Don't You Forget About Me

I feel myself colouring up at her effusiveness and I don’t know what to say – after all, I know she’s only being kind, and I’m glad when the assistant reappears with green tea and a stack of magazines for us to read.

  ‘Oooh fab!’ exclaims Fiona, ignoring the green tea and diving on the magazines with delight. ‘Here, which one do you want? Brad and Angelina, or Peter Andre?’ She holds up two covers.

  ‘No it’s OK, I’ve got a book,’ I say, reaching into my bag and pulling out my Obama biography. I’ve been carrying it around since Seb gave it to me and it weighs a ton.

  Fiona frowns. ‘What? You don’t want to read all about celebrity cellulite?’

  She flashes open the magazine and I catch a glimpse of a bikini special.

  For a moment I’m tempted, but I resist.

  ‘No thanks,’ I say, feeling a little pious and turning over the page.

  She peers at me doubtfully for a moment, then shrugs. ‘OK, suit yourself.’

  We both fall silent and start reading, but after a few minutes I’m distracted by Fiona gasping.

  ‘Oh gosh, you should see this!’ she exclaims, and I look up. ‘Oops sorry, I forgot you’re not interested in celebrity gossip any more,’ she says, putting a finger over her mouth to sshh herself.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, turning back to my book. I can hear Fiona flicking over the pages as I continue reading and then—

  ‘I can’t believe it!’

  ‘What?’ I jerk my head up.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she shrugs, shaking her head.

  Curiosity itches. What is she looking at? Jennifer Aniston in a minidress at a premiere? Topless pictures of Peter Andre? Some drunk celebrity falling out of a club?

  Not that I care, of course, I’m just wondering.

  Firmly bending back the spine of my book I stare down at my page. Now, where was I? Finding my paragraph I continue reading. Only for some reason I seem to be having problems concentrating. The words are swimming in front of my eyes and I’m reading the same sentence over and over . . .

  ‘Mmmm, he’s gorgeous,’ murmurs Fiona.

  OK, that’s it. I’ve cracked. Sorry Obama. You might be the most powerful man in the world but the lure of celebrity gossip is too much. Furtively I crane my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of Fiona’s magazine pages.

  Oooh look, it’s an at-home spread with that handsome actor from Grey’s Anatomy!

  ‘Is that book good?’

  I snatch my head back, almost cricking my neck, to see Fiona staring at me with a raised-eyebrow look.

  ‘Um yes . . . really really good,’ I nod vigorously. ‘Seb says it completely changed his life.’

  ‘You haven’t got very far,’ she frowns, and I look down to realise I’m still on page two.

  Page two?

  As in, I’ve only read two pages?

  I stare at it in astonishment. I already feel as though I’ve been reading this for days. ‘Well . . . um . . . it takes a while to absorb everything, you know,’ I say, hurriedly, ‘so you have to read it slowly and . . . um . . . sort of think deeply about all his views on life and . . . um . . . stuff.’

  ‘What are his views on life?’

  ‘Er, well, I haven’t got to that bit yet.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Fiona looks at me silently for a few moments, as if she’s about to say something, but is distracted by the ping of an email on her BlackBerry. ‘Ooh, look I’ve been sent some soul mates,’ she says, glancing at her screen. ‘I joined a new dating site, Sassy Soul Mates,’ she explains, seeing my blank look.

  ‘You have?’ I say, relieved to be off the subject of my Obama book.

  ‘Yup,’ she nods. ‘Well, after Henry the Eighth didn’t work out I thought I’d widen the net – plenty more fish in the sea and all that,’ she finishes resolutely.

  That’s one of the things I like about Fiona. She gets knocked down but she always gets back up again. I know she was hurt by what happened, but she refuses to show it.

  ‘So who are your soul mates?’ I ask curiously.

  ‘Hang on, it’s loading . . .’ She peers at the screen of her BlackBerry. ‘Oh dear,’ she says, frowning.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘None are my type,’ she says, scrolling down, ‘and one of them needs a serious makeover.’ Peering closely at her screen, she tuts. ‘What on earth is he wearing?’

  ‘Who? Let me see . . .’

  But Fiona’s not listening, she’s already replying.

