Don't You Forget About Me

  ‘Wow, yes, of course, that’s great, but . . .’ I pause. I have to tread softly here. Fiona can get very defensive when it comes to her love life. I still remember the time she had a crush on Gary Bishop in year six and bit my head off when I pointed out he was playing kiss chase with Lorna McClellan. Plus, I don’t want to put a dampener on things. It’s just . . . oh sod it, I can’t sit here and not mention what I’m thinking.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit, well, soon?’ I venture.

  ‘You can’t put a timescale on love,’ she replies sagely, suddenly falling serious. ‘When you know, you just know.’

  I can see her mind’s made up, and to be honest, maybe she’s right. If the last few weeks have taught me anything, it’s that the things I thought I knew, I didn’t really know at all.

  ‘Well you have to wait a little bit,’ I protest, smiling. ‘I haven’t even met him yet!’

  ‘Well that’s the thing . . .’ She pauses, as if searching for the right words. ‘You have.’

  ‘I have?’ I look at her, taken aback. I thought we’d got over the surprises.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, love.’ The cabbie’s voice comes over the speaker. ‘But we’re here.’

  We’ve been so engrossed in our conversation, neither of us has realised we’ve pulled up outside the party venue, a private members’ club in Mayfair.

  ‘Oh, right, thanks,’ I say hurriedly and, signing the chit for the fare, I push open the door and step outside into the cold night air. My mind is racing, trying to think where I could have met Fiona’s fiancé. ‘Are you sure?’ I ask, as she joins me on the pavement.

  ‘Well yes,’ she says, seeming uncharacteristically nervous. ‘I didn’t realise at first, but it turns out you know him and I’ve been wondering how to tell you . . . I didn’t want it to be awkward—’

  ‘But I don’t know anyone called Ricky . . .’

  I don’t finish as the large black door of the club swings open and we’re greeted by Sir Richard. His face lights up when he sees it’s me. ‘Darling, I’ve missed you!’ he cries, throwing open his arms.

  I do a double take. What the hell? I know we have a good working relationship, but still . . .

  ‘You too!’ exclaims Fiona.

  Only he’s not smiling at me, he’s beaming at my best friend, and as he gathers her up I can only stand on the doorstep, my mouth hanging open in astonished disbelief.

  Then, abruptly, it registers.

  Ricky is Sir Richard?

  After I’ve got over the initial shock of discovering my boss is engaged to my best friend, Fiona and Richard (I can drop the ‘Sir’ but I’m sorry, I draw the line at calling him Ricky) are keen to share their story, and it all comes out about their dates, and how they met.

  ‘So it wasn’t internet porn at all! He was online dating!’ laughs Fiona, as we walk together through the lobby. Fiona and Sir Richard with their arms entwined. Me trotting alongside, like a bewildered Labrador.

  I go bright red. Now it’s all slotting into place, the webcam, the subscription email . . .

  Sir Richard bursts out laughing. ‘Ha, yes, Fiona told me you thought I had an addiction!’

  Oh my god, this is sooo embarrassing. Plus, if I remember rightly, it was Fiona who was convinced he had a porn addiction. I shoot Fiona an I’m-going-to-kill-you look but she just collapses into giggles.

  ‘So you haven’t been going to dog obedience classes?’ I say quickly, trying to steer the conversation away from my boss and online porn. Never a good combination, trust me.

  ‘Sorry, that was a bit of a fib,’ she blushes, ‘though we have talked about it. Ricky’s got a red setter called Monty, you know.’

  ‘Yes I do,’ I nod. ‘He cocked his leg up on my Swiss cheese plant when he came into the office last week.’ Despite tons of Baby Bio, it’s still not recovered.

  ‘Oh I don’t think he’ll dare misbehave around you darling,’ he laughs, giving Fiona a squeeze around the waist.

  ‘Are you saying I’m bossy?’

  ‘Forceful,’ he corrects.

  ‘Well, someone had to get rid of that suit,’ she grins.

  ‘It was bespoke—’

  ‘It was horrible!’

