Don't You Forget About Me

‘Oh, what’s it about?’

  ‘Piranha pedicures,’ she says, breathing out a cloud of smoke.

  I look at her blankly.

  ‘Well, they’re not piranhas exactly, but you put your feet in tanks full of these tiny little flesh-eating fish and they nibble off all the dead skin,’ she explains.

  ‘Ouch, that sounds painful,’ I cringe, flicking on the kettle and starting to make tea.

  ‘It’s all the rage in Japan; apparently they leave your feet feeling really soft.’

  ‘But what if they get really hungry and nibble off a toe or something?’

  Fiona suddenly looks worried. ‘Oh my god, you don’t think that can happen, do you?’

  ‘Well, don’t you remember that James Bond film on Boxing Day?’

  We exchange looks, both remembering that scene from You Only Live Twice where Blofeld feeds a piece of meat to his piranhas and within seconds it’s reduced to a bone.

  ‘So anyway, how was your date last night?’ she asks briskly, changing the topic. ‘I was dying to ask you this morning, but you’d already left by the time my alarm went off.’

  Fiona says this as if it’s a first and not an everyday occurrence.

  ‘Really good,’ I smile happily, grabbing the milk from the fridge.

  ‘So when are you seeing him again?’ she asks excitedly.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I say, feeling a tingle of anticipation. Seb’s already sent me about half a dozen flirty texts about how much he’s looking forward to our second date and I can’t wait.

  ‘Wow Tess, that’s so great,’ she grins, then adds, ‘Does he have any friends?’

  I look at her in surprise. ‘What happened to Henry VIII?’

  ‘He hasn’t called.’ She tries to sound nonchalant, but the hurt in her voice is audible.

  ‘It’s only been a few days, he still might,’ I encourage her, passing her a mug of tea.

  ‘I don’t think so. Pippa says he only ever goes out with really skinny girls. Apparently his last girlfriend was a size zero,’ she says dolefully, taking a sip.

  I didn’t think it was possible to dislike Pippa more than I do already but, seeing Fiona’s expression, I realise that actually, yes, it is possible.

  ‘She was also probably only about four foot tall,’ I say supportively. ‘He was tiny.’

  ‘Not in the bedroom,’ sighs Fiona, putting down her mug and reaching for the bowl of half-eaten food next to her computer. In times of distress, Fiona always turns to food for comfort. Though in this case, I’m not sure how much comfort it’s going to be.

  ‘What are you eating?’ I ask, quickly getting off the topic of the size of Henry VIII’s you-know-what and trying to identify the strange-looking concoction.

  ‘Aubergine mixed with prunes – it’s part of the rainbow diet,’ she says, eating a large mouthful. ‘Today’s blue, remember?’ she explains, visibly wincing. ‘Want to try some? There’s loads left.’

  ‘Um . . . no, thanks, I’m still stuffed from lunch,’ I say quickly, backing away from the scary purple gunge. ‘I think I’m just going to lie on my bed and watch a DVD I rented.’

  ‘Oooh, what did you get?’ asks Fiona, perking up. ‘Is it that new Johnny Depp one you’ve been dying to see?’

  ‘Um, no, not exactly,’ I say, feeling a bit awkward. ‘I thought I’d try something a bit different from usual.’ For some reason I realise I don’t want to admit the truth to Fiona.

  ‘But you love Johnny Depp.’

  ‘Yes, but he doesn’t have to be in every film I watch.’ I see Fiona looking at me dubiously and I try to brush it off. ‘Anyway, want to join me?’

  ‘Yeh, why not,’ she shrugs, standing up. ‘I could do with a good movie, it’s probably just what I need, clear this writer’s block.’ Carrying her bowl of purple food and mug of tea she follows me into the bedroom and plops herself onto the beanbag in the corner as I slide the DVD into the player.

  Pressing play, I join Flea on the bed and settle back as the music starts. Oh, I nearly forgot. I grab a pad and pencil from my bedside table to make notes.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asks Fiona, glancing over.

  ‘Oh, um, nothing, just doodling,’ I say nonchalantly.

  ‘I thought you wanted to watch this movie,’ she frowns.

  ‘Oh, you know me, I like to doodle when I watch movies.’ I pretend to do a squiggle on my notebook.

