Don’t You Forget About Me (47 page)

As she talks about dancing I remember the red dress and glance across to see it hanging on the rack. She follows my eyes.

‘You should try it,’ she nods.

‘Oh, I’m way too big for it,’ I protest.

‘Nonsense.’ She shakes her tiny, birdlike head, and with surprising agility crosses the shop floor and unhooks it from its hanger. ‘Take off your coat.’

I’m not used to having strange little old French ladies boss me around, but wordlessly I do as she says.

‘The fabric is silk; it stretches, like this, you see?’ Looping it over each of my arms she starts wrapping the swathes of fabric around me with the skill of a seamstress. ‘On me it was much longer, that was the fashion in the fifties . . . but on you –
parfait
!’

She steps back with a flourish of satisfaction, and we both look at my reflection in the mirror propped opposite. The dress is on top of my jeans and T-shirt, and I’m wearing my scruffy old trainers, my hair tied up in a ponytail, but such is its magic, everything else seems to fade into the background.

Everything disappears, and all I can see are the folds of luscious scarlet fabric that hug and cling, smell its scent of perfume and days gone by, and for a brief, glorious moment I’m transported back to Paris in the fifties, a dance floor, a band playing . . .

‘All you need now is someone to dance with,’ nods the shop manager approvingly.

I snap back to see I’m in Oxfam in Hammersmith with Rihanna playing on the radio.

‘Um, yes . . .’ I nod, feel slightly embarrassed.

‘I’m sure she has lots of men to dance with,’ laughs the old French lady gaily, looking across at the manageress. ‘Remember when we were young? There were so many men,
n’est-ce pas
?’

Having no doubt spent her youth organising church jumble sales, the manageress colours at the mere suggestion. Not to mention that even though there’s probably twenty years between them, it’s pretty evident she didn’t enjoy the same popularity with the opposite sex as the French lady with her red lipstick and silk dress.

‘Well, I don’t know about that . . .’ she laughs awkwardly and, avoiding the old lady’s gaze, chooses to look at me instead. ‘So, tell me – how would you like to pay for that?’

Chapter 38

After buying the red dress and the rest of the cotton sacks, I leave the shop and make my way home. On the way I make a bit of a detour. Well, actually it’s less of a detour and more of a completely-the-wrong-direction. But there’s nothing else for it, I’ve tried everything else. Turning down a street in Shepherd’s Bush, I walk along the pavement, counting the number of the houses, until finally I reach the one I’m looking for.

Number seventy-four.

Fergus’s address.

With my heart hammering in my chest, I stop outside the redbrick building. The last few days I’ve done nothing but think about Fergus and what happened. I still feel terrible for hurting him, and I don’t blame him for being angry, but I’ve finally stopped beating myself up about it. What I did might have been stupid, but it was stupid for all the right reasons, and although I don’t expect him to forgive me, I just want him to know that. I
need
him to know that.

My eyes sweep upwards to the top flat where he lives. I’d hoped I could explain when he came into the office this week, except a different courier came instead, and when I asked where Fergus was, he said he was new and had no idea; he’d just been assigned our deliveries and pick-ups. So I sent him an email and waited for him to reply. But he didn’t. So I sent him another one. Nothing. He didn’t reply to my texts either. Or pick up when I called.

Which is why I’m now here, standing outside his flat, trying to pluck up the courage to go and ring the doorbell. Well, that was the plan. Only now I’m here, I feel a lot more nervous than I thought I would. I mean, he obviously doesn’t want to see me or speak to me, does he? He’s avoiding
and
ignoring me. Which begs the question, what the hell am I doing here? He’ll probably just tell me to go to hell.

I feel my courage slipping away. This was a stupid idea. Yet another one, I think, kicking myself. I seem to be getting pretty good at them, don’t I? Turning around, I start walking away, but I’ve only taken a few footsteps when I hear Fergus’s voice in my head:
It’s never too late to try to put something right.

