, I console myself. I’ll never have to face Sir Richard, never have to see everyone’s faces when they hear about the inevitable redundancies . . .

No, stop! That’s not going to happen, I tell myself firmly. It can’t happen! We’ve got to get there in time!

After crossing Hammersmith Bridge, we race along the Chelsea Embankment, following the Thames as it weaves its path through the city of London. Shafts of sunlight break through the heavy clouds intermittently, like a light display, each winter beam bouncing off the water. We head east, whizzing past the stationary traffic, before cutting up towards Victoria and Buckingham Palace.

There’s never a moment’s hesitation. This is what Fergus does all day and he knows this city like the back of his hand, taking in beautiful garden squares surrounded by iron railings, white stucco houses, majestic buildings rising up above the city sprawl. Forget any tourist on an open-top double-decker bus: this is how to take in London. Now I understand why he loves cycling so much – it’s like the city is a living, breathing thing and you’re part of it.

And then, before I know it, we’re speeding around a corner and there, just ahead, is the India Visa Application Centre.

‘We made it!’ gasps Fergus, braking sharply and coming to a halt. He jumps off the pedals. I can’t believe his legs don’t just crumple beneath him.

‘Oh my god, that’s incredible . . . we’re here already . . .’ I stammer in disbelief. Even more incredible is that I’m still in one piece, I think, as he helps me off. My heart is racing and even though I haven’t done any pedalling, I’m all wobbly and breathless. Part fear, part anticipation,
part dread
.

We both rush up to the door and I go to push it open, except . . .

‘It’s locked!’ I cry, twirling around to Fergus.

‘It can’t be! We did that ride in eighteen minutes, I timed it!’ he protests, snatching at his watch. ‘What time do you make it?’

‘Um . . . hang on . . .’ I fumble at my wrist. ‘Only four twenty-eight!’ I cry indignantly. Twirling back around, I hammer on the door.

A security guard appears on the other side of the door. ‘We’re closed,’ he says firmly through the wired glass.

‘It’s not four thirty yet,’ I protest, ‘there are two more minutes.’

‘Not by my watch,’ he says gruffly.

‘But I need a visa urgently,’ I try to explain, but he’s unbudgeable.

‘’Fraid you’ll have to come back tomorrow,’ he replies emotionlessly.

‘But I can’t come back tomorrow!’ I wail, my voice getting higher and higher. ‘It’s for my boss and his flight leaves for India tomorrow morning.’

‘Well then he’s not going to be on it, is he?’ he says with a shrug that shows, quite frankly, he couldn’t care less.

I stare at him, feeling both like yelling and bursting into tears at the same time. ‘Please!’ I plead desperately. I have no shame. I am willing to start begging.

With a glower he pulls down the blind.

For a moment I stand there, unable to take in what’s just happened. And for a moment my hopes remain suspended in the air, like Wile E. Coyote who runs over a cliff and doesn’t realise until he looks down.

Then I look down.

And as the reality hits, my hopes go crashing. That’s it. It’s over. The company will be ruined. People will lose their jobs.
And it’s all my fault
.

I turn away from the door, my body sagging in defeat. ‘It’s too late,’ I say quietly to Fergus, who’s been waiting anxiously. ‘I’ve ruined everything.’

‘Hey, stop beating yourself up,’ he says immediately, putting his hand on my shoulder. ‘You tried to put it right. Anyone can make a mistake.’

‘But not this huge,’ I choke, feeling the tears rising up in my throat, ‘and not like this. This isn’t about me, I don’t care about me, it’s about everyone else . . .’ My eyes are filling up and I have to blink them away. ‘People have kids, they’ve got mortgages . . .’

‘Hey . . . hey,’ he says, putting his arm around me as I start crying and bury my face in his chest. ‘Now come on, they’ll understand, they’re your friends, they’ll know you didn’t do this on purpose . . .’

