Turning on the shower attachment, I tug off my Lycra catsuit that seems to have vacuum-sealed itself to my body, climb into the bathtub and set about scrubbing off make-up, cleaning teeth and washing hair, until half an hour later I emerge bare-faced, clean-haired and wrapped in my dressing gown. At least now I feel half alive. Now onto the next stage in the reconstruction of Tess Connelly. Coffee.
Padding barefoot into the kitchen I get my second surprise. Gone is the mountain of washing-up and countertops cluttered with Fiona’s overflowing ashtrays and lipstick-ringed wine glasses. Instead I’m greeted by pristine surfaces, a shining, stainless sink and Fiona in full make-up and her best kimono silk dressing gown, flitting around the showroom kitchen, buttering toast.
And – hang on a minute . . . I glance at the radio on the windowsill. Instead of the usual thumping Capital Radio, is that classical music?
‘Morning,’ she trills.
‘Oh hi,’ I reply, dazedly. I feel as if I’ve stepped into a parallel universe. Normally the morning after the night before, Fiona would be sitting in a zombie-like state at the kitchen table, nursing a hangover, a pot of tea, and a Marlboro light.
But instead, this morning, the half-naked man from the bathroom is sitting at the kitchen table, a display of speciality jams and herbal teas spread out before him.
Of course. So he’s the reason for all this.
‘This is Gareth,’ continues Fiona, passing him the toast.
‘We already met,’ he grins, opening her prized cognac marmalade. ‘Sorry about earlier, the lock on the bathroom door didn’t work.’
‘Yeh, I know, it needs fixing.’ I shoot a look at Fiona but she’s staring dreamily at Gareth. Mentally I add it to my list of things to do around the flat. Fiona might officially be the landlady, but in the whole time I’ve lived with her, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so much as replace a light bulb.
‘Another cup of peppermint and hibiscus tea?’ she coos.
‘Great,’ he replies through a mouthful of toast. ‘Mmm, this marmalade stuff is delicious.’
She smiles proudly. ‘Though you don’t need very much as it’s so sweet,’ she adds, and I can see her looking slightly alarmed as he slathers another huge dollop on a piece of toast.
‘Like its owner,’ winks Gareth, holding out his teacup for a refill.
Fiona blushes like a schoolgirl. ‘Now, now, flattery will get you everywhere,’ she giggles flirtily.
Watching this scene of domestic bliss, I change my mind about the coffee. It’s too much. I’ll have to get my caffeine fix at Starbucks.
I turn to leave the kitchen.
‘Oh Tess,’ Fiona calls after me.
I pause in the doorway.
‘You haven’t seen The Diptyque, have you?’
‘The Diptyque?’ A memory flashes across my brain, like a streaker at a cricket match. ‘Umm . . . no . . .’ I say, as innocently as I can, but I feel a sort of icy dread trickling down the back of my neck.
‘Huh, how weird.’ She frowns, and for a moment I think I’m busted and I’m going to have to come clean and confess that I borrowed it. At least with Gareth as a witness she wouldn’t be able to kill me with the butter knife. But then she flicks her hair and shrugs, ‘Well, it must be somewhere’, and goes back to making herbal tea.
Which is my chance to escape and seek refuge in my bedroom, where the first thing I spot is the stolen item in question, proudly displayed on my mantelpiece. I feel a bolt of relief – followed by horror as I realise all the wax has vanished. There’s nothing left but an empty glass and the remnants of a wick.
Fuck. I must have fallen asleep and let it burn down! I stare at it, feeling a bit sick. Forget the safety issues. Forget the fact I could have burned the flat down. Forget that we could have both been charred to a crisp. That’s about forty quid’s worth of candle! Gone! While I was out cold on the sheepskin rug.
Quickly grabbing hold of the evidence, I stuff the empty glass holder in my sock drawer. There’s nothing else for it, I’m going to have to replace it without her knowing, which isn’t going to be easy – a scene from TheThomas Crown Affair flashes across my brain: the bit where Pierce Brosnan concocts that elaborate ruse in the art gallery to replace the stolen artwork without anyone noticing, and there’re all those men running around in bowler hats like something from a Magritte painting.