I hesitate. What have I got to lose? Turning back around I stride up to the front door and ring the doorbell. I brace myself. I’m just going to come out with it. Even if he slams the door in my face. I’m going to give it my best shot.

Only there’s no answer. I wait for a few moments, then scribble a note asking him to call me. I slip it through the letterbox. Let’s hope he was right about it never being too late.

By the time Monday morning rolls around I’ve sorted a lot out, emotionally and practically. My head is clearer, my room is
certainly
a lot clearer and I’m feeling a lot more positive. Which is good as I need to get into the party spirit.

With Sir Richard still away in India and his retirement party looming, I spend the rest of the week busy making sure the final arrangements are all in order. After what happened with his visa, I’ve changed my Post-it note way of doing things, and now have a list on which I’m ticking things off. Balloons?
Tick
. ‘Happy Retirement Sir Richard!’ banner?
Tick
. Caterers serving organic, sustainably farmed food?
Tick
. Alcohol? Well, that bit’s easy.
Tick.

All the staff are excited. Despite the sadness at losing a much-loved boss and still not knowing who’s going to replace him, it’s an opportunity for the girls to wear their new spangly dresses, the boys to try to impress with their dance moves, and for everyone to get drunk at the expense of the company. Me? I just want everything to go smoothly.

By the time I turn off my computer on Friday evening, everything on my list has been ticked off, not just once, but twice. I’m not taking any risks this time. Sir Richard is due to arrive back this evening – he changed his flight so he could have a few extra meetings in Delhi – and a car is picking him up from Heathrow and bringing him straight to the party. So there’s no room for mistakes; everything has to be perfect.

And it will be, I reassure myself, flicking on the radio to help calm my nerves and get me in the mood. I’m in my bedroom, getting ready for the party. I invited Fiona as she always loves a party and I’d rather not go alone. Well, actually I didn’t have to ask, she volunteered, as she said she needed to talk to me about something ‘and it would be a good opportunity’.

A flashback to a few days ago and her mentioning it to me as I left for work, all shifty body language and avoiding my eyes, triggers a feeling of doom. I suppose I should have asked her outright what it was, there and then, but to be honest, I didn’t want to know. God, I hope it’s not that she’s selling the flat or something, and wants me to move out. The timing would be terrible as I’m out of a job in less than two weeks. But then, aren’t things supposed to always come in threes? No boyfriend, no job, and now no home?

Not that they’re
all
bad, of course. Breaking up with Seb was definitely the right thing to do, and it’s not as though I was ever going to make a career out of being a PA, but even so it would be a bit of a triple whammy. Plus, more importantly, despite the overflowing ashtrays, bizarre foodstuffs left in pans and the fact that Fiona still hasn’t got round to putting a lock on the bathroom door, I’ve grown rather fond of the place.

Finishing applying my mascara, I stand back to check my reflection. I’m wearing the red silk dress from the charity shop and now it’s not on top of my jeans, I can see the old French lady was right, it does fit perfectly. Humming along to the radio, I do a little twirl, watching how the folds of silk whirl out like a parasol. Then pause as the fabric falls against my legs – hang on, what’s this song I’m humming?

Is that . . . ?

The Nolans, ‘I’m in the Mood for Dancing’.

I’m suddenly reminded of Fergus. I’ve been so busy with organising the party it’s helped keep me distracted, but now there’s nothing to prevent me from thinking about him and he comes crashing into my mind. He never replied to my note. Part of me didn’t expect him to; it was a long shot anyway. Still, I wonder if he’s going to be there tonight? He was sent an invitation along with all the other regular couriers Sir Richard employs. Deep down inside, I allow myself to feel a morsel of hope. Maybe, just maybe . . .

Gosh, is it that time already? Noticing my alarm clock, I pull myself together. Quickly grabbing my coat I reach for a gold clutch. Then change my mind. It’s far too small, I’ll never get everything in that. I know, I’ll take my bag!