  ‘You do?’ Fiona peers at me for a moment, as if not quite sure what to make of me, then turns back to the TV.

  I start to relax. I feel a bit guilty. I don’t like pretending to Fiona, but I can’t tell her the truth now, can I? Where on earth would I start?

  Settling back against my pillows, I look at the screen. It’s totally black and a bit of text appears about it being in some faraway galaxy; then the unmistakable theme music starts.

  ‘Wait a moment – this is Star Wars,’ gasps Fiona in astonishment.

  ‘It’s actually called Episode IV: A New Hope,’ I correct, authoritatively.

  She looks aghast. ‘Tess, have you rented this on purpose?’

  ‘It’s supposed to be a classic,’ I protest, as a space battleship shoots across the screen firing missiles.

  She stares at me as if I’ve gone bananas. ‘Hang on, is this the same woman who will only ever watch a movie if it’s got Johnny Depp in it?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with broadening our horizons,’ I say defensively.

  Fiona gapes at me, as if not quite believing what she’s hearing, then gives a little shrug. ‘Fair enough,’ she nods, ‘but in that case I’m going to leave you to broaden your own horizons, I’m going to get an early night,’ and, hoisting herself up from the beanbag, she flashes me a smile. ‘Enjoy!’

  And then she’s gone, leaving me on my own with Flea and this stupid movie. Correction: A classic, I remind myself firmly. And, more importantly, it’s Seb’s favourite film, remember?

  Taking a sip of tea, I enthusiastically concentrate on the screen again. Though after a few minutes I can feel my eyelids going. I’m actually rather tired and I could do with an early night myself. In fact, what would be perfect would be a lovely long bath beforehand with some of that nice scented bubble bath Gramps got me for Christmas . . . and I could put on that seaweed face-mask Fiona gave me . . .

  Shit! What’s happening? There’s been an explosion!

  A loud bang from the TV makes me snap back and I suddenly realise I’ve completely zoned out. Oh crap, I’m going to have to rewind . . . Grabbing the remote, I start whizzing back. Honestly, at this rate I’m never going to get to bed.

  Going right back to the beginning, I press play and start all over. Right yes, lots of spaceships . . . girl with funny earmuff hair . . . strange little robot thing . . . a man in what looks like a Yeti costume . . . gosh, it’s a bit too much like fancy dress, isn’t it? You’d think they’d be a bit more realistic – oh, and there’s lots of shooting . . . and now there’s another battle in space. Again.

  I let out another yawn. It might be a classic but the plot is a bit silly. Still, at least it will be over soon. I pick up the cover and glance at the box. I wonder how long it is. My heart plummets – over two hours? For a moment I’m tempted to fast-forward, when I check the time on my mobile and see Seb’s text about the movies tomorrow night. My heart leaps. And I suddenly remember why I’m doing this.

  Because I love Seb. And because I’ve been given a second chance! This magic happened for a reason. Seb and I are meant for each other, otherwise why would this amazing, miracle twist of fate have happened? Why would it have brought us back together? No, I mustn’t waste this opportunity. So many other people enjoy these movies, it’s not just Seb. There must be something wrong with me.

  And now I’ve got a chance to put it right. How lucky am I?

  With a superhuman effort I stare back at the screen with renewed interest. If Seb loves this film, I can learn to love it too! I watch as two men start fighting with fluorescent lights
like the ones we have on our kitchen ceiling. Oh dear. But this film is terrible. Even worse than I thought! What the hell am I going to say?

  Dear Diary,

  My second date with Seb!! He took me to see Star Wars and we sat on the back row which was really romantic. I didn’t think much of the film though and fell asleep before the end. Afterwards I laughed about how stupid and boring it was, but he didn’t laugh along. In fact he got a bit grumpy. Only then did I find out it was actually his all-time favourite film . . .

  Honestly, me and my big mouth!

  Chapter 14

  ‘It was amazing! That has to be the best film ever made in the history of cinema!’

  It’s the next evening and Seb and I have just been on our second date to see Star Wars at a little art-house theatre in Soho, and we’re making our way out through the red velvet foyer, along with the rest of the audience.

  ‘Wow, you really love that movie, huh?’ He flashes me a delighted grin.

