Don’t You Forget About Me Page 4

  But I’m not sane. Or rational. I’m a glass of champagne and two very large tequila shots down already, and now it seems like a bloody marvellous idea. As does finishing off that entire box of Jaffa Cakes, I suddenly remember, tripping happily into the kitchen and returning with the contraband goods. Munching on a biscuit, I light her Diptyque candle with a flourish. There. Perfect.

  Inhaling the expensive scent of fig, I stand back from the fireplace. With the fire flickering away and the candle lit, I feel a warm glow. It all looks so lovely. So cosy. So romantic.

  I wish Seb was here.

  Boom. It hits me again. For a few moments he hadn’t been in my head, but now he comes flying back in again, almost knocking the breath out of me. Feeling my eyes prickle, I try quickly distracting myself by grabbing the remote and switching on the TV. I’m not going to cry, I tell myself firmly. I am not going to cry.

  I force myself to focus on the TV. It’s the usual New Year’s Eve-type stuff: a reporter standing by the Millennium Wheel, freezing cold in her silver dress and trying to look all jolly … flick … an old black-and-white movie … flick … Jools Holland’s New Year’s Eve show … flick … another reporter, only this time she’s on the other side of the Atlantic, ‘even though we have a few hours to go until the ball drops, we’re gearing up for it here in New York …’

  Perching on the end of my bed, I watch as the camera pans around the dazzling lights of Times Square and the crowds of revellers all cheering madly, until it focuses back on a grinning couple.

  ‘… and here we have Tiffany and Brandon who are getting married tonight, live in Times Square!’

  Argh no, we don’t. Hastily I flick channels. Now I’m back to the reporter freezing her arse off at the London Eye.

  ‘So I’m with Andrew Cotter, a lecturer in Cultural Studies, to talk about all the different New Year’s Eve traditions and rituals that are happening across the globe.’

  Cut to Andrew, a short balding guy with glittery space-hopper ears. I’m presuming they’re part of a fancy-dress costume. At least I hope so.

  ‘So tell me, Andrew, how is the rest of the world celebrating?’

  ‘Well, Kerrie,’ he begins jovially, ‘in Denmark you throw broken plates at people’s doors, and in Venezuela everyone wears yellow underwear for good luck—’

  ‘Yellow underwear!’ giggles the reporter. ‘Have you got yours on tonight, Andrew?’

  ‘I have indeed, Kerrie,’ he winks. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Well that would be telling!’ she gasps with mock indignation, and they share a flirty giggle, before seeming to remember she’s live on TV, and she clears her throat briskly.

  ‘And of course here in the UK we have fancy dress! So let’s take a look at some of the best ones here this evening . . .’

  As a parade of people in whacky costumes troop by the cameras, I take a glug of tequila.

  Fancy dress.

  I mean, it’s not much cop, is it? Wearing yellow underwear and throwing plates sounds like way more fun than wearing a black Lycra catsuit and pair of furry ears. Tugging mine off, I chuck them on my dressing table. Sexy kitten indeed. Quite frankly I look more like an old moggy. Speaking of which, where’s Flea?

  Suddenly I hear a loud screech from outside and, glancing out through the window, I see an explosion of coloured lights. Of course. Fireworks. Flea must be hiding somewhere. He hates fireworks – they absolutely terrify him.

  I’m about to go on a hunt when I hear the teeniest of meows coming from under the bed and, unsteadily getting down on all fours (the tequila has gone right to my head), I peer underneath. Out of the dimness, a pair of huge green eyes stare back at me, unblinkingly.

  ‘Hey buddy,’ I cajole, reaching out to stroke him. He doesn’t budge. Paws curled under his chest, sphinx-like, he gives me a stubborn look that says, ‘Hey buddy nothing, I’m staying right here.’

  Which is fair enough. I don’t blame him. Given the choice, hiding under the bed is how I would have chosen to spend my New Year’s Eve.

  Giving him one last tickle, I’m about to get up when something else in the shadows catches my eye: a cardboard box. I pause. I’d almost forgotten about it.

  Almost. But not quite. Like Flea, it’s been in hiding.

  I feel my chest tighten. I know I should leave it there. Ignore it. Get back up and watch TV as if I never saw it.