  I watch them both laughing and chatting away, tripping over each other to finish the other one’s sentences. Sir Richard is almost unrecognisable from the man he was a few months ago. Gone is his wispy comb-over. Instead there’s a short, fashionable haircut with, dare I say it, a little product in the front? Not only that but he’s flashing a pearly white smile that could only be the product of some expensive bleaching at a Delhi dentist. Together with his trendy designer glasses and expensively cut suit, the metamorphosis I’ve been noticing over the last few weeks is complete.

  ‘I’ve given him a makeover,’ says Fiona proudly, catching my amazed expression as I take him in.

  It’s incredible. He looks like a completely different person to the Sir Richard I used to know. Probably because he is a completely different person, I realise. Whereas before he always had a faintly musty air about him, like something that’s been left sitting on the shelf for too long and has been forgotten about. Fiona has come along, dusted him down and breathed fresh life into him, and now he’s happy and in love.

  ‘Well you both look amazing, congratulations, I’m really happy for you,’ I smile. ‘But I have one question: How did you propose if you were in India?’

  ‘Skype!’ grins Fiona.

  Ah yes, Skype, I’d forgotten all about that, I think, getting a flashback to Fiona in her underwear at the kitchen table.

  ‘I had the ring couriered to your flat and had Fiona open it on camera,’ he says proudly.

  ‘Then he popped the question!’

  ‘And she said yes.’

  They both smile happily, and I get another flash of his pearly whites. Now he looks, dare I say it, attractive. Not that I fancy Sir Richard, I think, hurriedly scratching that thought as we walk into the party together.

  Grey’s is a prestigious gentlemen’s club, but with Sir Richard’s family being members for three generations, they were more than happy to host his retirement party in one of their private rooms. It’s all very grand: huge crystal chandeliers hang from the moulded ceiling; eighteenth-century oil paintings fill the walls, and at one end there’s a large marble fireplace, whilst at the other French windows lead onto a private terrace.

  Across which is strung a large glittery banner that reads, ‘Happy Retirement Sir Richard!’

  Well it can’t be too grand, can it? It’s a party!

  I glance across the room, taking in the dozens of helium balloons shaped like giant tequila, rum and whisky bottles that I found on some random website in the States and had shipped over, the DJ I hired who’s set up in the corner (complete with glitter ball and flashing lights) and the waiting staff who are flitting around serving up the delicious ‘Sir Richard’ cocktail that I had concocted especially.

  And which everyone seems to be enjoying, I note, watching Kym finishing one off while simultaneously reaching for another, a few girls from Marketing who already look as if they’ve had more than a couple and are jigging around on the edge of the dance floor, even though the DJ hasn’t started yet, and some serious flirting which seems to be going on between one of our account directors and his PA.

  ‘Tess, I have to say a big thank you,’ says Sir Richard, as Fiona disappears to powder her nose. ‘You’ve done a wonderful job tonight.’

  ‘Oh, don’t mention it,’ I smile. ‘It’s my pleasure.’

  ‘I also wanted to thank you for giving us your blessing,’ he continues, before lowering his voice. ‘And to reassure you about any concerns. I realise this might appear to have been quite a recent development . . .’ he clears his throat awkwardly and I know we’re both remembering him on the sofa in his office, ‘but in fact divorce proceedings from Lady Blackstock were started some time ago and, although I’m not quite yet a free man, my intentions towards Fiona are completely honourable—??
?

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m sure,’ I interrupt him quickly, before he confides in me any further. He’s been a brilliant boss, and I’m sure he’ll be a great husband, but I’d rather not hear any more about his intentions, honourable or otherwise, towards Fiona. ‘Absolutely. I don’t doubt it.’

  ‘Marvellous.’ He looks as relieved as I am not to have to talk about it any more. ‘Well then, let’s enjoy the party shall we?’

  Grabbing a drink, I start chatting to people. Everyone seems to be having a good time. Except of course for Wendy the Witch who, unlike everyone else, has forgone the party dress and is wearing her usual head-to-toe black and is standing in the corner, glowering at everyone. She’s still smarting from the fact she hasn’t been called to a second interview for Sir Richard’s job. ‘As if I should have to do an interview in the first place! I’m the obvious successor,’ she complained loudly afterwards, to anyone and everyone who would listen.

  She catches my eye but I pretend not to see her and spend the next half an hour avoiding her and mingling, before it’s time for Sir Richard’s speech.

