Don't You Forget About Me

  ‘OK, super! Can’t wait to see you too. I just need to help my flatmate with her costume.’ She shoots me that look, and I shield myself with the packet of Jaffa Cakes. ‘OK, ciao, ciao.’ There’s lots of kissing into her BlackBerry, then she hangs up and turns to me.

  ‘Oy, stop stuffing your face!’ Seamlessly reverting from Made in Chelsea back to The Only Way Is Essex, she snatches the packet out of my hand. ‘We need to turn you into a sexy kitten.’

  ‘But I don’t want to be a sexy kitten,’ I yelp, clutching onto my tea before she swipes that as well.

  ‘It’s New Year’s Eve,’ she says firmly. ‘You don’t have a choice.’

  For a moment there’s a standoff in the kitchen, and I briefly think about holding my ground.

  But Fiona can be very scary, especially in that nurse’s costume.

  ‘OK, OK.’ Holding my hands up in surrender, I get up from the table. ‘I give in.’

  ‘I knew you would,’ she nods with satisfaction. ‘Now hurry up, I’ve got a cab coming.’ Pushing me towards my bedroom, she disappears into hers and emerges with a black leotard and a pair of furry ears. ‘A party is the perfect cure for heartbreak. You’ll have so much fun tonight you’ll be able to put this whole thing with Seb behind you.’ And, passing me my costume, she gives me a quick hug. ‘Trust me, you’ll wake up tomorrow and it will be like it never happened.’

  Chapter 3

  I have a theory about New Year’s Eve.

  All over the world it’s hailed as the biggest and best night of the year. A night to celebrate, to have fun, to party like you’re Prince and it’s 1999. And with it comes all this expectation and anticipation. All this build-up. All this pressure to have an amazing time.

  To be honest, it’s a bit like losing your virginity.

  But what happens if you don’t have an amazing time? What if it’s actually all a bit of a letdown, and while everyone else appears to be having a blast, you can’t help thinking ‘is this it?’ and worrying there’s something wrong with you.

  (Now I think about it, it really is like losing your virginity.)

  Except I have a sneaking suspicion that secretly everyone is thinking the same thing. It doesn’t matter whether you’re doing the hokey cokey in Trafalgar Square, getting drunk at a club in New York or raving on a beach in Goa. All over the world, millions of people are faking it. It’s like one great big conspiracy.

  Then again, maybe my theory is completely wrong and everyone else really is having a fab time, I decide, glancing over at a very drunk Marie Antoinette, who looks to be thoroughly enjoying snogging the face off Elvis. Maybe it’s just me and I really am the odd one out.

  It’s an hour later and I’m in one of those huge white stucco houses in Chelsea. Inside it’s like something out of a glossy magazine shoot: there’s a picture-perfect Christmas tree in the marble hallway, a roaring fire, and a large terrace that stretches out from the grand drawing room, decorated with thousands of twinkling fairy lights.

  The party is in full swing. On arrival Fiona was swooped upon by Dan, a former online date from KindredSpiritsRUs who’d stalked her in cyberspace and was now holding her hostage in the corner of the kitchen. And, after a few failed attempts at small talk, here I am, standing on my own in the living room, not knowing a soul, and trying to look all cool and relaxed.

  I mean, there’s only so long you can pretend to be texting, isn’t there?

  Spotting a passing tray of champagne, I lasso a glass and drain half of it in one go.

  ‘Thirsty, hey?’ grins the waiter with a thick Aussie accent.

  ‘Sort of,’ I smile, grateful for a friendly face. I think about trying to engage him in conversation, but before I can muster up anything to say, he’s already weaving his way through the rest of the party.

  Glugging back the rest of the champagne, I scan the room for someone to strike up a conversation with. Now I’m here I’m really trying to get into the party spirit and have a good time, but despite my best efforts I’m not doing very well so far. I don’t think this outfit is helping. Fiona’s argument that everyone would be wearing a costume and I’d ‘blend in’ is proving to be no comfort from the fact I’m wearing what is effectively a giant 60-denier body stocking and a pair of furry ears.

  Plus I’m trying not even to think about the whiskers she drew on my face with eyeliner. Or the fact that she insisted I wear a tail she’d made out of tinsel.

