Don’t You Forget About Me (48 page)

‘Got about seven hundred and fifty,’ tuts Fiona. ‘No, of course I don’t want you to move out, I love having you as a flatmate. Even if you did use my Diptyque candle,’ she adds with a raised-eyebrow look.

I feel myself colour. ‘Ah, yes, I’ve been meaning to tell you about that . . .’

‘Another time,’ she shushes me and I smile gratefully.

‘So what is it you want to tell me?’

‘I’ve met someone,’ she admits rather nervously.

‘Oh, well I
knew
that already,’ I reply, feeling both relieved and a little smug. ‘Doggy classes indeed,’ I tut, shooting Tallulah a look. Perched upright on Fiona’s knee, she stares jauntily back. We’ve never quite seen eye to eye.

‘Well, actually it’s a bit more than that.’ Anxiously vacuuming her throat, Fiona stops stroking Tallulah to hold up her hand. She waggles her fingers.

Correction:
finger
.

In the dimness of the minicab, I see a flash of something.

Wait a minute. I peer closer.
Is that . . . ?

And at the exact same moment as I spot a large, sparkly diamond sitting on her finger, I hear her cry,

‘I’m engaged!’

Chapter 39

If I had a mute button I’d press it now, because for the next few minutes all I can hear are the sounds of me and Fiona doing lots of excited shrieking and screaming and ‘Oh my god I can’t believe it!’ on a continuous ear-splitting loop, joined on backing vocals by Tallulah’s high-pitched yapping.

Pity the poor cab driver. I’m surprised he’s got any eardrums left.

Finally, with our throats sore and exhausted from shrieking, we both wind down like clockwork toys and flop back against the back seat of the cab.

‘Oh my god, I can’t believe it,’ I say for the millionth time, staring at her in stunned amazement.

‘I’m still pinching myself,’ she grins madly, clutching her ring. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

I can’t answer. I’ve got a million questions whizzing around in my head:
Who? How? When? Where?
I don’t have a clue where to start.

So I take a deep breath. ‘OK, so first we need to rewind,’ I say firmly.

Well, someone’s got to be sensible here, otherwise we’re going to spend the entire cab ride oohing and ahhing over the rock on her finger and I’ll still be none the wiser by the time we arrive at the party.

‘It’s all been a bit of a whirlwind, I met him online on Sassy Soul Mates a couple of weeks ago and we just clicked.’

‘So come on, tell me about him, who is he?’

She needs no encouragement. ‘His name’s Ricky and he’s not my usual type at all,’ she begins excitedly, ‘but there was something about him, something about the way he made me feel. He’s really romantic and old-fashioned and he made me feel special, he made me feel attractive’ – as it all comes pouring out, she smiles, almost embarrassed to be admitting it – ‘and not attractive if I was skinnier, or if I lost those ten pounds, or I could fit into my “thin” jeans, but attractive just the way I am.’

‘But why the big secret?’

‘I didn’t want to jinx it,’ she confesses. ‘I’ve had so many false starts in the love department, I didn’t want to say anything until it was official . . . plus you were so caught up with Seb we’ve hardly seen each other . . .’ She breaks off. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned him.’

‘It’s OK, I’m not upset about us breaking up,’ I smile reassuringly. ‘It’s different this time.’

‘
This time?
’ She frowns.

‘Er . . . I mean, generally speaking.’ Realising what I’ve said, I correct myself hastily.

‘It’s different this time for me too,’ she nods earnestly, and I feel a beat of relief that she’s loved-up and relating everything back to herself. ‘Before I was always attracted to the handsome players, I thought they were exciting and sexy and a challenge. Now I realise they were just a waste of time.’ She looks down at her hands and touches her ring.

‘Ricky’s so different to all those other guys I’ve dated. I thought he wasn’t my type, but it turned out that actually he
was
my type, it’s all the others that weren’t. I finally found what I was looking for, and I’ve realised I was looking in all the wrong places. Including the Quality Street tin,’ she adds sheepishly, shooting me a rueful smile.

‘Well, I had my suspicions,’ I grin, and she blushes guiltily.