  But then, doing what’s right for me has never been something I’m very good at. Pulling it out from underneath the bed, I sit cross-legged on my sheepskin rug in front of the fire and place it in front of me. From the outside it’s nothing special. There’s no ta-daa-daah moment. It’s not like Harrison Ford and Raiders of the Lost Ark. I’m not going to lift off the lid and discover the key to human existence. It’s just an old Nine West shoebox.

  And yet …

  And yet inside it holds something just as important to me. Something even more valuable. Because inside is my relationship with Seb.

  Maybe it’s just me being some silly, sentimental idiot, but I used to save things from when we were together. Not big stuff, like expensive jewellery or long flowery love letters – just little, random things. To anyone else the contents of this box would look like a jumble of nondescript items, nothing special, just a bunch of worthless junk. But to me it’s a box full of memories, of special moments shared, of snapshots of our life together.

  Like, for example:

  A pair of cinema ticket stubs

  These were to see the first film I ever watched with Seb. Star Wars. We saw it at the British Film Institute as part of some festival. We had such a lovely time snuggling up in the back row.

  I start going through the contents one by one.

  Driftwood

  From West Wittering beach. It was a freezing cold day in January and on impulse we wrapped ourselves up in scarves and hats and drove down to the coast, and he went paddling in the frozen sea. I stood watching him from the shore while he called me a chicken.

  Concert wristband

  Seb was a huge fan of all these American indie bands that I’d never heard of. To me it sounded a bit like a load of shouting and clashing guitars, but it was fun to go to our first-ever concert together.

  Wine cork

  Still with the red wine stain on it, I angle it to the light and read the name on the top: Stanly Ranch Pinot Noir. It was from the bottle of wine we drank at his flat; it was the evening we first spent the night together; the first night we ever had sex …

  Card with a picture of a snowbunny on the front

  Seb adored snowboarding and wanted to take me away to the Alps for a weekend, but we never ended up going. That was my fault. I’ve never snowboarded in my life and I suggested a spa break instead …

  Opening the card, I decipher his awful handwriting: ‘Can’t wait to see you on the slopes and enjoy some après-ski with you. Seb xx’.

  I feel a lump in my throat and hastily stick it back in the box and pull out:

  Matches

  Turning the small box over in my fingers, I trace the inscription on the front. Mala. Seb adored spicy food and this was his favourite restaurant. He took me there once as a surprise and ordered all these amazing dishes.

  At the memory a tear unexpectedly spills down my cheek. Quickly I wipe it away with my sleeve. I wasn’t going to cry, remember?

  Plectrum

  Seb played the guitar and he had dozens of plectrums scattered around his flat. He once joked I should keep one for when he was famous one day and I could sell it for a fortune on eBay.

  Barack Obama’s autobiography

  This book is so thick it takes up most of the box and, picking it up, I thumb through the well-worn pages with the corners turned down. This is Seb’s copy. He used to rave about it, told me reading it would change my life, yet I never got round to it. Feeling a thump of remorse I put it back, my eyes falling upon something else …

  Scarlet satin ribbon

  From the box of lingerie he bought me from N
ew York for my birthday; inside was a frothy French lace G-string and sexy red satin bra with peepholes and push-up bits. It’s still in my drawer, all wrapped up in tissue paper as I haven’t yet worn it. Well, I couldn’t admit I needed a larger size, could I? Instead I kept hoping my bottom might get smaller (or the knickers might magically get bigger!).

  Photograph

  Taken at a friend’s wedding (before we had that silly argument). Him looking incredibly handsome in a morning suit, me wearing one of those silly fascinators. We make such a lovely couple … made such a lovely couple …

  I stare at the black-and-white image, watching it slowly turn blurry, as the tears that have been threatening to fall begin streaming down my face. And this time I don’t try to wipe them away. This time I bury my head in my hands and cry my bloody heart out.

