Don't You Forget About Me

  But there’s something about Fergus’s steadying gaze that makes my dream seem suddenly possible. I don’t want to deny it. I want to talk about it.

  ‘Well, I’ve always loved making things and I had this idea . . .’ I’ve always thought I’d find it hard to express myself if I tried to explain my plan, but as I start speaking, the words come tumbling out. ‘You know how women spend a fortune on bags – well actually, you probably don’t, as you’re a guy,’ I correct myself quickly. ‘But anyway, I wanted to make a bag that was pretty and stylish but that didn’t cost a fortune and wasn’t made in some sweatshop in India or China. A bag that’s handmade from vintage flour sacks from France, so it’s also recycled and recyclable . . .’

  ‘So you’re also doing your bit for the environment,’ interjects Fergus.

  ‘Exactly,’ I enthuse. ‘And for this one we’re using my granddad’s silk handkerchief as the lining and some old ribbon and buttons, and I found these old leather braces for handles that are just perfect. So you see it’s also got a history, a past – a bit like all the things you found for your flat . . .’ Energetically I throw my hands out, gesturing around me, before turning to face Fergus. Who’s studying me with a thoughtful look on his face.

  ‘Oh god, sorry, I got completely carried away, didn’t I?’ I say, blushing with embarrassment.

  ‘So you should,’ he protests, ‘If it’s something you’re passionate about, you should get carried away.’

  Passionate about. I turn his words over in my head. I’ve never thought of it like that before, but he’s right. I am passionate about what I’m doing.

  ‘I think it’s really great,’ he continues, his face serious.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, not that I know much about women’s handbags,’ he confesses with a rueful smile, ‘but I love the whole concept, and from what I saw it looked pretty good to me. I mean, I’d use one. If I was a girl that is,’ he adds quickly. ‘You need to make some that are unisex – why restrict yourself to just one half of the market?’

  ‘Hey, that’s a good idea,’ I nod, the cogs in my brain already turning.

  ‘I’m not just a pretty face you know,’ he quips.

  I smile, then hesitate before asking, ‘And you don’t think I’m stupid?’

  ‘Well, now you’re asking . . .’

  ‘I don’t mean in general,’ I say, pulling a face. ‘I mean stupid for thinking I could design bags and somebody might want to buy one . . .’ The hope is audible in my voice and I nervously meet his eyes.

  ‘Well, not any more stupid than me wanting to be an actor . . .’

  I smile appreciatively, and for a moment we exchange a look of mutual understanding.

  ‘I’ve never asked you, but why did you want to become an actor?’ I ask curiously.

  ‘Oh, it’s probably because I’m an attention seeker,’ he laughs self-deprecatingly. ‘Growing up in that great big family of mine, I was always wanting attention, for someone to notice me, and they never did . . . my mum and dad always had their hands full with one nipper or another. And then I discovered drama at school, and being on stage, and the feeling I got . . . it just went from there . . .’ He breaks off, as if thinking back. ‘And of course I thought it would be a great way to meet women,’ he adds wickedly. ‘Leading man and all that. Not that it’s quite worked out that way.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, I think Dr Lawrence could change all that,’ I laugh, then pause, and try to ask as casually as possible: ‘So, have you ever fallen in love with any of your leading ladies?’

  ‘Lots,’ he nods.

  ‘Lots?’ I repeat. For some reason that wasn’t the answer I was expecting.

  ‘Hell yeh,’ he grins. ‘When I first started acting I was always falling in love, but nothing ever lasted for more than a few months; nothing ever turned out to be anything serious. It was mostly just sex . . .’

  ‘Fergus!’ I pretend to chastise, and he laughs.

  ‘I’m kidding,’ he says. ‘Well, a little bit.’ He pauses, then looks more thoughtful. ‘None of them were ever based on anything solid, like a real friendship . . .’

  He breaks off and looks at me, and for a second I feel the atmosphere change, before he suddenly looks over my shoulder.

  ‘Hey look,’ he exclaims, breaking into a huge smile and pointing out of the window. ‘It’s snowing!’

  Twirling around, I look out of the French windows, and sure enough he’s right.

  ‘Oh wow,’ I gasp, watching white snow flurries swirling around in the inky darkness.

