‘I know!’ Fergus suddenly slams his fist on my desk and I jump. ‘The library!’
‘The library?’ I repeat in astonishment.
‘Yes, you know, they have them in most towns—’
‘I know what a library is,’ I gasp. ‘It’s just . . .’
‘Just what? You think they’re full of musty old books and homeless people?’
‘No, I did not think that!’ I protest.
Well, maybe a little bit, I think guiltily.
‘When did you last go into a library?’ he challenges. ‘These days they’re amazing. It’s not just books, you can get CDs, video games, e-books, DVDs . . . I’m always using my local one, it saves me a fortune,’ he enthuses, his eyes flashing. ‘You should try yours and soon, before the council tries to close it down, what with all these government cuts . . .’
But as Fergus starts on a rant I’ve already Googled my local one and am ringing them. A librarian picks up and for the umpteenth time today I gabble my request down the phone, only this time, ‘They have it!’ I hiss, putting my hand over the mouthpiece. ‘OK, brilliant, thanks, I’ll pick it up later.’ I put down the phone with a wave of relief.
He breaks off from his tirade against the government. ‘Grand,’ he grins, looking pleased. ‘What did I tell you? You see, it’s like I was saying about the government—’
But before he can start up again, I interrupt. ‘Have you had lunch?’ I ask. I suddenly realise I’ve been so distracted I haven’t eaten anything all morning and I’m starving. ‘There’s a great little café across the street that does the most amazing baked potatoes. None of the usual microwaved rubbish; these are baked in the oven so their skins are all crispy and they have all these delicious toppings . . .’
‘Mmm, sounds good, but I should probably get going,’ he says reluctantly as his radio springs to life and starts crackling.
‘My treat, for coming to my rescue,’ I tempt.
He hesitates, then flicks off his radio. ‘OK, sold,’ he grins.
‘Great,’ I smile. ‘Let me just grab my coat.’
Chapter 13
Being lunchtime, the tiny café is crammed with diners, but we manage to find a wobbly table in a nook by the window.
‘So, how was your New Year’s Eve party?’ he asks, folding his long frame into one of the small plastic chairs.
‘Great!’ I fib, sitting down opposite. Until now I hadn’t realised how tall he was and I watch as he has to scrunch himself up like a concertina to fit his knees underneath the table. ‘How was yours?’ I ask politely.
Now we’re out of the office and alone in the café together I’m wondering if this was such a good idea. I suddenly feel a bit awkward. After all, I barely know him. What are we going to talk about?
‘Pretty shite,’ he grins cheerfully.
His answer catches me by surprise.
‘It’s the same every year,’ he shrugs matter-of-factly. ‘Everyone else always seems to have a great time, but I just don’t enjoy it. In fact, I don’t even bother to go out. This year I spent it like I always do, by myself on the sofa, watching bad TV and wishing it would hurry up and be over with.’ He laughs. ‘I know, I probably sound like a weirdo . . .’
‘No . . . not at all,’ I protest, feeling a sudden affection towards him. ‘I’m the same.’
‘You are?’ He frowns and peers at me across the table. ‘Well, then it’s a date. Next New Year’s Eve. My sofa or yours?’
I laugh, feeling myself relaxing.
‘So what’s good here?’ he asks. ‘I’m bloody starving.’
‘Oh . . . all the different fillings are on here,’ I say hurriedly, passing him one of the small plastic menus.
Screwing up his eyes, he squints at the writing. ‘Hang on a mo . . .’ He fumbles around in the top pocket of his jacket and digs out a pair of wire-framed glasses. ‘Ah, that’s better, now I can actually see what I’m going to eat,’ he says, shoving them up his nose.
‘I didn’t know you wore glasses,’ I say, taking in this new bespectacled Fergus.
‘I ran out of contacts,’ he explains, ‘used the last pair for an audition.’
‘An audition?’ I repeat, looking at him in surprise for the second time in five minutes. Fergus, I’m fast realising, is full of surprises.
‘Ready to order?’
We’re interrupted by a frazzled-looking waitress.
‘Oh, um, just the goat’s cheese and sundried tomato,’ I say quickly, choosing my usual.