  ‘Ahem . . . ladies and gentlemen . . .’ Clearing his throat, he takes to the little makeshift stage with all the theatrics of a seasoned performer at the Old Vic, and starts bowing and waving to the crowd, who immediately burst into a big round of applause.

  ‘First of all, I’d like to thank everyone for coming to my little retirement shindig,’ he begins when they’ve finally stopped clapping. ‘I’m not going to bore you with a long speech as I think you’ve had quite enough of me these past thirty years . . .’ Cue lots of whooping and cheering. ‘But I want to make two announcements.’

  Immediately people quieten down. Despite the party atmosphere, everyone loves Sir Richard and his retirement has caused more than a few concerns amongst the staff. For months now, everyone has been wondering who will replace him as CEO and how it will affect the company, and more importantly their jobs.

  ‘Now, do you want the good news, or the good news?’

  It’s a terrible joke, but everyone laughs.

  ‘The first is that my recent trip to India went better than I dared hope and was extremely fruitful. As you know, I have always had a global vision for this company, a desire to see it grow even stronger and further improve as the market leader. Because of this, I believe it’s extremely important to expand into the developing markets, and therefore I am thrilled to announce that Blackstock and White has secured ongoing relations with Patak Patel Ltd, one of the key players in the drinks market in India. It has also been decided, reflecting this exciting new development, that my successor will be Mr Sanjeev Patel, a remarkable man who I’m sure you will all love, and who I’m sure will take the company to a whole new level . . .’

  There’s a huge round of applause and a lot of chattering breaks out as people take in the news. There are a few surprised looks and some raised eyebrows, but mostly there’s a mixture of relief, excitement, and a lot of huge grins from the Accounts department. The only person who doesn’t look pleased is Wendy, whose jaw sets hard as she claps with teeth clenched.

  ‘And now for the second piece of good news,’ continues Sir Richard, after the buzz from his first announcement has died down slightly. For a moment he looks nervous as he glances across at Fiona and holds out his hand, but she rewards him with a delighted smile. ‘I’d like to take this opportunity to introduce my wonderful fiancée—’

  As Fiona joins him on stage, the whole place erupts. For a moment I think the carefully moulded ceiling might actually blow off, as people whoop with astonished delight and congratulations. Most people have heard rumours of his divorce, and assumed Fiona was his new girlfriend, but a new fiancée? And one who’s half his age? The men look on in disbelief at the hot young blonde with her arm around their boss, whilst the women who’ve already been commenting on his makeover at work over the past few weeks suddenly look at Sir Richard in a whole new light.

  ‘So that’s why he wasn’t interested in going on a cruise like my nan and granddad!’ Kym looks across at me indignantly. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me he was going out with your flatmate! C’mon, spill all the gossip!’

  ‘Well that’s the thing, I didn’t know—’ I begin to try and explain, but I’m interrupted by Wendy who appears by my elbow.

  ‘Your friend marrying the boss won’t make any difference, you know,’ she scowls. ‘He’s still leaving next week.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I reply, trying to ignore her, but knowing it’s impossible.

  ‘Your job. Don’t think you’ll be getting any special favours, if that’s what you’re after.’

  ‘I’m not thinking that,’ I reply stonily. ‘And anyway, I’ve already got some freelance work lined up.’

  ‘Well I hope they’re not our competitors – there could be a clash of interests. You could get in serious trouble if it’s discovered you’re passing on trade secrets,’ she threatens.

  Somehow I don’t think babysitting for the neighbour’s eighteen-month-old is going to clash.

  ‘So who are you freelancing for?’ she asks, narrowing her eyes.

  Oh god, this is all I need. For over a year I’ve had to put up with Wendy’s nasty jibes and constant criticism, but I draw the line at interrogation.

  ‘Actually, if you’ll just excuse me, I need the loo.’ And before she can start shining a light in my face and pulling out my fingernails, I make a break for it.

  Chapter 40

  Dashing to the safety of the Ladies, I find a long queue. And Fiona.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I smile, relieved to see her.

  ‘I just needed to escape for a few minutes; it got a bit overwhelming being the centre of attention,’ she grins. ‘And I’ve drunk so many of those cocktails I’m dying for a pee.’ She crosses her legs. ‘Gosh, I wish they’d hurry up.’