  ‘I was just sent your profile but I don’t think I’m your sassy soul mate,’ she taps furiously away at her BlackBerry. ‘However . . .’ She frowns again at her screen and shakes her head. ‘. . . I had to get in touch as I don’t think you will have much success with your photograph. I’m sure you’re a very nice man but I think you could benefit greatly from a makeover. Do you have any female friends that could help with fashion and styling advice? If not, as a health and beauty writer, I would be happy to give you some tips. Best wishes . . .’ She presses send with a flourish of satisfaction. ‘There. Done.’ She pops her BlackBerry back in her bag. ‘You know, I think if I wasn’t a health and beauty columnist I could be an agony aunt,’ she says, turning to me and looking very pleased with herself.

  For a brief moment I think about pointing out that most men doing online dating are more likely after a legover than a makeover, but we’re interrupted by one of the assistants.

  ‘Excuse me, but the fish have finished your pedicure.’

  ‘Oh really?’ I glance into the tank and notice that whereas before the fish were clustered around my toes, they’re now lazily hanging around the edges.

  ‘Can you see how they are no longer eating?’ explains the assistant. ‘That’s because they are full.’

  ‘Well I’m glad someone is,’ grumbles Fiona, as her stomach makes a loud rumble. She slaps a hand over it to try and quieten it.

  ‘Why don’t we get a pizza on the way home?’ I suggest, lifting my feet out of the tank. Gosh, it’s amazing, it really does work. I’ve never felt them so soft.

  ‘I can’t, I’m still on the rainbow diet.’ She pulls a face.

  ‘What colour are you on now?’

  ‘Yellow.’

  ‘Well that’s easy, you can have four cheeses, just hold the tomato,’ I suggest cheerfully, drying my feet and putting my socks back on.

  ‘True,’ she nods, wriggling her feet into her obligatory stilettos, ‘but I don’t have time. I have to get back to the flat. Pippa and Grizzle are coming over with a few of the other girls.’

  My heart sinks. ‘Oh, that will be fun,’ I say, trying to sound all jolly, which is hard when you’re speaking through gritted teeth.

  ‘Yes, I said we could do a beauty product party. You’ll be pleased to hear I’m going to give away the big pile on the kitchen table—’

  ‘I’ll call off the emergency services,’ I grin.

  ‘And I’m going to get wine, and lots of nibbles . . . which obviously I can’t eat . . .’ she adds hastily, ‘but I thought it would be a nice girlie evening. What about you? Seeing Seb?’ She gives me a nudge-nudge-wink-wink kind of look.

  I shake my head. ‘No, he’s gone to Geneva for the weekend on business.’

  ‘Are you going to miss him?’ Fiona reaches across and squeezes my arm sympathetically.

  ‘It’s only for a couple of days,’ I smile ruefully. It’s true, I am going to miss Seb but, to tell the truth, it will also be nice to have a little time by myself. This week has been pretty hectic. What with staying up till 3 a.m. watching Star Wars on a loop, bikini-waxing at the crack of dawn, not to mention last night and this morning, I’m actually pretty exhausted. Don’t get me wrong, it’s been amazing, but I need some time to recover. Plus my jaw is aching from all that . . .

  Well, you know.

  I don’t want to get lockjaw, for Christ’s sakes.

  We thank the assistants and Fiona leaves her card, promising she’ll send them a copy of her column with the article.

 
‘To be honest I really fancy a night in,’ I confess, as we push open the door and step into the wintry evening.

  ‘You do?’ asks Fiona delightedly. ‘Brilliant! You can join our girlie night!’ Linking her arm with mine, she beams at me. ‘We’ll have so much fun!’

  ‘Great,’ I smile and, ignoring my plummeting stomach, I fix a grin to my face like a ventriloquist dummy’s. ‘I can’t wait.’

  Chapter 19

  Arriving back at the flat, Fiona whips herself up into a frenzy of house-cleaning. With a screech of ‘Pass me the Marigolds!’, she dashes around the flat in her stilettos, a blur of yellow rubber, until, after twenty minutes, gone are the piles of paperwork, mouldy coffee cups and overflowing ashtrays that have taken over the kitchen table like a bunch of squatters.

  In their place are artfully arranged bowls of nibbles, a vase of fresh flowers and a bottle of wine chilling in an ice bucket. And not just the usual £4.99 Chardonnay from the local off-licence, but an expensive bottle from a rather swanky wine merchant’s in Kensington, where the salesman went on and on about gooseberry undertones and lemongrass aromas, until finally Fiona blurted, ‘Yes, but will it taste expensive?’