  ‘Absolutely!’ I gush, nodding vigorously to stifle a yawn. If I couldn’t learn to love it, I was still going to appear to. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve watched it.’

  Three.

  Actually, make that three and a bit times if you include the first time I watched it last night, when I fell asleep halfway through, and trust me I can remember them all. Every single galactic battle is ingrained on my memory, like scratches on vinyl. Last night I stayed up till gone 3 a.m., drinking black coffee to keep myself awake. At one point I nearly had to put matchsticks in my eyes to prop them open, but what kept me awake was knowing I’d been given this once-in-a-lifetime chance. Then today I skipped lunch and spent it at my desk doing research about it on the internet.

  To be honest, I’m exhausted. I’m also flabbergasted. I had no idea how many websites, conventions – not to mention all the merchandise, even theme parks – there are dedicated to this film. I knew it was popular but people are obsessed! A Google search brought up over three million fan sites, all full of devoted followers. There was even an entire forum devoted to discussing how Chewbacca (believe it or not, the Yeti has a name) goes to the loo!

  ‘Did you know that the word Jedi is derived from the Japanese words “Jidai Geki?”, which translates as “period adventure drama”?’

  Thanks to Annie in Texas, for making that point.

  ‘Wow, you really are a true fan, aren’t you?’ he says in admiration.

  My conscience pricks and for a split second I feel slightly guilty. Is it wrong to pretend like this? Should I instead be coming clean and telling the truth? But then it’s no different to when Seb used to fib and say he loved the dress I was wearing, just to get me out of the door when we were running late. Or when I reassure Fiona that no, of course her bum doesn’t look big in her new jeggings. Or when Dad pretends to Mum that he’s a huge fan of her terrible cooking and asks for seconds. It’s not hurting anyone.

  On the contrary, it’s doing the opposite, I muse, looking at Seb and seeing his face all lit up. He looks so happy. I mean, seriously, how can that be wrong?

  ‘Sorry, I tend to get a bit carried away,’ I say, and give a little embarrassed laugh. ‘Stop me if I’m boring you.’

  ‘Boring me?’ he exclaims, gesticulating excitedly with the programme. ‘Are you kidding me? I could talk about Luke Skywalker and Jedi knights for hours. You’re the first girl I’ve ever met who loves the movies as much as I do and it’s awesome . . .’ He breaks off as we exit through the main doors, and as we empty onto the street he turns to me, his face softening. ‘You’re awesome,’ he adds quietly.

  Despite the subzero temperature outside I feel a warm flush of happiness. Who cares if I had to stay up late and skip lunch? Feeling his fingers brushing against mine, he gently, but firmly, interlaces them. It was all worth it to have him look at me the way he just did. It’s like that saying, ‘No pain no gain.’

  Plus, it’s not as though I’m ever going to have to sit through that movie again, I remind myself, as we set off walking hand in hand to escape the crowds.

  After a few minutes we turn down a side street and our pace slows.

  ‘So . . .’ he says, glancing sideways to look at me. All wrapped up in a slate-grey overcoat and a beanie pulled down low over his hair, he looks more adorable than ever. We pass underneath a streetlamp and I see his white teeth against his tan. I swear, Seb’s the only person I’ve ever met who can still manage to look sexy in a British winter. The rest of us have gone all pale and chapped lipped, with noses that turn bright red as soon the temperature drops below freezing.

  ‘So . . .’ I reply, trying to be all enigmatic and not think about my own nose, which looks like one of those ones that people wear for Comic Relief.

  ‘What happens now?’ He raises an eyebrow and gives me a little smile.

  Well, last time we said goodbye and I caught the tube home and kicked myself all the way back for opening my big mouth and saying all the wrong things.

  ‘We could get a drink, maybe?’ I suggest. ‘There are lots of nice bars around here.’

  His smile widens. ‘I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we go back to mine? My apartment’s only five minutes away and I’ve got an awesome bottle of red I haven’t opened yet . . .’ He breaks off, his eyes searching out mine in the darkness. ‘What do you say?’

  I say there’s nothing in the whole world I’d rather do right now than go to back to your flat and share a bottle of wine, I think, my stomach fluttering.