I feel a seed of panic. Right now I can barely stand up straight, never mind think about men in bowler hats. I’ll have to figure it out later, I decide, quickly throwing on my jeans and a jumper and stuffing my feet in a pair of old trainers. It’s not a good look, but they’re the first things I can find, and trying to plan an outfit is beyond me this morning. In fact, to be honest it’s beyond me most mornings, I curse, sticking my wet hair under a woolly hat and grabbing my coat.
Outside it’s one of those grey, freezing cold days. Even the trees look cold, with their branches devoid of leaves, stretching skeleton fingers into the white, frozen sky. Shoving my hands into my duvet coat to keep them warm, I start tramping down the street, my breath making white puffy clouds.
Fortunately Starbucks isn’t far and it’s only about ten minutes before I’m pushing open its familiar door and entering the espresso-scented warmth. Inside it’s pretty quiet, just a few mums with their babies in pushchairs, and I walk straight up to the counter. Brilliant. Caffeine at last.
‘I’ll have a tall triple-shot latte.’ I rattle off my order before the barista even has a chance to say ‘hi’.
‘Are you sure you want three shots in a tall size?’ she asks dubiously. ‘The tall size isn’t very big, it will be very strong.’
‘Perfect,’ I smile. It’s like music to my hungover ears.
Dubiously she scribbles my order on a cup. ‘Anything else – any croissants or muffins or toasted sandwiches?’
‘No, I’m fine thanks, just the caffeine . . . I mean coffee,’ I add quickly, digging out my purse and handing over a fiver.
Collecting my change, I go and wait at the end of the counter for my latte. As the barista starts frothing the milk, I let my gaze idly wander around the café: at the bad artwork on the walls; the harassed mum in the corner with a toddler who seems intent on throwing his babyccino all over the floor; a guy near the window tapping away on his laptop . . .
A blast of cold air distracts me and I glance at the door, which is now being pushed open as someone else enters. Hurry up and close it behind you, it’s freezing, I curse inwardly, watching as a blurry figure in a tracksuit emerges from behind the Starbucks logo on the glass and into clear view.
All at once my stomach goes into free-fall.
Oh my god, it can’t be. It just can’t be . . .
I stare in disbelief at the tall, broad figure walking towards me.
But it is.
Seb.
I feel as if I’ve just jumped out of a plane without a parachute and I’m hurtling towards the ground at a hundred miles an hour. My mind is racing. What’s he doing here? I look like crap. He’s probably been for a run along the river. Has he spotted me? God, I still love him. My heart twists up inside. Last night’s anger vanishes into thin air as my drunken bravado is replaced by an urge to go over and throw my arms around him.
Tugging my woolly hat down even further, I stare at my feet and try to steady my breathing, but my thoughts are running around in a mad panic. Why oh why didn’t I put on some make-up? Cover the spot on my chin at least. And lip gloss – what I wouldn’t give for lip gloss . . . Frantically rummaging around in my pocket, I’m overjoyed to find a lip balm. This is how the prospectors must have felt when they discovered gold, I think, rubbing a blob into my lips with the desperation of a dumped woman who’s just seen her ex.
For a split second I think about hiding in the loo. If I can get in there before he sees me – but my pride, however battered, won’t let me. Instead it pins me to the spot, makes me swallow hard, and look up.
OK. Ready. I brace myself.
N
othing.
Absolutely nothing.
He looks right at me. Correction: He looks right through me, as if I’m not even here. His eyes just sweep over me; his face doesn’t even flicker as he walks straight past me to the counter to order his coffee.
For a dazed moment I stand there in complete and utter bewilderment. Er, hang on a minute, what just happened? Can we just rewind that again? Reeling from our encounter, or lack of encounter, I stare at him in disbelief. The adrenalin is still pumping through my veins, ready for fight or flight.
What it’s not ready for is nothing. Zilch. Nada.
That’s it?
I was expecting an uncomfortable encounter, awkward questions, having to pin on a happy smile and feign ‘everything’s just great’ responses.
What I wasn’t expecting was to be totally ignored.