  As for the shampoo and moisturiser mountain, it’s now been transformed into a display on the kitchen counters that would give Selfridges’ beauty hall a run for its face creams.

  Suddenly the buzzer goes.

  ‘Oh my god, they’re here!’ gasps Fiona, yanking off the rubber gloves and lurching for her lip gloss. She’s all jittery and nervous like she’s going on a first date. ‘How do I look?’ she gasps, fiddling with her hair and pulling down her dress.

  ‘You look great,’ I reassure her. She’s changed into a new dress which, like everything in Fiona’s wardrobe, is a size too small ‘for me to diet into’ and is breathing in so hard she looks as if she might pop at any moment. ‘Everything looks great, don’t worry.’

  ‘I know, but it’s the first time Pippa’s been to the flat. I’ve invited her over tons of times, but she’s always been too busy before.’

  ‘Hmmm, I bet,’ I murmur. Funny how when there are lots of free beauty products up for grabs, she can manage to find the time in her packed schedule.

  Grabbing the intercom, Fiona hastily buzzes them in. ‘Hi darling, top floor,’ she trills in her posh voice.

  ‘Where’s the lift?’ crackles Pippa through the speaker.

  Fiona looks stricken. ‘Um . . . actually we don’t have one,’ she flusters.

  ‘No lift!’ exclaims Pippa in disbelief. ‘Do you mean I have to carry my Birkin up all these stairs?’

  I’m speechless. She cannot be serious.

  ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry . . .’ Fiona begins apologising profusely. ‘If you want I can come down and carry it for you . . .’

  I have to wrestle the intercom from her. ‘It’s flat number seven. See you in a few minutes!’ I instruct, before hanging up and shoving the handset back on its cradle.

  Fiona stares at me wordlessly, as if not quite sure what just happened.

  ‘Well, don’t you need to finish putting on mascara . . . or something?’ I say innocently, quickly turning away before she can argue, and pretending to polish an already spotlessly clean wine glass.

  A few minutes later there’s the loud clattering of Louboutin heels and Pippa and her entourage appear, red-faced and breathless.

  ‘You made it!’ beams Fiona, greeting them like visiting royalty. I haven’t seen Fiona this thrilled since she lost ten pounds the Christmas before last from a bad case of tonsillitis.

  ‘Only just,’ gasps Pippa, lurching into the hallway as if she’s about to collapse. A troop of skinny blonde girls follow, grumbling loudly and panting like my parents’ Labrador. ‘I’m surprised I didn’t have a heart attack.’

  ‘Really? And there was me thinking you’d run up those stairs,’ I interject with an air of surprise, ‘what with all that working out you do with the personal trainer Fiona’s been telling me all about.’ I smile sweetly.

  ‘Er, right . . . yah,’ Pippa smiles tightly and gives me the evils.

  ‘Would you like any wine?’ offers Fiona, shimmying across the kitchen like something from Abigail’s Party, and starting to open the bottle that’s been chilling.

  She’s completely ignored.

  ‘Where are the products?’ demands one of the blonde girls. I think it’s Grizzle, then again it could be Lolly – to be truthful it’s hard to tell them apart.

  ‘Oh, they’re over there on the—’

  But before Fiona can finish she’s pushed roughly aside as the pack of blondes rush past and dive on her display like shoppers on the first day of the Harrods sale. ‘Ooh, look, wrinkle-smoothing serum . . . I want the Perfecting Fluid . . . give me the Protecting Complex Cream . . . No, I want it, you can have the mineral hair mask . . .’

  As a scuffle breaks out over the beauty products, Fiona looks on with dismay.

  ‘I’ll have a glass,’ I say supportively.

  As she pours me one, her other hand trembles, and I realise she’s nervous and am suddenly reminded of being back at school. Of how Fiona used to be so nervous around Susan Fletcher, the most popular girl in the class. She was actually a bit of a cow, but Fiona used to desperately want to be her friend. It was almost as if she hoped some of her confidence and popularity would rub off on her, as if by gaining her approval and being accepted as part of her gang, she would become one of them. Which, in return, meant she’d no longer have to be herself: a rather shy, frizzy-haired girl with puppy fat and a pushy mother.

  ‘Would anyone like any nibbles?’ Picking up a bowl of wasabi peas, Fiona tries again, but it’s as though she’s invisible. It’s a frenzy over there. I glance across at Pippa, who’s dumped her Birkin bag on a kitchen chair, and now has her arms full of face creams. Glumly Fiona puts the bowl back on the table.