‘I’m sorry I tried to blame Flea.’

‘Don’t worry, he’s not the type to bear a grudge,’ I reply, and she laughs.

‘Oh Tess, I’m just so happy!’ she beams, her face breaking into her default grin. ‘Me! Getting married! I still can’t believe it . . . and you’ll be my maid of honour, won’t you?’ She looks at me, her eyes shining excitedly.

‘Wow, yes, of course, that’s great, but . . .’ I pause. I have to tread softly here. Fiona can get very defensive when it comes to her love life. I still remember the time she had a crush on Gary Bishop in year six and bit my head off when I pointed out he was playing kiss chase with Lorna McClellan. Plus, I don’t want to put a dampener on things. It’s just . . . oh sod it, I can’t sit here and not mention what I’m thinking.

‘Isn’t it a bit,
well
, soon?’ I venture.

‘You can’t put a timescale on love,’ she replies sagely, suddenly falling serious. ‘When you know, you just know.’

I can see her mind’s made up, and to be honest, maybe she’s right. If the last few weeks have taught me anything, it’s that the things I thought I knew, I didn’t really know at all.

‘Well you have to wait a little bit,’ I protest, smiling. ‘I haven’t even met him yet!’

‘Well that’s the thing . . .’ She pauses, as if searching for the right words. ‘You have.’

‘
I have?
’ I look at her, taken aback. I thought we’d got over the surprises.

‘Sorry to interrupt, love.’ The cabbie’s voice comes over the speaker. ‘But we’re here.’

We’ve been so engrossed in our conversation, neither of us has realised we’ve pulled up outside the party venue, a private members’ club in Mayfair.

‘Oh, right, thanks,’ I say hurriedly and, signing the chit for the fare, I push open the door and step outside into the cold night air. My mind is racing, trying to think where I could have met Fiona’s fiancé. ‘Are you sure?’ I ask, as she joins me on the pavement.

‘Well yes,’ she says, seeming uncharacteristically nervous. ‘I didn’t realise at first, but it turns out you know him and I’ve been wondering how to tell you . . . I didn’t want it to be awkward—’

‘But I don’t know anyone called Ricky . . .’

I don’t finish as the large black door of the club swings open and we’re greeted by Sir Richard. His face lights up when he sees it’s me. ‘Darling, I’ve missed you!’ he cries, throwing open his arms.

I do a double take.
What the hell?
I know we have a good working relationship, but still . . .

‘You too!’ exclaims Fiona.

Only he’s not smiling at me, he’s beaming at my best friend, and as he gathers her up I can only stand on the doorstep, my mouth hanging open in astonished disbelief.

Then, abruptly, it registers.

Ricky is Sir Richard?

After I’ve got over the initial shock of discovering my boss is engaged to my best friend, Fiona and Richard (I can drop the ‘Sir’ but I’m sorry, I draw the line at calling him Ricky) are keen to share their story, and it all comes out about their dates, and how they met.

‘So it wasn’t internet porn at all! He was online dating!’ laughs Fiona, as we walk together through the lobby. Fiona and Sir Richard with their arms entwined. Me trotting alongside, like a bewildered Labrador.

I go bright red. Now it’s all slotting into place, the webcam, the subscription email . . .

Sir Richard bursts out laughing. ‘Ha, yes, Fiona told me you thought I had an addiction!’

Oh my god, this is
sooo
embarrassing. Plus, if I remember rightly, it was Fiona who was convinced he had a porn addiction. I shoot Fiona an I’m-going-to-kill-you look but she just collapses into giggles.

‘So you haven’t been going to dog obedience classes?’ I say quickly, trying to steer the conversation away from my boss and online porn. Never a good combination, trust me.

‘Sorry, that was a bit of a fib,’ she blushes, ‘though we have talked about it. Ricky’s got a red setter called Monty, you know.’

‘Yes I do,’ I nod. ‘He cocked his leg up on my Swiss cheese plant when he came into the office last week.’ Despite tons of Baby Bio, it’s still not recovered.