  I’m just wondering where I can get another glass of champagne before I die from embarrassment that everyone can see my bottom, when Fiona emerges from the kitchen. ‘Oh god, sorry about that,’ she gasps apologetically. ‘I couldn’t get away; he kept insisting we were soul mates.’

  ‘But I thought you only went on one date and it was terrible.’

  ‘Worse than terrible!’ She pulls a face. ‘He told me he doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, and is still a virgin!’

  ‘So you were a perfect match,’ I say with amusement.

  ‘Well that’s just it,’ she says, looking pained. ‘He kept going on about how our profiles were a ninety-nine-per-cent match and he didn’t understand why I didn’t want to go out with him as the computer says we’re meant to be together—’

  We’re interrupted by a loud shriek of laughter and both turn to see a gaggle of girls outside on the terrace. All wearing suspenders, fishnets and push-up bras, they’re quaffing champagne and clustered around a skinny, horsey-looking blonde in a red devil’s costume.

  ‘Oh look, it’s Pippa and the rest of the girls,’ says Fiona with surprise. ‘She mustn’t know I’m here.’

  I glance across and feel a snag of doubt. I’ve never actually met Pippa, but she looks like one of those people for whom everything is irrelevant apart from themselves, and that includes Fiona’s presence at this party.

  ‘Still, it is very busy, she probably just didn’t see me,’ continues Fiona brightly, though somewhat unconvincingly. ‘Come on, let me introduce you – you’re gonna love her!’ And before I can protest, Fiona has looped her arm through mine and is enthusiastically steering me outside.

  ‘Hi guys,’ she waves, tottering up to the group, which breaks apart at our appearance and eyes me suspiciously. But Fiona doesn’t seem to notice. ‘Tess, this is Lolly, Rara and Grizzle,’ she beams, flinging out her arms like a presenter on one of those shopping channels when they’re presenting some hideously fake-looking item and trying to convince you how wonderful it is.

  Funny that.

  There’s a murmur of hellos and lots of flicking of hair.

  ‘And this is Pippa!’ she gushes, with the verbal equivalent of a drum roll.

  Pippa leans in to kiss me on both cheeks, whilst her eyes run over me like radar scanners. ‘Tess, I’ve heard soooo much about you,’ she coos, giving me a smile that’s as fake as her friendliness. ‘How wonderful to finally meet you.’

  ‘You too,’ I smile. ‘I’ve heard so much about you too.’ (I swear if Fiona tells me the Prince Harry story one more time . . . )

  ‘Do you know Pippa’s a jewellery designer?’ continues Fiona. ‘Isn’t that amazing?’

  ‘Um . . . yes,’ I nod. ‘Amazing.’

  ‘Look, she made this ring!’ Fiona points to Pippa’s finger and something that looks as if it fell out of a cracker.

  ‘It’s an emerald,’ says Pippa nonchalantly. ‘Five carats. Flawless.’

  I look again in astonishment. That great big green piece of glass is real?

  ‘I get all my stones from Raji,’ she continues blithely. ‘It was originally in an antique necklace but I reset it.’

  ‘Raji? Oh, is that the jeweller’s on the high street, near Putney Station?’

  ‘Rajasthan, in India,’ she says, looking at me as if I’m stupid.

  I feel my cheeks colour.

  ‘Though I’m thinking of taking a break from designing as it’s so exhausting.’ Heaving a sigh, she takes a sip of champagne.

  ‘I can only imagine,’ I nod, trying to imagine how
tiring it must be making emerald rings all day – and failing. ‘All that flying, and backwards and forwards to India. I get knackered just walking across Hammersmith Bridge to the office.’

  Hearing the sarcasm in my voice, Fiona glances at me nervously, but Pippa is immune.

  ‘I know, right! Absolutely!’ she wide-eyes. ‘And air travel is so dehydrating for the skin. My facialist is forever telling me’ – she adopts a stern voice – ‘“Pippa, think about your pores!”’

  There’s a muttering of sympathy and someone gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

  ‘That’s why I’m thinking of setting up an animal sanctuary and working with rescue animals.’

  ‘Pips, you’re so incredible with animals,’ pipes up Grizzle. Or is it Lolly? I can’t tell them apart: they’re all blonde, skinny and wearing push-up bras.

  ‘We’ve got a rescue cat!’ enthuses Fiona, trying to join in. ‘She’s called Flea.’