  ‘Mmm, this is delicious wine,’ I say, giving her an encouraging smile.

  ‘Oh . . . good,’ she replies gratefully, but after all the effort she made, I can tell she’s horribly disappointed. This is not how she envisaged her evening going at all. I glare at Pippa & Co., and am just about to say something when I’m suddenly distracted by the Birkin bag.

  Hang on a minute. Did that just move?

  Which, of course, is ridiculous. Bags don’t move.

  I stare at it for a few moments, but it remains still on the chair, of course, and glancing away I take a sip of my wine. Honestly, I’ve only had two mouthfuls of wine and I’m already seeing things.

  It just wriggled!

  I see it out of the corner of my eye. And this time I’m definitely not mistaken. It’s definitely wriggling! And sort of shaking. I stare at it, frozen, then suddenly a tiny pink nose appears and a pair of beady eyes, followed by a thin hairy body. As quick as a flash, it leaps into the bowl of wasabi peas.

  ‘Oh my god, it’s a rat!’ I gasp.

  ‘A rat! Where?’ shrieks Fiona, jumping backwards on her stilettos and piercing Pippa’s toe.

  Who lets out an ear-splitting scream. ‘Argghhh!’

  Which sets off everyone else until the kitchen is filled with the sounds of girls screaming hysterically and moisturisers flying everywhere as they cling onto each other in terror. ‘Oh my god a rat! It’s a rat! It’s—’

  ‘Tallulah!’ wails Pippa, suddenly breaking free and flinging herself across the table. ‘Darling Tallulah!’

  Tallulah?

  Abruptly everyone falls silent as she pounces on the rat and clutches it to her chest, stroking its little head and trilling and cooing in its ear as if it’s a baby.

  She has a rat called Tallulah?

  ‘Don’t worry baby, Mummy’s here,’ she gushes, before looking up and glaring at me. ‘A rat!’ she snorts incredulously. ‘Tallulah happens to be my new puppy.’

  ‘That’s a dog?’ I stare at the tiny, rodent-like creature in amazement.

  ‘It’s not just a dog,’ she says hotly. ‘It’s a miniature Chinese crested breed
. But then, silly me, of course you wouldn’t know anything about pedigrees, would you?’ She looks pointedly across at Flea, who’s sitting on the arm of the sofa, legs splayed. With perfect timing, he starts vigorously cleaning his bottom.

  ‘Well, never mind, panic over,’ interrupts Fiona, who’s down on her hands and knees on the kitchen floor, picking up all the products everyone dropped in their panic. ‘It was all a silly misunderstanding.’ Pulling herself upright, she pats her hair and gives everyone a bright smile. ‘I think we could all do with a lovely glass of wine, don’t you?’

  ‘’Fraid we can’t stay,’ shrugs one of the blondes, lighting up a cigarette.

  ‘It’s no smoking inside,’ I fib, annoyed that she didn’t ask if we minded.

  ‘Nonsense,’ says Fiona, laughing lightly and immediately providing her with an ashtray. ‘Please, everyone make themselves at home. I’ve got mushroom vol-au-vents in the oven.’

  Pippa practically sneers. ‘Vol-au-vents? Do people eat those any more?’

  Fiona looks somewhat confused. ‘Well, I got them from Waitrose—’

  ‘Thanks, but we really can’t stay.’

  ‘You’re leaving already?’ Fiona looks crestfallen.

  ‘I’m afraid so, sweetie. We’re going away for the weekend. Our friends Freddie and Bells have invited us to stay, only there’s just one teeny-tiny problem.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I demand, narrowing my eyes and peering at her suspiciously. I don’t like the sound of this.

  ‘Well, they’ve just had Zebedee, their adorable baby girl, which means I can’t take Tallulah. Babies and puppies and all that.’ She gives a tinkly little laugh.

  ‘No,’ I say firmly before she can ask. I know what’s coming next.

  ‘Tess,’ hisses Fiona, shooting me a look.

  ‘And so I was wondering if you’d look after Tallulah, just for a few days, while I’m gone . . .’ Blanking me, she gives Fiona one of her brightest, shiniest smiles. ‘You’re so wonderful with animals and there’s no one else I could trust with my beloved but you, Fifi . . .’

  It works like a charm. In disbelief I watch Fiona’s disappointment melting away as she swells up with pride. ‘Well, if you’re sure, she is super-cute.’