  ‘Come on, grab your coat.’ He jumps up and unlocks the French windows, pushing them open to reveal a huge roof terrace, which is bigger than his entire flat. ‘This is why I took the place,’ he says, leading me outside.

  It’s incredible. Stepping outside is like stepping into another world. Now I know how the children must have felt walking through that wardrobe and into Narnia. With amazement I look out across the rooftops, at the snowflakes whirling and dancing around our heads, like tiny pieces of white glitter, lighting up the darkness. It feels magical. Exhilarating. As if we’re cocooned inside one of those snow globes, and someone has picked it up and shaken it.

  There’s a small wooden bench tucked away to one side, amongst the potted plants that have lost their leaves, and we both sit down.

  ‘You know, every snowflake is totally unique, like people,’ he says, sticking out his tongue and catching one. ‘I always thought that was incredible when I was a kid.’

  I smile and turn my face up to the sky, letting them land on my face. Tiny frozen flecks that instantly melt. Up high among the chimneypots, it feels a million miles away from real life. London is so manic. Even after living here for five years, I’m still not fully used to its constant noise and clamour, the crowded pavements, the never-ending buzz of traffic.

  Most days I love it. I love the energy of the people; the way you can walk down a street and find an eclectic mix of Indian sari shops, Moroccan restaurants, Thai cafés and greasy spoons, all jostling up next to one another; how you can wake up in the middle of the night and look out of your window and see the city still lit up from across the rooftops.

  But sometimes I can’t help wishing the city had an ‘off’ switch. A button I could press that would bring everything to a halt, like a merry-go-round ride at the fair, and allow you to get off and draw breath.

  Like now.

  Up here with Fergus I feel as if I’ve found that off switch. Everything is so still, so quiet . . .

  A gust of wind blows and I give an involuntary shiver.

  ‘Are you cold?’ he frowns.

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ I fib, tugging my coat tighter around myself, but my chattering teeth give me away.

  ‘Yeh, right,’ he tuts, ‘come here,’ and, wrapping his arm around my shoulder, he pulls me towards him. He’s so tall, I fit easily underneath his woolly armpit, and for a few moments I remain there, cosy and warm, watching the snowflakes dancing around us. Tucked into the snug warmth of the gap between his ribcage and his arm.

  In the nook.

  The shrill ring of my mobile interrupts my thoughts and I fumble for it in my pocket. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Babe, look, I’m sorry about earlier . . .’

  It’s Seb, apologising about not being able to come tonight, and hearing his voice I feel suddenly guilty. As if I’ve been caught doing something wrong. I jump up from the bench. Which of course is ridiculous; I was just keeping warm.

  ‘It’s OK, Seb, don’t worry,’ I say quickly, walking across the terrace. It’s almost as though he’s intruding. I catch Fergus making a gesture that he’s going back inside, and as I watch he gets up, his figure disappearing through the French windows, and regret stabs.

  ‘Listen, I feel I should call your granddad and apologise—’

  I focus back in on the phone call. ‘No!’ I cry. ‘I mean, that’s not necessary, it was fine,’ I jabber.

  ‘Well if you’re sure . . .’
/>
  ‘Positive,’ I say firmly. In my head I get a marker pen and twice underline that mental note to call Gramps at the first opportunity to explain.

  ‘OK, I’m going to make it up to you,’ he continues. ‘I’m taking you away for the weekend.’

  ‘You are?’ I’m caught by surprise.

  ‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 6 a.m. Bring your passport.’

  Passport? We’re going abroad?

  ‘Where are we going?’ is all I can manage. This is all happening so fast I’m having trouble keeping up.

  ‘That’s for me to know and for you to find out,’ he teases.

  ‘But how will I know what to pack?’

  He laughs. ‘Don’t worry about anything. I’ve got everything sorted,’ he soothes, then there’s a pause and he adds softly, ‘You know I really missed you tonight.’

  ‘I missed you too,’ I reply, but it’s automatic rather than heartfelt because it’s only now, hearing those words, that I realise I haven’t missed him. In fact, until he rang I haven’t thought about him at all. But that’s only because I’ve been so busy with Gramps’s poker night and helping Fergus learn his lines and . . . well, everything else.