My bag
.

I feel a flash of unbridled pride. Finally, after weeks of hard work, I put the finishing touches to it last week and, though I say so myself, it looks great. The leather handles that I made from the braces of the dungarees give it this great vintage quality, and then you’ve got the silk ribbons, and embroidery and the mother-of-pearl buttons and . . . well, quite frankly I could go on forever gushing about it. More importantly, where is it?

I rummage around my bedroom looking. Shit, at this rate, if I can’t find it we’re going to be late! Now I’m longer dating Seb, I’ve abandoned the two watches and it’s all fallen apart again quite quickly and I’ve gone back to my default setting of always running ten minutes behind. ‘Hey Fiona,’ I call out, ‘have you seen my bag?’

‘What?’ She pops her head out of her bedroom. She’s wearing a tight black cocktail dress and a pair of killer heels.

‘Wow, you look fantastic!’ Not that Fiona doesn’t normally look good when she goes out, but tonight there’s a sort of shiny glow about her that I’ve never seen before.

‘Thanks,’ she giggles happily. ‘So do you.’

I smile gratefully. She’s been very supportive over my break-up with Seb. She didn’t judge, or try to pump me for details, she just gave me a reassuring hug and told me he wasn’t that good-looking anyway and she was sure his teeth were veneers. She also very sweetly left me a copy of a magazine with an article on celebrity cellulite on my pillow, ‘as it’s something no girl should miss out on and will make you feel heaps better’.

‘So, you ready to go?’ she asks.

‘Nearly, but I can’t find my bag. Have you seen it?’

‘What does it look like?’

‘You know, the one I made with the leather straps and silk lining.’

Immediately her happy shiny face is replaced by one of guilt.

‘Oh,
that
bag . . .’

I feel a tug of anxiety. ‘What do you mean,
that
bag?’

‘I think I might have borrowed it.’

‘
Think?
’ I fix her with a look.

‘Sorry.’ She throws me an apologetic smile.

I roll my eyes; it’s one thing her borrowing my stuff, but she never puts it back.

‘Well where is it?’ I say.

‘Well that’s the thing . . .’ she says slowly. ‘I borrowed it last week when I went to a shoot and the stylist saw it and wanted to use it in the photographs with the model . . .’ Her voice has speeded up and she’s now falling over herself trying to explain. ‘I’ll get it back, promise,’ she finishes.

‘
Fiona!
’

We’re interrupted by the beep of a text message popping up on my phone. I snatch it up and glance at the screen. ‘It’s from the minicab service telling us the taxi’s here,’ I say, reading it. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

‘Wait, I need to get Tallulah.’

‘You can’t bring her,’ I exclaim.

She stiffens and juts out her chin. ‘Wherever I go, Tallulah goes,’ she says firmly.

Tallulah, it seems, has become a permanent fixture in the flat. We’ve had her for a month now and there’s been no word from Pippa about coming back to collect her. However, whenever I tried to bring up the subject with Fiona, she refused to talk about it in front of Tallulah. ‘How would you like to be abandoned?’ she hisses, covering Tallulah’s ears.

‘Oh, all right,’ I sigh, giving in and grabbing my clutch bag. I stuff as much in as I can, then shove the rest in my pockets and hurry downstairs. Fiona follows me, her stiletto heels clacking away on the steps like a pair of castanets, hugging Tallulah to her chest. Until finally we’re outside and climbing into the stuffy warmth of the minicab.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll get the bag back, I promise,’ she says, looking across at me.

‘You’d better,’ I threaten, then soften into a smile. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!’

‘Well actually, that’s not all . . .’

I look at her, uncomprehending.

‘There’s something else I’ve been meaning to tell you.’

My stomach drops. I knew it. ‘You want me to move out, don’t you.’

She frowns in confusion. ‘Move out? Why would you think that?’

‘Well you looked so uncomfortable when you said you had something you needed to talk to me about . . . I just put two and two together and—’