‘And I’ll have the black bean chilli,’ chimes in Fergus.
She scribbles it on her pad and disappears. I turn back to him. ‘What kind of audition?’
‘It was for some TV show,’ he shrugs, then, seeing my confused expression, explains, ‘I’m an actor.’
‘You mean like Johnny Depp?’ I say stupidly, before I can stop myself. I wince with embarrassment. Honestly Tess, sometimes you should try putting that brain of yours into gear before you open your big mouth.
But if Fergus thinks I’m an idiot, he doesn’t show it. ‘Not quite,’ he says evenly. ‘I don’t think Johnny Depp doubles as a bicycle courier to pay the bills. Captain Jack Sparrow on a pushbike? Maybe I’m wrong but I don’t think so . . .’ There’s a flash of amusement in his eyes.
‘No, I suppose not,’ I nod, smiling despite myself. ‘So have you been in anything?’
‘I did a bit of theatre when I was at drama school,’ he shrugs, ‘and I’ve done a few commercials.’
‘Ooh, which ones?’ I look at him agog across the table. Well, I can’t help it. It all sounds so exciting and glamorous.
Now it’s his turn to look embarrassed. ‘Well, I recently played the dad in a toilet-roll commercial,’ he confesses. Avoiding my gaze, he starts fiddling with the condiments.
‘No way!’
‘Now who’s the one acting?’ He raises a thick black eyebrow.
I look at him nonplussed.
‘Well c’mon, don’t tell me you’re actually impressed?’
‘But I am!’ I protest. ‘You’re on the TV!’
‘Selling bog roll,’ he reminds me with a glum smile. ‘Not exactly an Academy Award-winning performance.’
‘Everyone has to start somewhere. Look at Colin Firth!’ I say encouragingly.
‘Why, how did he start out?’ he asks, perking up.
‘Well . . . um . . . I’m not sure exactly,’ I add hastily, ‘but I’m sure it was something terrible.’
‘Are you saying a bog-roll commercial is terrible?’ he demands, looking offended.
Fuck.
‘No, I didn’t mean—’
‘I’m just fooling with you,’ he winks.
‘You bastard,’ I stab him playfully with my fork. ‘Anyway, I’m sure you were amazing in it,’ I grin.
‘Oscar-winning,’ he laughs, rolling his eyes.
The waitress returns with our food and for a few moments we stop talking as Fergus dives hungrily into his potato. ‘Crikey, you weren’t wrong,’ he groans through a mouthful. ‘This black bean chilli is the dog’s bollocks.’
‘I take it that’s a compliment,’ I reply with amusement, watching him devour his food with alarming speed.
‘So what about you?’ He looks up from his plate and waggles a fork in my direction.
‘What about me?’ I ask.
‘What is it exactly that you do in there?’ He gestures towards my office block across the street.
‘I’m the boss’s PA,’ I explain, eating a forkful of potato.
‘Right,’ he nods slowly. ‘Well, don’t take offence, but it doesn’t seem like your true talent lies in being a PA.’ His eyes meet mine and I blush.
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Well, I’m no expert, but aren’t you supposed to answer the phone if it’s ringing?’
‘I do!’ I protest indignantly.
‘And not to pretend you’re the answering machine?’ he adds, his mouth twitching.
I’m stung with mort
ification. ‘Oh my god, you saw that?’
‘I was in reception, I happened to glance over.’ He pauses to clear his throat, then does his impression of a robot, ‘I’m sorry, but no one is here right now so please call back later—’
I shriek and cover my face with my hands in embarrassment. In my defence, it happened once. I had all these urgent invoices to file and the phone was ringing off the hook, so I picked up and tried to make my voice sound like one of those automated messages.
‘I know I’m rubbish,’ I admit, reappearing shamefaced from behind my hands.
‘I thought you were very good actually – you could have fooled me,’ teases Fergus good-naturedly.
Despite myself, my face breaks into a helpless grin. ‘Well, I’m glad you find me so funny,’ I smile, ‘but I don’t think anyone else does. In fact the only reason I have a job is because of Sir Richard, my boss. He’s so sweet but he’s retiring soon.’
‘And then what?’ Fergus stops laughing and looks at me evenly.
