Don’t You Forget About Me (45 page)

Mulling it over, I go into the kitchen and have just flicked on the kettle when I hear a knock on the door. That’ll be Fiona. No doubt she’s forgotten something else, including her keys, I muse, padding back into the hallway.

‘So come on, what’s the big secret?’ I demand teasingly, pulling open the door.

Only it’s not Fiona, it’s Seb.

‘I haven’t got any secrets,’ he replies, looking confused.

‘Oh god, sorry . . . I thought you were my flatmate Fiona,’ I start hastily trying to explain. ‘She just left.’

‘I know, we met outside,’ he smiles, relaxing. ‘She let me in.’

‘Right, yes, of course . . .’ I nod, feeling flustered. Seb’s visit is totally unexpected. We haven’t seen each other since we got back from our mini-break, and him just turning up like this has thrown me.

‘So are you going to invite me in?’ he prompts.

I realise he’s still standing there in the doorway. ‘Er yes, of course . . . come in. I’m just making a cup of tea . . .’ Hurriedly I step back so he can enter.

‘I’ve been trying to call you all day but your phone was turned off,’ he says, closing the door behind him and following me into the kitchen.

‘I was with my granddad, we went to visit Nan’s grave.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he says, throwing me a look of sympathy.

‘Don’t be.’ I find myself smiling as my mind flicks back. It was a happy afternoon, not a sad one. ‘We went there to celebrate.’

‘Celebrate?’ Seb looks confused.

‘Today was their wedding anniversary,’ I explain. ‘They would have been married for fifty-seven years.’

‘Wow, that’s longer than most life sentences, hey?’ he quips, expecting me to laugh at his joke about marriage.

But whereas before I would have joined in his laughter, this time I ignore him and instead turn my attentions to the kettle.

‘Do you want tea or coffee?’ I ask, changing the subject.

‘How about a lychee martini instead?’

Unhooking two cups off the mug tree, I look at him blankly.

‘Come on, let’s go for dinner at Mala.’ Taking the cups from me, he puts them back on the mug tree. ‘I could kill their spicy Szechuan noodles, couldn’t you?’

Oh, god, no. Those noodles will kill me, not the other way around.

‘Actually I’m not hungry, I already ate with Granddad.’ I go to grab the mugs again.

‘Oh OK.’ He looks slightly surprised by my lack of enthusiasm. ‘What about a movie instead? There’s that new 3-D sci-fi film with Will Smith . . .’

‘Um, no thanks,’ I shake my head, ‘I don’t really feel like going out.’

‘Well, in that case why don’t we stay in . . . ?’ Moving closer, he slips his hand around my waist and starts nuzzling his face into my neck. ‘I actually bought you a little gift . . .’ He pulls a small pink-and-black Agent Provocateur bag from his pocket and waggles it at me. ‘Seeing as we’ve got the place to ourselves, maybe you could put this on . . .’ he whispers flirtily into my ear.

‘Um, you know, I’m not really in the mood,’ I hear myself saying.

‘C’mon, it’ll be fun . . .’

‘I’m actually a bit tired . . .’

‘You could do that amazing thing with your tongue . . .’

‘Seb, stop it! I don’t want to!’ I burst out. All at once something snaps inside me and I pull sharply away, pent-up emotion exploding out of me like the cork out of a bottle. ‘I don’t want to do any of those things.’

Shock flashes across his face. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’

Stunned by own outburst, I take a moment to recover. Me and my big mouth. Why did I blurt it out like that? I look at Seb and feel a sudden anguish. He looks so bewildered. ‘I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to snap . . .’ Wracked with guilt, I try explaining. ‘You see it’s just—’

‘Is this about the snowboarding weekend?’ he interrupts.

‘What?
No!
’ I exclaim.

‘Because you don’t have to worry about cutting short our trip. I got us both season passes!’