  We say bye and he rings off, and for a moment I remain motionless, feeling slightly dazed at this sudden turn of events, before going back inside.

  I find Fergus bent over his script, a deep cleft running down his brow. ‘Everything OK?’ he asks, looking up.

  ‘Um . . . yes,’ I nod, feeling a strange mix of emotions. ‘That was Seb,’ I add, rather redundantly.

  ‘Yeh, I heard,’ he nods.

  The mood has been broken and now suddenly it feels strangely awkward between us.

  ‘He’s taking me away for the weekend,’ I explain, though I’m not sure why.

  ‘Great.’ Fergus smiles. ‘A mini-break, huh?’

  ‘Yeh,’ I smile back.

  The conversation drops and there’s an uncomfortable pause, then, ‘Well, I should go,’ I say brightly.

  ‘You OK to get back?’

  ‘Yeh, it’s not that late, and Granddad gave me money for a cab.’ Though ‘forced it into my pocket’ might be a better description.

  ‘Hang on, I’ll walk you outside,’ he says, grabbing his keys. Leaving the door on the latch, we clatter down the stairs to the main door of the building, which thuds behind us as we step out onto the street.

  It’s still snowing but the ground is so wet it’s refusing to settle, and instead it’s melting into little grey slushy piles. I glance across at the yellow neon sign of the kebab shop across the road, the gangs clustered outside, the traffic as it rumbles by. The rooftop seems like another world, a magical place far away from down here where reality bites.

  A cab pulls up, and we jump back to avoid being sprayed.

  ‘Well, have a great mini-break,’ he cheers, kissing me goodbye on the cheek.

  ‘Thanks,’ I smile, pulling open the door and climbing inside, ‘and good luck tomorrow with the audition. I know you’re going to get it. I’ve got a good feeling.’

  ‘Was that the same good feeling you had when you suggested posting a Missed Connection?’ he jokes half-heartedly. ‘She never did email you know.’

  I feel a knot of guilt. ‘No, this is completely different,’ I say determinedly. ‘Completely.’

  He gives a little resigned smile. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Like I said, I’m used to rejection – it comes with the territory,’ and, closing the door behind me, he throws me a wave as I pull away into the night.

  Later, back at home, I pack a few things for the weekend and get ready for bed. The flat is empty. Fiona’s not back yet. In fact, I’ve barely seen her the past few weeks as I’ve been staying most nights at Seb’s and she’s out every night with Tallulah. Apparently they’ve been on some intensive doggy obedience course, but the times I have stayed at the flat she’s never been back before midnight and, although I admire her dedication, surely even dogs need an early night once in a while?

  Anyway, I sent her a text telling her about my surprise weekend away and making sure she could look after Flea and she immediately replied:

  Wow!!!! Yes!!!! Call me tomz!!!!

  Which, to be honest, made me feel a bit guilty as her reaction was a lot more excited than mine had been. Not that I’m not excited. Of course I am! What girl wouldn’t be? It just came as a bit of a surprise, that’s all . . . Spying another jumper, I shove it into my already bursting holdall. I have no clue what to take, so I’m doing my usual and taking everything.

  Zipping up my bag, I climb into bed with Flea. OK, now I’ll just do a bit of reading before I turn out the light. I reach for the book on my bedside cabinet, open it, then promptly close it again. Try as I might, I just can’t seem to get into it. Obama might be the most fascinating man to millions of people, and I know I should be gripped, but . . . well, I’m just not.

  Shoving it back on the bedside cabinet, I lie back on my pillows and tickle Flea behind his ears. I’m tired but my brain’s still buzzing, and my mind starts throwing up snapshots of this evening, Gramps’s poker night, Fergus rehearsing his lines, Seb’s phone call . . . I really should try to get to sleep. Seb’s picking me up at 6 a.m. Anticipation flutters. I wonder where he’s taking me? Maybe it’s Paris, or New York . . . no, that’s too far for just one night.

  ‘She never did email you know.’

  Fergus. My mind flicks back. To the soft lilt of his Irish accent. To the little resigned smile he gave me as I wished him luck.