  I don’t know how long I stay like that before I feel something soft brush against me and I glance up to see Flea, rubbing up against my leg. Wiping my puffy eyes, I scoop him up and hug him to me, feeling his soft warm body against mine. Regret stabs. There are so many things I wish I’d done differently, so many things I wish I’d said and hadn’t said, so many mistakes I made … I heave a deep sigh … but it’s all pointless now. It’s happened and I just wish I could erase all the hurt and regret, make it all go away …

  ‘Have you ever been heartbroken?’ I ask Flea, tickling him under his chin. ‘No, you’re too smart for that. Well, let me tell you, it sucks.’ I glance across at my mobile phone. It’s lying silent on the bed. For a moment I think about calling Seb, sending him a text …

  Which is just ridiculous. Pathetic even. You’ve broken up, remember? He’s not your boyfriend any more. Plus, he’s most likely out there partying right now, having a good time, goads a voice inside me. My hurt is replaced by a hot flash of anger and I take another glug of tequila. Come on Tess, pull yourself together. You can’t let him know you’re crying your eyes out over him. Where’s your pride, girl? Sod Seb Fielding!

  Grabbing a tissue, I blow my nose violently, making Flea jump off my lap. He steps on the remote, his paw turning up the volume.

  ‘Well the New Year is nearly here, we’ve got less than a minute to go!’chirps the presenter cheerily.‘So, Andrew, of all the traditions, which is your favourite?’

  I watch as the camera cuts to Andrew. He’s still wearing his spacehopper ears and grinning maniacally. ‘Well, Kerrie, my favourite is an ancient ritual that involves taking a piece of paper and writing down all the things you want to rid yourself of, be it regrets or painful memories, hurt, or maybe a bad habit or addiction, and throwing the list into the fire at the stroke of midnight.’ He gives a little chuckle. ‘Though obviously in ancient times there were no pens or paper, so instead people would choose objects or pictures that symbolised these things.’

  ‘But why throw them on the fire?’ asks Kerrie, frowning.

  ‘Because many cultures believe that by burning these things you get rid of them. You’re cleansed of them, and that way you don’t carry them with you into next year.’

  ‘Wow, fascinating stuff!’ wide-eyes Kerrie. ‘That’s incredible.’

  I take another defiant glug of tequila. You’ve got to be kidding me. Is she really believing this rubbish?

  ‘Indeed,’ Andrew is nodding feverishly, ‘and what’s more, as the flames burn away these things, sparks will well and truly fly. So make a wish! Because whatever you wish for will be carried on these sparks into the New Year . . .’

  ‘Huh, well, in that case, do you want to know what I wish?’ I heckle drunkenly at Andrew and Kerrie.

  On the TV, Big Ben starts chiming midnight and impulsively I grab the shoebox and, smarting with disappointment and anger, throw the whole damn lot on the fire.

  ‘I wish I’d never met him!’

  Immediately it catches light and, as I watch my relationship with Seb go up in flames, burning away all those painful memories, all that regret, all my heartache, I think I see a single spark released into the air.

  But then it’s gone, disappeared up the chimney, to be taken away on the wind …

  Chapter 5

  Euurrrgghh.

  The next thing I know I’m waking up and my head feels like a lump of concrete. A pounding lump of concrete. Opening a bleary eye, I wince as a shaft of winter light painfully stabs my pupil.

  Where am I? What time is it? Why do I feel like something died in my mouth?

  Gingerly, I squint through my eyelashes, trying to take in my swirling surroundings. Everything seems to be at a weird angle, and there’s some sort of wet, furry thing squashed up against my face.

  Which is when it dawns on me:

  1. It’s my sheepskin rug and I’m lying face down on it, drooling.

  2. I’m still fully clothed – that is, if you can call my sexy kitten costume fully clothed.

  3. Doing tequila shots by yourself on New Year’s Eve is a really bad idea.

  4. I think I’m going to be sick.

  I can hear people talking in the background and, moving my eyes slowly across the room, I realise it’s coming from the TV. I must have crashed out last night with it still on and fallen asleep right here on the rug. I didn’t even make it to bed.

  Unlike some, I realise, spotting Flea curled up on my duvet, snoozing blissfully. As if on cue, he rips open a yawn and stretches out diagonally, resting his paws on my pillow. Obviously someone’s been enjoying having the bed to themselves, I muse, feeling a little slighted that even the cat prefers sleeping alone than with me.

  Which I know is ridiculous but I have a hangover. I’m allowed to feel sorry for myself.