  But of course I have to at least try to play it cool. Officially this is only our second date.

  ‘Hmm . . .’ I pretend to think for a moment, as if I’m actually mulling over his invitation.

  ‘You’re safe with me, I promise,’ he says, crossing his heart with his free hand.

  ‘Damn,’ I curse jokingly.

  He laughs. ‘So do you want to join me? Or do I have to drink all that bottle by myself??’

  Like he really has to ask.

  ‘Well now you put it like that,’ I say at last, all thoughts of cool flying out of the window, ‘that sounds lovely.’

  I’ve been to Seb’s apartment so many times I could do the route with my eyes closed, and I have to keep stopping myself from automatically turning a corner, or crossing a street. At one point I almost blurt out, ‘No, it’s quicker this way,’ and lead him down a little alley I always used as a shortcut.

  Before I was forever telling him it was quicker this way, and he was forever telling me it wasn’t. Once we got into such a disagreement about it that we each went our separate ways and Seb insisted on timing us both to see who was quickest – he could be really competitive like that – and he said his way was six-tenths of a second faster. (He has one of those super-chunky top-of-the-range sports watches, so I couldn’t disagree.) Saying that, I could have sworn he was a little flushed, as if he’d been running, but he was adamant he’d walked the whole way and it was just the wine we’d been drinking.

  But then this was nothing unusual. Seb and I always used to squabble about directions. It didn’t matter where we went, we’d always end up disagreeing and it would often deteriorate into a full-scale row, with him grabbing the map from me and declaring I’d taken us ‘the wrong way!’ Which I don’t think is very fair. I mean, I’m not one of those people who have an inbuilt compass, but I can navigate my way around H&M even in the sale, and believe me, that’s saying something.

  In the end I bought him a Sat Nav for his birthday. Brilliant. Problem sorted! But that didn’t work either, as he just disagreed with that as well. And it was Stephen Fry giving the directions. I mean, who disagrees with Stephen Fry, for goodness’ sake?

  Now, however, I let him lead the way and we arrive at his address without any squabbles. Not so much as a cross word (though I do still think my way is quicker) and, after he punches in his security code, we step inside the carpeted foyer. Seb lives in one of those prestigious portered blocks, with shiny brass nameplates and a lift with a sliding grille to
whisk you up to his flat on the second floor. It’s a whole world away from Arminta Mansions with its Tipp-Ex-ed buzzers and lung-busting flights of stairs.

  ‘So here we are,’ says Seb, as we walk out of the lift and down the corridor to his flat. Sliding his key in the door, he pushes it open. ‘Welcome to my humble abode.’

  That’s just Seb being modest. Trust me, there’s nothing humble about his apartment. It’s twice the size of mine and Fiona’s, and is all open-plan with these big lovely windows and polished parquet floors. It reminds me of a New York apartment – not that I’ve ever been in a New York apartment, but you know what I mean. The colour scheme is all muted greys and white with cool abstract paintings on the walls, and he’s got this huge grey sofa that could seat about twenty people and a glass coffee table with three legs by some designer whose name he told me once but I can’t remember.

  ‘This place is amazing,’ I say, looking around and feeling wowed all over again.

  ‘Thanks,’ he smiles, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t take all the credit.’

  ‘You can’t?’ I stop gawping at a pair of fancy modern lamps, and turn to him.

  He shakes his head. ‘No, when I moved in I had an interior designer come in to decorate. She chose all the furniture, even the artwork,’ he explains. ‘I was too busy at work.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ He had never told me he didn’t decorate it himself. I turn back to look at the apartment, but instead of feeling impressed, now I can’t help feeling disappointed. ‘What a shame,’ I console. ‘I’ve always imagined the best bit about getting your own place would be buying those little tester pots and painting patches of walls all kinds of weird and wonderful colours until you work out what looks amazing.’ I turn back and catch his expression, only instead of nodding in agreement he’s looking at me as if he doesn’t understand what I’m saying.

  ‘Seriously?’ He frowns in surprise. ‘Wow, not me. I’d rather have a professional choose my colour scheme for me.’

  ‘But that’s half the fun,’ I protest.

  ‘Maybe for you, but I’m pretty colour blind,’ he laughs. ‘I’d probably end up with purple walls.’