  I glance at the two cubicles. On one is a sign that says ‘Out of Order’, and behind the other I can hear several girls talking.

  ‘Bali was totally fabulous . . . I’m going to get Daddy to buy a villa out there, I want to show my jewellery . . .’

  Fiona crinkles her brow. ‘Hang on, isn’t that . . . ?’ Abruptly the door is flung open, and a gaggle of blondes spill out of the cubicle, sniffing conspicuously and wiping their nostrils.

  ‘Pippa!’ she gasps in astonishment.

  A tanned blonde, dressed in the kind of designer ethnic chic that costs an absolute fortune, twirls around, and there’s a split-second pause, almost as if she’s trying to place her, then she breaks into a smile. ‘Fifi, darling!’ She makes a big show of planting two loud mwoah-mwoah kisses on each of her cheeks.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asks Fiona, looking puzzled.

  Clutching at the strings of love beads around her neck, Pippa flashes her a fake smile. ‘I’m here with some friends and Daddy, having dinner. He’s a member,’ she adds pointedly, and I catch her looking me up and down and wondering how on earth I got in.

  ‘I thought you were in Bali,’ says Fiona, still uncomprehending.

  ‘I just got back, I was going to call you first thing.’ She suddenly spots Tallulah, who’s tucked inside Fiona’s bag. ‘My baby!’ she whoops. ‘Mummy’s missed you! Poor darling, have you been missing Mummy too?’

  I see Fiona stiffen and hug her closer. ‘She’s been fine,’ she says tightly.

  ‘Wait a moment, where’s her Swarovski crystal collar?’ demands Pippa.

  ‘It was too tight, it was damaging her trachea. Puppies need a thinner, nylon collar, which will allow enough space so you can fit two fingers underneath . . .’

  As Fiona is speaking, Pippa is looking at her with astonishment, not because she knows so much about dogs, but because she’s daring to answer back.

  ‘Says who?’ she snorts.

  ‘Well, I’ve been doing a lot of research on the internet . . .’ Aware of Pippa’s obvious displeasure, Fiona’s confidence is fast disappearing and she st
arts looking all nervous and stammering, ‘. . . and I bought this book—’

  ‘Well you won’t be needing any of that,’ says Pippa sharply, and Fiona jumps. ‘I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time and money as I’ll be taking Tallulah back home with me now.’ Turning back to her blonde friends, she rolls her eyes and says under her breath, ‘Honestly, you leave your pets with some people and they just can’t be trusted.’

  But it’s said loud enough for me to hear and I feel my hackles rise. Nobody could have looked after Tallulah better than Fiona. I admit, at first I was worried, especially after Gerbilgate, but she adores Talullah and Tallulah adores her.

  I see panic flash across Fiona’s face. ‘But you can’t,’ she cries.

  Pippa rounds on her. ‘What? Are you telling me I can’t take my own dog home?’

  Fiona looks shocked by her own outburst. ‘No, it’s not, it’s just . . . well . . . all her toys and things are at my flat . . .’

  But Pippa is ignoring her. ‘Lickle baby-waby missed her mummy didn’t she . . . ? ’ she coos, puckering up and bending down to kiss Tallulah, ‘. . . she doesn’t need that nasty-wasty nylon collar, does she . . . ?’

  Tallulah, however, who all this time has been sitting quietly and well-behaved in Fiona’s handbag, has other ideas. Seeing Pippa’s lip-glossed pout, she suddenly bares her teeth and tries to bite her.

  At which point, all hell breaks loose.

  ‘Arggghhh!’ Pippa jumps back, shrieking. ‘She bit me! That fucking dog bit me!’ She clutches at her face. ‘I’m bleeding, I know it, I’m bleeding. Oh my god I’m going to be scarred for life! I’m never going to be able to go to another party again!’ Shaking and wailing, she dashes to the mirror while her friends rush to comfort her, worried looks flying between them.

  Though I’m sure they’re more worried about the threat of no parties than their friend’s potential disfigurement. Having seen them in action at our flat, something tells me they’re only in it for the invites and freebies.

  ‘Call an ambulance! I need a doctor! Get Daddy, he’ll call Mummy’s plastic surgeon!’