I watch as he casually does some stretching as he waits for his change. I know, maybe he didn’t see me, or – hang on – maybe he just didn’t recognise me in this woolly hat? Yes, that must be it, I tell myself firmly. He doesn’t know it’s me. That’s why he ignored me.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m wearing a woolly hat, not a balaclava.
‘Tall triple-shot latte?’
I snap back to see the barista looking at me, eyebrows raised, and notice my coffee is waiting for me on the stand. God knows how long it’s been there. ‘Oh, right, thanks,’ I mumble and, snatching it up, I get the hell out of there.
I can’t believe it.
I simply cannot believe it.
In a daze I walk down the street, my memory replaying the scene as if I’m watching footage from a CCTV camera: there I am, waiting for my coffee, in he walks, looks right at me, and completely ignores me . . . Rewind, play. Here he is again, walking in, and now he’s looking right at me and . . . I slow it down, frame by frame . . . nope, there’s no mistake, he totally, utterly, unequivocally blanks me.
Hurt stabs painfully: How could he do that? How could he act as if he doesn’t even know me? After everything we meant to each other. Followed by a flash of anger: The bastard! Blanking me like that! Who does he think he is? OK, so we might have broken up, he might have fallen out of love with me, but that doesn’t mean he has to just ignore me!
All fired up, I take a slurp of my long-forgotten coffee. It’s gone cold. Damn! He’s even spoiled my coffee!
Fuelled by indignation, righteousness and lukewarm latte, I stomp the rest of the way home, not taking much notice of my surroundings. All I can think about is Seb. In fact, this time it barely even registers when I bump into Gareth on the stairs as he’s leaving. Fully dressed this time, thank goodness. Though only after he’s asked me where the nearest tube station is and I’ve given him directions do I realise he’s wearing a Henry VIII costume, minus the ginger beard. So that’s who he was.
Walking into the flat, I find things back to normal. The display of jams and teas has vanished, like a magic trick, and Fiona is back to her old self, collapsed on a chair in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette and flicking through last week’s copy of Grazia.
Joining her, I slump onto the chair opposite, my mind still reeling. ‘I just don’t believe it,’ I blurt after a moment, resting my coffee cup on the table.
‘I know, I didn’t think he was my type either,’ replies Fiona, looking up from her magazine. ‘I don’t normally go for small men.’
‘Huh?’ I look across at her in confusion.
‘But seriously, once you got beneath those ermine robes, it’s true what they say.’ She raises her eyebrows and throws me a knowing look.
‘No, I’m not talking about Henry the Eighth,’ I gasp in realisation. ‘I’m talking about what just happened.’
‘Why, what happened?’
‘I just saw Seb and he blanked me!’
I wait for her reaction. Knowing Fiona, she’ll have plenty to say about this. After all, she’s been very vocal about my relationship in the past.
She frowns and there’s a pause as she takes a drag of her cigarette. Then, quite unexpectedly, she says only two words. But they’re enough to turn my whole world upside down.
‘Seb who?’
Chapter 6
The ground shifts beneath me and I grip onto the side of the table to steady myself.
What did she just say?
For a moment I stare at her in bewilderment, not sure what to say or how to react.
Then suddenly I get it.
‘Oh ha ha, very funny,’ I grin, my body relaxing. ‘You had me going there for a minute.’ Feeling a flush of foolishness, I let go of the table. Of course, now I remember, I’m not supposed to talk about Seb any more or even think about him. According to Fiona, this is the only way I’ll forget about him.
Though, to be honest, I’m not sure I actually want to forget about him.
‘I have to pretend like he doesn’t exist, right?’
Fiona looks at me uncertainly. ‘Who doesn’t exist?’ she says slowly.
‘I know, I know,’ I nod, playing along, ‘but can we stop pretending for just a minute?’
‘Pretending?’ She looks at me in confusion, as if she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
I have to say I’m impressed. I didn’t know Fiona was this good an actress.
‘Look, I won’t talk about him after this, I promise,’ I say, pulling up a chair next to her. I’m bursting with my news. Fiona and I share everything about our relationships, apart from the men themselves. ‘But I have to tell you . . . I just saw him, at Starbucks, and he ignored me!’
With a flourish I throw my hands up in the air and wait for her reaction.