‘Back to temping I suppose,’ I shrug, trying to keep the worry out of my voice. ‘Though to be honest, I’m not much good at that either.’
‘What are you good at?’
His question throws me slightly. No one’s ever asked me that before. All my school reports told me what I wasn’t good at. ‘Um, I dunno, nothing really,’ I mumble, feeling suddenly self-conscious. ‘I don’t have some big mega-talent like you.’
‘Hey, don’t get too excited, you haven’t seen me act yet,’ he quips with a grin.
‘You know what I mean,’ I smile. ‘Some people are naturally really brainy, or talented at sport, or have an ear for music – it’s like they were born good at something, they don’t even have to think about what they’re going to do in life, they just know. But I’m just not one of those people,’ I shrug.
He studies me for a moment, as if weighing me up, then, propping his elbows on the table, leans closer.
‘You’re telling me you don’t have a dream?’ And he looks at me so intently, it’s as if he’s seeing right inside of me. ‘Everyone has a dream, Tess. What’s yours?’
For a split second my mind flashes back to me sitting next to my granddad at the sewing machine a few days ago, the excitement I felt as I watched the needle flying over the material, the thrill I always feel when I see my ideas start taking shape.
Imagine if one day I could—
I stop myself right there, before I even let the thought form in my head.
‘Nope, not me,’ I say quickly, shrugging his question off. ‘Though if you’d have asked me earlier, I’d have said my dream was finding that DVD.’ I give a little laugh, trying to make a joke of it, and turn back to my potato. Though for some reason my appetite seems to have disappeared and I realise I’m not really that hungry any more.
There’s a gap in the conversation, and for a moment Fergus doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t look convinced and for a brief moment I think he’s going to challenge me, and I feel my defences rising. But then he seems to think better of it and, taking my cue, he turns back to his lunch with renewed vigour. ‘Well, in that case, glad I could be of service,’ he says cheerfully, ‘though to be honest, I wouldn’t have thought it was your kind of film. Johnny Depp isn’t in it, you know?’ He looks up from his potato and flashes me a mischievous smile.
I reach over and swipe him with my paper napkin. ‘It’s not my favourite,’ I confess. ‘In fact I think sci-fi films are boring, but it’s my boyfriend’s—’ I break off. Can I call Seb my boyfriend yet? We’ve only had one date. Well, officially.
‘Oh, right,’ nods Fergus, without missing a beat. But I feel the intimacy shift. As if, by mentioning I have a boyfriend, Seb’s pulled up a chair at the table and suddenly it’s not just the two of us any more.
‘What about you?’ I ask, ignoring it and throwing the focus back on him. It’s always like this when you make a friend of the opposite sex. I once read an article about it called ‘Establishing the Platonic Boundaries’. Apparently this is all perfectly normal.
‘You mean have I seen Star Wars?’ He pulls a face and scoops up the last of his potato. ‘Once, ages ago, when I was a kid. To be honest, I never really got what all the fuss was about.’
Resisting the urge to agree, I shake my head. ‘No, I mean do you have a girlfriend?’
‘Oh, right, gotcha.’ He finishes chewing and shakes his head. ‘Nope, ’fraid not.’ He suddenly freezes mid-chew and sits up like a meerkat. ‘Saying that, I think I’ve just fallen in love.’
‘In love?’ I repeat. Hang on, have I just missed a step?
But he doesn’t answer, just stares over my shoulder like a shop dummy.
Twirling around in my seat, I look across the café and see the object of his affections: a girl sitting by herself, engrossed in a book. Looking up, she catches Fergus gazing at her, and for a brief moment they make eye contact, before she smiles blushingly and quickly glances back at her page.
I swear, it’s like I’m invisible.
‘She’s pretty,’ I note, and am surprised to realise I feel a little miffed. It must be those platonic boundaries I was talking about.
‘Pretty? She’s Venus herself,’ he waxes lyrical, a misty glaze in his eyes.
I watch her self-consciously playing with her pale blonde hair. She knows we’re talking about her.
‘So go over, say hello,’ I suggest encouragingly. ‘I think she likes you.’