Oh god. I stare at him, frozen with horror. I don’t know what to say. But at the same time I know I have to say something. And not just about the snowboarding, but about everything, I suddenly realise. Gathering up my courage, I try to think of a way to tell him, to try to explain. He looks so pleased with himself that there’s no easy way to say this.

So I just come out with it.

‘Seb, I hate snowboarding.’

‘What?’ He furrows his brow, as if he’s misheard.

‘And spicy food. I can’t eat it. In fact, I think I’m allergic to chillies.’

‘But I don’t understand. You said you loved it – you told me you loved both those things.’ Seb is shaking his head as if he’s got water in his ears.

‘And I don’t like science-fiction films either.’

‘
You don’t?
’

I shake my head. ‘No, to tell the truth I find them a bit boring. No, that’s not even the truth; the truth is I find them really,
really
boring. All those silly costumes and spaceships that look like something you’ve made from a Fairy Liquid bottle on
Blue Peter
. . .’

Now I’ve started I can’t stop. It’s as if there’s a tiny, cramped room inside of me where I’ve been hiding the real me, where for the last few weeks I’ve been stuffing my true feelings in an attempt to make them disappear. Piling my opinions and thoughts so high until there’s no more space left. And now someone’s unlocked the door and they’re all coming tumbling out in a torrent.

‘And as for all that sexy lingerie,’ I roll my eyes, ‘I don’t really wear underwear like that the whole time, it’s too uncomfortable.’

‘Uncomfortable?’ He looks perplexed, as if he’d never considered such a thing.

I nod. ‘G-strings cut right up my
you-know-what
and I only wore that nipple-less bra once and talk about chafing . . .’

‘But I thought you enjoyed wearing it,’ he says, glancing in confusion at the Agent Provocateur bag sitting redundantly on the kitchen counter.

‘Because that’s what I wanted you to believe,’ I confess. ‘I mean, would you enjoy wearing bum floss?’

If I’m hoping to lighten the atmosphere by making a joke, I’m unsuccessful. Raking his fingers through his hair, Seb looks at me wildly. ‘This isn’t making any sense –
you’re
not making any sense.’ He turns away from me and sits down on the sofa, looking dazed.

‘Look, I’m sorry, it’s all my fault, everything’s my fault . . .’ I break off and stare hard at the kitchen lino. I feel awful, but at the same time I also know this is the first sense I’ve spoken for a long time. Swallowing hard I look up at him. ‘I think we should break up.’

‘Break up?’ cries Seb, aghast, swivelling his gaze across me like a strobe light. ‘But why? We get along so well, we like all the same things—’

‘No, don’t you see? That’s what I’m trying to explain. We don’t like the same things, Seb. I just pretended to like them so you’d like me.’

He stares at me in confusion, not computing what’s going on. How can he? How can he begin to understand we dated once before and he broke up with me and I’ve been dating him all over again, doing things differently, hoping that this time he’d fall in love with me.

‘But this is crazy! I’m in love with you!’

His words ring out loud and I freeze. He’s never said that before, and for a moment my heart skips a beat. It’s what I’ve always wanted him to say. What I’ve waited so long to hear. Last time when we dated he’d tell me I was beautiful, or he thought I was adorable, or that he loved being with me. But he never told me he loved me. He never said those three little words.

And now he has.

Now I’ve got what I always dreamed of.

But at what price?

I take a breath, holding that moment where his words hang suspended in the air, enjoying that moment I’ve waited so long for, breathing them in, seeing what it feels like, trying them on for size.

Before I brush them away.

‘You’re not in love with me,’ I say quietly, shaking my head.

‘Yes I am!’ he protests indignantly.

I glance over at him sitting on the sofa, just as I once sat on his. Only now the roles are reversed. Yet if ever there was a moment I thought I might find some pleasure in the way the situation has turned around, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Dating Seb again was never about trying to get some warped kind of revenge. I was just following my heart; it was impossible not to. But although Seb might have broken it when he finished with me, there would be no satisfaction in breaking his.