But instead of leaning forwards and going ‘no way!’, and launching into a detailed analysis of the situation, Fiona blows smoke down her nostrils and frowns. ‘What are you going on about? I’m not pretending anything!’
I pause. I feel a slight wobble. Wow, she’s really good at this acting malarkey. She’s got that indignant thing down to a tee.
‘Oh Fiona, come on . . .’ I try pleading, but she lets out a gasp of impatience.
‘Come on, what? I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘I’m talking about Seb!’ I gasp. Now it’s my turn to get impatient. It’s time to stop fooling around with this ‘never existed’ stuff. After all, this isn’t some one-night stand I’m talking about. This is Seb! This is the man I was – I still am – in love with. A man I’m heartbroken over. A man whose texts she used to painstakingly analyse for hours in the beginning, and whom she called every rude name you could think of and then some in the end.
‘I mean seriously, how can you pretend not to know a man you called . . . what was it again?’ I pause, trying to remember her exact words, ‘“A bloody stupid idiot with shit for brains”?’
Fiona reaches for her mug of tea and sighs. ‘Sorry Tess, but you’ve lost me.’
I suddenly get a very weird feeling. Fiona might be a decent actress when it comes to feigning a wrist sprain so she gets out of her turn to do the dishes, but this is more than that. She’s so adamant, so calm, so sure, it’s like she really doesn’t know who Seb is.
‘But what about the time we all got drunk on toffee vodka and did karaoke?’ I try jogging her memory but it’s met with a blank stare.
‘Six foot, short blond hair, American accent?’
Another blank stare.
‘Really handsome?’ I can’t help adding.
Nothing.
‘My boyfriend for nearly a year?’ I gasp finally.
Her forehead furrows and she peers at me with a worried expression. ‘Tess, have you been doing drugs?’
‘Me? Drugs? Of course not!’ I protest hotly. ‘Well, unless you count paracetamol . . .’
Reaching over, I grab the family-size bottle that sits permanently in the middle of the kitchen table. Where most people would have a vase of flowers to make them feel better, we have painkillers.
‘Are you sure you didn’t have any of that fruit punch that was goi
ng around last night?’ she continues, raising an eyebrow as I down two more tablets. ‘I heard a rumour from Pippa that it had been laced with some hallucinogenics; apparently her friend Tarquin had just come back from visiting this tribe in the Amazon—’
‘No, I didn’t have any fruit punch!’ I can’t help snapping.
‘So what the hell is wrong with you?’ she says exasperatedly.
‘Wrong with me? You’re the one who can’t remember Seb, my ex-boyfriend.’
‘That’s because you’ve never had a boyfriend called Seb,’ she fires back.
That shuts me up. I open my mouth to say something but no words come out. Instead I just stare at her in astonishment.
For like a second, then I get a stab of annoyance. ‘This isn’t funny you know.’
‘Do you see me laughing?’ Hugging her knees to her chest, she balances her mug on them and frowns. ‘You’re the one with the imaginary boyfriend,’ she adds sulkily.
For a moment there’s a standoff and neither of us speaks. I can’t believe I’m arguing with Fiona over this. What is it with her? Why is she being like this?
‘Look, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I for one am not in the habit of making up boyfriends,’ I reply calmly. ‘I mean, hello? If I never went out with Seb, then why is there a photograph of us together stuck on the fridge then, huh?’ I glance self-righteously across the kitchen.
Only there is no photograph. Just a space where it used to be.
I meet Fiona’s eye. She gives me an ‘I-told-you-so’ look.
‘Oh . . . of course, I took it down when we broke up and threw it away,’ I fluster, remembering. ‘Well, I didn’t want to be constantly reminded, did I?’
‘Whatever,’ she sighs, as if she doesn’t believe me, then looks back down at Grazia.
My annoyance ratchets up a notch. Right, that’s it. I’ve had enough of this ridiculous messing around. I don’t know what she’s playing at, or why, but I’m going to prove it, and then let’s see what she has to say. Stomping into the bedroom, I snatch up my laptop from my bedside cabinet, then march back into the kitchen.
‘What are you doing?’ She looks up curiously as I plonk it down on the table in front of her.