  ‘Really? How cute,’ sniffs Pippa. ‘But I was thinking of something a bit less domestic.’ She gives a little derisory smile.

  I watch Fiona’s face fall. God, Pippa is such a horrible, condescending snob. I don’t understand why Fiona wants to be her friend. For some reason she’s impressed by her.

  ‘Mummy breeds llamas, and horses are in my blood, so flea-ridden old moggies aren’t exactly me.’ She gives a little titter and the rest of the gang join in like a load of braying donkeys.

  I feel a sudden flash of protectiveness. For both Flea and Fiona.

  ‘Oh I don’t know, I’m sure you can be very catty if you feel like it,’ I reply with an innocent smile.

  Abruptly the laughter stops and there are a few nervous giggles. I catch sight of Fiona’s horrified expression as Pippa turns and stares at me, as if seeing me for the first time. Narrowing her eyes, she asks sharply, ‘What exactly is it that you do again?’

  ‘Nothing nearly as fascinating as you—’ I begin breezily, but I’m interrupted by Fiona who almost tackles me to the ground.

  ‘Oh, look, Tess, you’ve got an empty glass,’ she exclaims in a shrill voice. ‘Let’s go get some more drinks.’ And, grabbing me by the elbow, she hurries me inside.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, as soon as we’re inside. ‘I know Pippa’s your friend, but I had to stick up for Flea.’ And you, I add silently.

  ‘Oh, she doesn’t mean anything by it, that’s just her way. She’s just a bit shy, that’s all,’ says Fiona defensively.

  ‘Shy?’ I repeat in disbelief. ‘If Pippa’s shy, then so is Lady Gaga.’

  Diving on a waiter with a tray of champagne, Fiona pretends not to hear me. ‘Two glasses, please.’

  ‘Actually, not for me, I think I might go home,’ I interrupt.

  With a glass already in each hand, Fiona twirls around to face me, spilling the champagne over the sides. ‘Go home?’ she exclaims. ‘You can’t go home: it’s not even midnight yet! You’ll miss the countdown.’

  ‘That’s the idea,’ I smile ruefully.

  She looks so crestfallen that I feel a stab of guilt. It’s not her fault I’m not enjoying the party. Try as I might, broken hearts and New Year’s Eve just don’t go together.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I shrug apologetically, ‘but I don’t think I can face that moment when we get to ‘one’ and I’ve got to find someone to kiss.’

  ‘You can kiss me,’ she offers solemnly, ‘as long as it’s not on the lips.’

  ‘Thanks, Fiona, that’s really kind of you,’ I say with mock gratitude. ‘I love you, but not that much.’

  ‘It’s OK, I can take the rejection,’ she shrugs, burying her nose in her glass of champagne. She takes a few gulps, then elbows me in the ribs. ‘Oh c’mon, Tess, stay and have another drink,’ she cajoles, waving a glass of champagne under my nose. ‘Let’s just get smashed and have a laugh.’

  In the past, getting drunk with Fiona has always made me feel better – until the hangover the next day, of course – but tonight my heart’s just not in it. Not even with the offer of free champagne.

  ‘Another time,’ I say, shaking my head.

  ‘But it’s New Year’s Eve, you’ll never get a taxi,’ she argues. ‘So you’ll have to stay.’

  At that precise moment, I see the headlights of a cab pull up outside, and a couple of late partygoers spill out onto the pavement. Perfect timing: it’s my getaway car.

  ‘Now listen, you’re under strict orders to enjoy the rest of the party and get horribly drunk,’ I instruct, giving her a big hug before she can protest any further. ‘And, by the way, I think Henry the Eighth has got the hots for you.’ I gesture across the room to a guy who’s wearing breeches, a fake-fur cape and has a big ginger beard stuck on his face.

  ‘That’s what they said to Anne Boleyn, and look what happened to her,’ she pouts sulkily, finishing off her glass and starting on mine.

  She glances across at him.

  He winks.

  ‘Then again, maybe he’s worth losing my head over,’ she says and, as I watch her sucking in her stomach, I leave her to flirt and dash outside to the waiting cab.

  Chapter 4

  ‘Hey fleabag, I’m home.’