He looks at me as though I’ve just told him to take off all his clothes and run naked down the high street. ‘No way!’ he hisses, visibly recoiling into his waterproof neon jacket. ‘She’s never going to want to go out with me.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, why not?’ I ask, suddenly not recognising the man sitting before me as the one who’s usually flirting with all the girls in reception. Hang on a minute, where’s the Irish charm gone? The roguish smile? The winks and gift of the gab? It’s all disappeared.
‘How long have you got?’ he replies.
And been replaced by a man who’s now curled up in the plastic chair like a five-year-old on their first day at school, I think, watching him nervously chewing his fingers.
‘Don’t tell me you’re shy?’ I tease, playfully poking him in the ribs.
‘No, of course not,’ he counters hotly.
‘Well then?’ I persist.
Heaving a sigh, he takes a deep breath. ‘OK, well for starters I’m an out-of-work actor whose most recent job was an ad for bog roll and who’s resting as a bike courier to pay the rent on a poky little bedsit at the wrong end of Shepherd’s Bush—’
‘You know you’ve got to stop talking yourself up like that,’ I interrupt.
‘And by the time I’ve paid my rent I’m usually broke and have to survive on beans on toast.’
‘Lot of fibre,’ I say supportively.
He looks unconvinced. ‘And, last but not least, I’m losing my hair.’
For a moment I gaze speechlessly at his head of thick black hair, then burst out laughing.
‘It’s not funny,’ he pouts, ‘I keep finding it in the plughole.’ Leaning across the table he sweeps it off his forehead. ‘Look, it’s receding!’
I stare at his straight black hairline.
‘I’m going to go bald.’
‘When? In thirty years?’ I gasp, finally finding my voice.
‘For an actor, going bald is the kiss of death,’ he counters solemnly.
‘Fergus, stop worrying, you’re not going bald,’ I say reassuringly. Now I know what Seb must have felt like when I used to go on about a nonexistent spot on my chin and wail that I had acne. ‘And anyway, I’m sure there are lots of successful bald actors.’
‘Like who?’ he demands.
‘Um . . . well, I don’t know, but I’m sure I can think of some.’
There’s a scraping of a chair, and we both turn to see the girl getting up from the table and leaving the café. As soon as she’s out of the door, Fergus lets out a loud g
roan.
‘And now she’s gone. Damn. Why didn’t I say something?’
‘I don’t know, why didn’t you?’
I’m still trying to figure out what’s caused the sudden transformation. Fergus is like a changed man. His confidence has evaporated and now he’s like a six-foot-five ornament that doesn’t know where to put himself.
‘Maybe because we were too busy arguing about you not being bald,’ I suggest, trying to joke him back to his earlier good humour.
But he refuses to raise a smile. ‘Maybe I just don’t want another rejection,’ he shrugs. ‘I’ve had enough of that in my so-called acting career.’
Oh, so this is what it’s all about.
‘But you’re not auditioning for a role,’ I try to persuade him.
‘Aren’t I?’ he raises his eyebrows. ‘So when a guy asks you out, you don’t look at him and think: Possible date? Boyfriend material? Could be The One?’
Actually, he’s got a point.
‘But maybe you’d have got the part?’ I smile ruefully. ‘If you don’t try . . .’
‘Yeh, maybe,’ he acquiesces. ‘But she was Beauty to my Beast, a princess to my frog . . .’ He starts waxing all lyrical on me again.
‘From what I remember, the princess kisses the frog,’ I point out.
‘That’s the stuff of fairy tales,’ he counters, ‘not real life.’ Spearing a forkful of my unfinished potato, he falls silent, and together we look out of the window, watching as her figure recedes down the high street and disappears into the crowd.
I stay late at the office to catch up on the backlog of work, then pop into the library on the way home to pick up the movie. Letting myself into the flat, I dump my bag in the hallway and walk into the kitchen, where as usual I find Fiona, barricaded behind her laptop in a swirl of cigarette smoke, with the radio playing loudly.
‘Gosh it’s smoky in here,’ I say, going to open a window.
‘Is it? I hadn’t noticed,’ she says, looking up from the screen. ‘I’ve been trying to write my column all day and it’s just not coming.’ She tuts loudly and takes a drag of her cigarette.