  I try stirring my limbs. They’re like dead weights and it takes a superhuman effort to haul myself up off the rug. Whoa. As I sit upright the whole room starts spinning on its axis and I’m engulfed by a wave of dizziness. Flinging out my arm I clutch onto the bedpost to steady myself. Oh dear. This is not good. This is not good at all.

  Feeling as if I’m going to throw up at any moment, I take a deep breath and stagger to my feet. I need a hot shower, a strong coffee and a bumper-size pack of paracetamol. Groaning, I stumble, eyes closed, out of my bedroom, like an extra from a zombie film, and make my way on autopilot to the bathroom. Pushing open the bathroom door, I grab a towel from the rail and turn to the sink. Only instead of something cold, smooth and made of porcelain, I bump into something warm, squidgy and alive.

  ‘Argghh!’ I shriek.

  Stumbling backwards I snap open my eyes. I get the shock of my life. There’s a half-naked man in my bathroom! Standing right in front of me. On the towelling bathmat. Wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and a bemused grin.

  ‘Happy New Year!’ he chirps jovially, as if greeting me in the street.

  For a moment I just stare, stunned into speechlessness, clutching my bath towel to my chest. I’m like a deer caught in headlights. Unable to say or do anything.

  ‘Um, yeh, hi …’ I finally manage to stammer, trying to avert my eyes from a very hairy torso which appears to be tucked into a very tight pair of white underpants. So tight you can see everything, if you know what I mean.

  Arrggh. Look away Tess, look away.

  I snatch my eyes away in mortification. This is not what I want to see first thing on New Year’s Day. And with a raging hangover.

  Oh my god, he’s got moobs, I suddenly notice.

  And are his nipples pierced?

  ‘I didn’t know anyone else lived here …’

  I zone back to see him looking at me. Staring at him. My cheeks flush with embarrassment. Oh fuck, Tess, what are you doing? You’re supposed to be looking away, not staring at his nipples! Dropping my gaze to my feet, I begin hurriedly backing out of the bathroom.

  ‘Oh right … yes … they do, I mean, I do …’

  Not that there’s anything wrong with pierced nipples, I mean, I’m not a prude or anything, I can do piercings, and tattoos, and … I trip backwards over the bathroom scales and nearly go flying. I let out a stran
gled yelp.

  ‘Hey, you OK?’

  ‘Ouch, yes, fine,’ I gabble, trying to ignore the pain that’s now shooting up from my big toe. ‘Perfectly fine, thanks.’

  ‘Great, well, I’m finished, so the bathroom’s all yours,’ he grins and strides nonchalantly past me and into the hall. With one hand, I notice, stuck down the back of his boxer shorts, giving himself an enthusiastic scratch.

  Shuddering, I lunge for the door and close it firmly behind me, then collapse against it. My heart is pumping. My toe is throbbing. My head is pounding. I mean, what the hell is some strange guy doing in our bathroom?

  Like I have to ask.

  Fiona.

  She must have met him last night at the party and invited him back. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. Not that I’m saying she’s ‘a woman of loose morals’, as my mother would call it, but put it this way, since moving in with Fiona I’ve taken to wearing earplugs when I go to bed.

  And not the foam type, but the mega-strength industrial ones that are supposed to block out about a million decibels. Obviously the earplug testers have never heard Fiona having an orgasm.

  Wedging the laundry basket behind the door so I don’t get any more surprises, I turn to the sink.

  And get an even bigger shock.

  Forget about the strange half-naked man in the bathroom, what about the absolute horror in the mirror? Bird’s-nest hair, bloodshot eyes, last night’s make-up. Which is bad enough when it’s just a few coats of mascara and some lip gloss, but quite something else when it’s crayoned-on whiskers and a black nose which are now smudged all over my face.

  Oh my god, and is that a spider on my cheek? My heart skips a beat. Nope, it’s just one of my fake eyelashes, I realise, peeling it off.

  Resting my hands on the sides of the sink for support, I peer at my reflection and let out a groan. I feel as bad as I look. Or should that be: look as bad as I feel? Whatever. It’s the same thing. I look, and feel, dreadful. Not exactly the brand-spanking-new me I was hoping for, New Year and all that.