‘No, you’re not,’ I say firmly. ‘You’re not in love with the
real
me, you’re in love with the person I became, the person I changed into, the person I tried to be. Trust me, I’m not the girl you fell in love with. That’s not really who I am.’ A sob rises in my throat – saying the words out loud is making me face up to what I’ve become and the reality is hard to face. ‘You’re in love with a fake.
I’m a fake
.’

As I spit out the words, I think about Fergus. He was right all along and yet I refused to believe him.

‘I thought I wasn’t good enough. That there was something wrong with me. That I needed to change for you to love me, to be different,
to be more
. . .’

I can feel my eyes welling up as I remember those emotions. When we broke up the first time I blamed myself. It was all my fault. If only I’d tried harder, done things differently, been funnier, sexier, cleverer, more enthusiastic, sporty, successful . . .
more everything
, then Seb would have fallen in love with me.

Because somewhere, somehow, something got buried deep down inside of me, an insecurity, anxiety, self-doubt – call it what you want – that made me feel I didn’t deserve to be loved, that plain little old me could never be a success, that somehow I wasn’t worthy. And for all these years I’ve been carrying that feeling with me.

‘Only now I’ve finally realised I
am
good enough,’ I say determinedly and, hearing myself say it out loud for the first time in my life, I suddenly know it to be true. ‘I’m
more
than good enough, and I don’t need to change. I just need to accept and love myself for who I really am. Because how can I expect someone to love me if I don’t love myself?? For someone to think I’m good enough if I don’t think I’m good enough?’

But Seb’s not listening. He doesn’t want to. ‘Is there someone else? Is this what it’s all about?’

It’s like biting down on tinfoil: every cell in my body jumps. ‘No, of course not,’ I protest quickly, but my mind betrays me by throwing up an image of Fergus.

I still haven’t heard from him. He was so angry and upset I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me, especially now he knows I’ll have read that email he sent to ‘Sara’. My chest tightens. I still can’t believe he felt that way. I had no idea.

Except . . .

My mind flashes back to us both on the terrace, snowflakes whirling around our heads, my breath held tight inside of me. A feeling of magic, anticipation and something else . . . only I can’t put my finger on it. Not that it matters. Whatever it was has gone now. I made sure of that.

‘No, no there’s no one else,’ I say quietly.

Then for a few moments neither of us moves or speaks and there’s an awkward silence. I become aware of the loud humming of the fridge, the slow drip of the tap, the muffled drone of an overhead plane.

‘Are you
sure
it’s not about the snowboarding weekend,’ he says after a pause, ‘because Chris did mention something about the hot tub—’

‘Please, Seb,’ I gasp and he falls silent again. ‘Trust me, this isn’t about the weekend, or the hot tub, or you . . . it was
never
about you, it’s about me.’ My voice softening, I walk over and sit next to him on the sofa. ‘You’re a great guy, but I’m not the girl for you.’

‘You don’t mean that, you’re just saying it,’ he says huffily, his earlier hurt being replaced by indignation. Folding his arms, he angles his body away from me. ‘That’s what everyone says when they break up with someone.’

He has a point. If I remember rightly he said a similar thing to me.

‘No, Seb, you’re not listening, I really
do
mean it,’ I say firmly. ‘You like exercising and keeping fit, and I like slobbing on the sofa watching
The
X Factor
.’

‘What about military fitness?’ he demands, as if he’s caught me out.

‘I went once and pulled my hamstring.’

‘But you go running.’

‘No,
you
go running, I just pretended to go. The only thing I’ve ever run for is the bus.’ I pause as I catch his expression; I’m finally admitting who I am – to both of us.

‘I’m a girl whose favourite food is boring old beans on toast, and when I’m not setting about three alarm clocks and wearing two watches, I’m always late—’

He tries to protest, but I won’t let him. ‘No, really I am . . . and I love listening to Abba, not indie bands that all sound the same, and wearing my ratty old T-shirt bras and big comfy support knickers.’