  One good thing about New Year’s Eve, everyone’s so busy partying that there’s zero traffic on the roads, so it’s not long before I’m letting myself into the flat, shutting the door behind me, and kicking off my high heels.

  God, it feels good to be home. Padding into the kitchen in my stockinged feet, I flick on the kettle. Even if the kitchen is a mess, it’s Fiona’s turn to do the washing-up. We’re out of milk, too, I realise, tugging open the fridge and surveying the empty bottle left on the shelf.

  I say empty, but there’s a tiny dribble, courtesy of Fiona, who always makes sure to leave a bit so she can’t be blamed for finishing it off. ‘But there’s some left,’ she’ll bleat when accused, referring to the couple of drops in the bottom.

  Chucking the bottle in the recycling, I nose around in the cupboards for something that doesn’t require milk. There’s a bunch of Fiona’s herbal teas, but they’re not actually for drinking, they’re just for appearances. She gets them out whenever she’s got ‘guests’, and makes a little virtuous display with them, along with her Diptyque candle and speciality jams, which she got from a Fortnum & Mason’s gift hamper about four Christmases ago. And which I once mistakenly nearly opened when we ran out of our usual Tesco’s strawberry.

  I’ll never forget it. She literally leapt across the kitchen in her silk kimono dressing gown, like something from Crouching Tiger, and with a howl snatched the cognac and elderflower marmalade from my hands before I could get the knife under the seal. I’m not kidding, it was actually pretty scary.

  Oh hang on, what’s that? Behind the nettle and burdock root infusion, I spot a bottle of something that looks like—

  My emergency bottle of tequila.

  I eye it triumphantly. I’d forgotten all about that. Sir Richard gave it to me last year for my birthday and I’d stashed it away in the cupboard. Not that I don’t drink tequila, but usually when I’m at home and I fancy a drink, I’ll share a bottle of wine with Fiona, not start doing slammers on the kitchen counter.

  I eye the bottle.

  I said usually when I’m at home. But tonight’s different. There’s nothing usual about it. It’s New Year’s Eve. I’m heartbroken. Home alone. And I’m wearing a sexy kitten costume.

  Sod the herbal tea. It’s going to take something a lot stronger than that tonight.

  OK, to do this properly I need salt and a lime. That much I do know. I glance at our pathetic excuse for a fruit bowl. With Fiona being a health and beauty writer, you’d think it would be overflowing with exotic fruits. Instead we’ve got two blackened bananas and a Granny Smith that’s so shrivelled it should be on display in the British Museum. And I can’t find the salt. Or a clean glass.

  Oh well, never mind, I muse, grabbing my Keep Calm and Carry On mug from the mug tree, and pouring myself a shot. Actually, it’s pr
obably more like about four shots, I realise, looking at the amount of tequila in the bottom of the mug before slugging it back. I slam my mug down on the kitchen counter and wince. The tequila is like liquid fire, burning a path to my stomach. Whoah. Talk about strong. This stuff really blows your head off. A few more shots like that and I’ll be so completely blotto I won’t know what day it is.

  Perfect.

  Pouring another large mugful, I head into my bedroom. This used to be the living room, but because Fiona’s flat is really only a one-bedroom, she converted it into another bedroom when I moved in. Which works fine as the kitchen is one of those big eat-in kitchens, and I’ve got my own little portable TV that I like to watch lying on my bed, plus I’ve got the original Victorian fireplace in my room, and it works.

  In fact, I think I’ll light it now, I decide. A real fire always cheers me up. Throwing on some firewood, I busy myself with twisting up bits of newspaper, a trick my granddad taught me as a little girl, and in no time at all I’ve got a decent fire going. On a roll, I turn my attention to my candles, only my favourite scented one is finished.

  Damn. Chucking it in the bin a thought strikes me, but immediately I dismiss it. No, I can’t. Fiona will kill me.

  She’ll never find out, whispers a drunken, rebellious voice in my head. You can put it back before she comes home. You’re only borrowing it.

  Now normally in my sane, rational mind I would never entertain such an idea. Borrowing ‘The Diptyque’, as Fiona reverently calls it, is a bit like borrowing the Crown Jewels. In other words, you just don’t. It’s meant to be displayed on the little corner table in the hallway, along with the white orchid in a pot, and Fiona’s Smythson address book which she got as a gift from a PR.