But I don’t hear the rest of his sentence because I’m sobbing my eyes out. Big fat meaty tears that stream down my cheeks as if they’re never going to stop. I’ve made mistakes in the past, but not of these epic proportions. How could I have been such an idiot? How?
How?

I’m not sure how long we stand there, two people in the middle of the pavement, on a cold, grey January day, with the traffic and the world whirling around them. With my eyes squeezed tightly shut I want to block everything out, I don’t want to think about anything. Until I become vaguely aware of the sound of a door opening, muffled voices, then the security guard instructing loudly, ’Can you move away from the door so the staff can exit?’

‘C’mon Tess, no point standing here.’

I hear Fergus’s soft Irish accent in my ear and look up, blearily, to see a few people leaving the building, and the security guard glaring in my direction. He’s right, it’s pointless. It’s over.

Roughly wiping my face with my sleeve, I step backwards. I catch some of the staff looking over, brief curious glances as they wonder fleetingly what the story is behind the girl with the puffy face who’s obviously been crying, and the dark-haired bicycle courier trying to comfort her. Before, just as fleetingly, I’m forgotten and supplanted by more important thoughts of meeting friends at the pub, the tube ride home, the children’s tea.

But I remain here. Thinking of the fate that awaits me back in the office. About confessing what’s happened to Sir Richard. My heart sinks at the thought. The worst thing is he won’t be angry, he’s too kind a person, he’ll just be sad and disappointed, which is much,
much
worse. I’d rather he shouted at me. I deserve it. I let him down. I let everyone down.

‘Tess?’

A voice breaks into my thoughts. For a moment I vaguely assume it’s Fergus, but then I hear it again, louder this time.

‘Tess!’

Realising it’s not him, I turn around. Someone is staring at me from a few feet away. A man wearing a fur-trimmed parka and one of those hats with the flaps that cover your ears. I stare at him for a few moments, then suddenly it registers.

‘Ali!’ I cry, recognising him. Of course, it’s Ali from the computer store. I haven’t seen him since I picked up my laptop and we poured our hearts out to each other. He walks towards me and I give him a big hug. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I came to meet my sister after work; we’re going for a bite to eat. To meet my parents,’ he adds, looking nervous.

‘That’s great Ali,’ I smile encouragingly. I know how important this is to him. ‘I’m sure it’ll go really well.’

‘Well, that’s why I’m taking my sister along as a human shield,’ he allows himself a small smile. ‘Hey, Rupinda,’ he calls over to a girl in a red duffel coat who’s being let out of the office by the security guard. ‘Come and meet my friend Tess and’ – he gestures towards Fergus, and lowers his voice – ‘Is this
him
?’

‘Oh no,’ I say quickly, realising the inference. ‘Fergus is just a friend.’

‘Hi,’ smiles a pretty Indian girl, hurriedly pulling on her gloves as she comes to join us. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Politely she extends a mittened hand.

‘You too,’ I reply, noting the family resemblance between Ali and Rupinda. ‘And this is—’ I’m about to say Fergus, but Rupinda suddenly gives a loud shriek and, withdrawing her hand, clamps it over her mouth.

‘Rupes? What’s wrong?’ Ali’s face is suffused with concern. ‘What’s happened?’

But she’s rendered speechless. Her dark eyes flashing brightly, she shakes her head back and forth as if she can’t believe her eyes.

‘Rupes!’ he demands, and then slips into a torrent of Punjabi.

‘Is she OK?’ asks Fergus, shooting me a worried look.

‘I don’t know.’ I shake my head and look back at Rupinda, who’s just standing on the pavement, frozen like a statue. At the sound of Fergus’s voice, she takes a gloved hand away from her mouth and opening her mouth, finally stutters, ‘It’s him!’

‘Who?’ I ask, puzzled.

Raising her hand, she stares directly at Fergus and points a finger. She looks as if she’s seen a ghost. ‘The man from the advert.’