‘Oh I don’t think he’ll dare misbehave around you darling,’ he laughs, giving Fiona a squeeze around the waist.

‘Are you saying I’m bossy?’

‘Forceful,’ he corrects.

‘Well, someone had to get rid of that suit,’ she grins.

‘It was bespoke—’

‘It was horrible!’

I watch them both laughing and chatting away, tripping over each other to finish the other one’s sentences. Sir Richard is almost unrecognisable from the man he was a few months ago. Gone is his wispy comb-over. Instead there’s a short, fashionable haircut with, dare I say it, a little product in the front? Not only that but he’s flashing a pearly white smile that could only be the product of some expensive bleaching at a Delhi dentist. Together with his trendy designer glasses and expensively cut suit, the metamorphosis I’ve been noticing over the last few weeks is complete.

‘I’ve given him a makeover,’ says Fiona proudly, catching my amazed expression as I take him in.

It’s incredible. He looks like a completely different person to the Sir Richard I used to know. Probably because he is a completely different person, I realise. Whereas before he always had a faintly musty air about him, like something that’s been left sitting on the shelf for too long and has been forgotten about. Fiona has come along, dusted him down and breathed fresh life into him, and now he’s happy and in love.

‘Well you both look amazing, congratulations, I’m really happy for you,’ I smile. ‘But I have one question: How did you propose if you were in India?’

‘Skype!’ grins Fiona.

Ah yes, Skype, I’d forgotten all about that, I think, getting a flashback to Fiona in her underwear at the kitchen table.

‘I had the ring couriered to your flat and had Fiona open it on camera,’ he says proudly.

‘Then he popped the question!’

‘And she said yes.’

They both smile happily, and I get another flash of his pearly whites. Now he looks, dare I say it, attractive. Not that I fancy Sir Richard, I think, hurriedly scratching that thought as we walk into the party together.

Grey’s is a prestigious gentlemen’s club, but with Sir Richard’s family being members for three generations, they were more than happy to host his retirement party in one of their private rooms. It’s all very grand: huge crystal chandeliers hang from the moulded ceiling; eighteenth-century oil paintings fill the walls, and at one end there’s a large marble fireplace, whilst at the other French windows lead onto a private terrace.

Across which is strung a large glittery banner that reads, ‘Happy Retirement Sir Richard!’

Well it can’t be too grand, can it?
It’s a party!

I glance across the room, taking in the dozens of helium balloons shaped like giant tequila, rum and whisky bottles that I found on some random website in the States and had shipped over, the DJ I hired who’s set up in the corner (complete with glitter ball and flashing lights) and the waiting staff who are flitting around serving up the delicious ‘Sir Richard’ cocktail that I had concocted especially.

And which everyone seems to be enjoying, I note, watching Kym finishing one off while simultaneously reaching for another, a few girls from Marketing who already look as if they’ve had more than a couple and are jigging around on the edge of the dance floor, even though the DJ hasn’t started yet, and some serious flirting which seems to be going on between one of our account directors and his PA.

‘Tess, I have to say a big thank you,’ says Sir Richard, as Fiona disappears to powder her nose. ‘You’ve done a wonderful job tonight.’

‘Oh, don’t mention it,’ I smile. ‘It’s my pleasure.’

‘I also wanted to thank you for giving us your blessing,’ he continues, before lowering his voice. ‘And to reassure you about any concerns. I realise this might appear to have been quite a recent development . . .’ he clears his throat awkwardly and I know we’re both remembering him on the sofa in his office, ‘but in fact divorce proceedings from Lady Blackstock were started some time ago and, although I’m not quite yet a free man, my intentions towards Fiona are completely honourable—’

‘Oh, yes, I’m sure,’ I interrupt him quickly, before he confides in me any further. He’s been a brilliant boss, and I’m sure he’ll be a great husband, but I’d rather not hear any more about his intentions, honourable or otherwise, towards Fiona. ‘Absolutely. I don’t doubt it.’

‘Marvellous.’ He looks as relieved as I am not to have to talk about it any more. ‘Well then, let’s enjoy the party shall we?’