  That guilty feeling returns. If only I hadn’t suggested he post that stupid ad. It’s all my fault. He’s so talented but it really knocked his confidence and I’m responsible. He’s never going to get the part by being so negative. All this talk of rejection, it’s as if he’s talking himself into not getting the part before he even goes for the audition.

  Thumping my pillow with my fist to make it more comfortable, I turn over. I wish I could give him a confidence boost, make him a bit more positive, show him that he is great, but how?

  How?

  And then suddenly I hit the seed of an idea, which grows, takes hold, comes together. Of course! Why didn’t I think of it before?

  Leaping out of bed I grab my laptop and flick it open. As the screen lights up I log onto my email account and quickly set up a new address. There’s nothing else for it. Balanced on the edge of my bed I start typing. I caused this mess, so I’m going to fix it.

  I’m going to be his Missed Connection.

  Dear Diary,

  Seb sent me a card with a picture of a snowbunny on the front. Inside he’d written,

  ‘Can’t wait to see you on the slopes and enjoy some après-ski with you. Seb xx’

  Which is so sweet of him. Seb adores snowboarding and wants to take me away to the Alps for a weekend, but to be honest I’ve never learnt how to ski or snowboard and I don’t really want to start now. Freezing cold weather, falling over, bruises, possible broken limbs . . . doesn’t really sound like much fun.

  I rang him up and thanked him tons, but then suggested a spa break instead.

  Funny, but he didn’t seem that enthusiastic . . .

  Chapter 28

  Who doesn’t dream of their boyfriend whisking them away for the weekend? And not just that, but as a surprise. It’s the stuff of romantic fiction, of movies starring Julia Roberts, of wishful thinking. Not real life. And certainly not my life.

  Until now.

  I, Tess Connelly, am being taken away on a mini-break! It’s so exciting! I’m constantly reading about them in Fiona’s glossy magazines: boutique B&Bs, hip hotels, urban boltholes, spa retreats . . . Every time I flick through the pages I find myself daydreaming; heaving long, deep sighs as I stare longingly at photo-spreads of four-poster beds, kidney-shaped swimming-pools, exotic-looking cocktails . . .

  So you can imagine the build-up of anticipation as we drive to the airport, me begging Seb to tell me, Seb laughing and refusing. By the time we reach the short
-stay car park at Heathrow I can barely contain my excitement. Another minute and I’m going to burst.

  Until finally, finally he can’t keep me in suspense any more and lets me in on the surprise.

  ‘So what do you think?’ he asks excitedly, waiting for my reaction.

  There’s a split-second pause as I digest this information, then:

  ‘Snowboarding?’ I repeat. My voice comes out a bit shriller than I intended.

  ‘I knew you’d be stoked,’ he enthuses, his face breaking into a huge white smile. ‘I remembered you telling me how much you’d love to learn on our first date.’

  ‘Yes, me too,’ I smile dazedly. Oh crap, me and my big mouth. Images of being cosied up in some hip hotel in Paris are fast disappearing. ‘But I haven’t packed anything to snowboard in,’ I interject.

  You never know. Maybe there’s still time to swap our snowboarding trip for Paris. To drink cosmos at the Costes. To float around in a fluffy bathrobe having spa treatments.

  ‘Don’t worry, we can get it all there,’ he appeases.

  Or maybe not.

  As he finishes unloading his luggage from the boot onto an airport trolley, he turns and wraps his arms around me, pulling me close. ‘Trust me, it’s going to be awesome,’ he grins.

  Deep in his embrace, I look into his pale blue eyes and have a flashback to the card I burned in the fire on New Year’s Eve, the one with the snowbunny on the front, and his invitation to take me snowboarding inside. And I remember my regret at never having gone, remember wishing I’d done things differently.

  And now I can.

  I grab hold of myself. Tess, what are you doing? This is what you dreamed about all those nights you fell asleep on a tear-stained pillow and woke up with puffy eyes from crying. This is your second chance. This time you can go snowboarding! Tons of people do and they love it, why should you be any different? You’re only reluctant because you’ve never been – I bet it will be fab! You can show him what a quick learner you are, how much you love the slopes, how much fun you’re having. You can show him just how perfect you are for each other.