‘Advert?’ repeats Ali in confusion.

Rupinda’s eyes have now gone glassy and it dawns on me that it’s not horror she’s experiencing, but excitement. ‘“
We get to the bottom of those bits that need pampering . . .
” ’ she gushes, repeating the line from the ad with a look of wondrous awe, ‘“
gentle yet strong, we go on and on and on . . .
”’

I look at Fergus with amusement. He’s gone bright red.

‘You were in a commercial?’ says Ali, slowly registering.

‘For bog roll,’ Fergus nods, looking shamefaced.

‘He’s an actor,’ I say loyally.

‘Oh my goodness me, I love you!’ Rupinda exclaims suddenly, coming back to life. ‘I’ve watched that advert a million times! The bit with you and the kitten, it’s so cute . . .’ She trails off dreamily.

‘I think you’ve got a fan,’ I whisper, my mouth twitching in amusement.

‘Thanks, I’m glad you liked it,’ says Fergus self-consciously.

‘I just can’t believe I’ve met you,’ she continues. Letting out a deep sigh she gazes at him lovingly.

‘Your
biggest
fan,’ I hiss, correcting myself.

Fergus is looking so embarrassed, shifting around from foot to foot and blushing to the roots of his hair, until all at once something comes over him. Throwing back his shoulders, he pushes back his hair off his temples and flashes her the smile he uses for all the girls in the office. I call it his ‘leading man’ smile.

‘So do you work here?’ he asks, in a voice that’s suddenly dropped about three octaves.

I look at him in surprise. What’s going on?

‘Um . . . yes,’ nods Rupinda, who’s visibly trembling, and it’s nothing to do with the icy temperatures.

‘Is that so?’ Fergus raises an eyebrow, Sean Connery-style. ‘And would you have anything to do with the visas?’

Oh, so
now
I see where he’s going.

‘Yes, absolutely!’ she nods fervently. ‘I process them.’

‘Well in that case,’ he flashes her another leading man smile, ‘I wonder if you could do me a favour . . .’

Chapter 33

‘You’re a miracle-worker!’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ grins Fergus modestly.

‘Trading your autograph for a business visa?’ I exclaim. ‘It was brilliant!’

‘Well I’m just glad she’s happy and you’re happy.’

‘Happy?’ I grin. ‘I’m ecstatic!’

A couple of hours later we’re in a pub, celebrating. Rupinda was more than happy to do us a favour in exchange for Fergus’s autograph, and after less than twenty minutes she reappeared with Sir Richard’s passport, including his brand-new business visa, valid for travel tomorrow. After saying a huge thank you, I rushed back to work (in a cab this time), just before the office closed, and gave it to Sir Richard.

‘Sorry about that, it was in my drawer,’ I said with as much nonchalance as I could muster. ‘I must have overlooked it.’

‘Not a problem,’ he replied cheerfully, flicking through to check his visa. ‘I knew everything would be in order.’

I had a flashback to the frantic last couple of hours which had seen me desperately racing across London on the back of a bicycle, pleading tearfully with security guards and group-hugging Fergus, Ali and Rupinda with heady relief as we exchanged an autograph, a visa and our goodbyes.

‘Yes, all perfectly in order,’ I smiled brightly, before wishing him a safe trip and heading gratefully to the local pub.

Where I’d arranged to meet Fergus who, for the first time since I’d met him, had left his bike at home and caught the bus. ‘Well, cycling while under the influence is never a good idea,’ he laughed, getting in the first round.

‘Here’s to India!’ he’s saying now, raising his pint glass.

‘And still being alive after that bike ride!’ I grin, chinking my glass against his.

‘Hey, you were fine, I was the one without a helmet,’ he protests, taking a swig of his Guinness. ‘I risked my life for you!’

I realise he’s joking around, but as his words register, I also realise that that was exactly what he did and it’s no joke. ‘I know,’ I say gratefully, falling serious for a moment. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’