Don't You Forget About Me Part 39

Chapter 37.

If someone had told me, when Seb was breaking up with me, that a few months later I'd be breaking up with him, I would never have believed them. I would have said it was impossible, inconceivable, ridiculous. I would have accused them of being crazy.

I would have- Well, you get the picture.

After Seb leaves I make myself a cup of tea with two sugars. Actually, make that three. Well that's what you're supposed to do when you've had a bit of a shock, isn't it? Except, in this case, I've shocked myself. I had no idea I was going to break up with Seb. When I woke up this morning I had no intention of ending our relations.h.i.+p. I didn't scribble a reminder on a Post-it note and stick it to my computer (though after yesterday I'm going to totally rethink that method).

In fact, if breaking up with someone was a crime, I'd plead 'not guilty, your honour', as it wasn't premeditated. It's just the moment I stopped focusing on Seb and what he wanted, and focused on myself and what I wanted, I realised it wasn't Seb. I want someone who loves me for who I really am and he doesn't.

And in that moment, everything changed. Like pulling a thread, our whole relations.h.i.+p began to unravel, like the st.i.tching on a hem, and fell apart.

Then suddenly there we were, breaking up. Again.

Only this time it's different. I'm different. Sitting on the sofa, nursing my cup of tea, I re-read my diary, only it's almost as if it's been written by somebody else. I'm not that heartbroken girl who blamed herself for everything any more.

'He told me he couldn't see a future with me.'

I read the words again and this time I can't miss the irony. By some weird, inexplicable twist of fate I might have erased our past, but Seb was the one who couldn't see our future.

And now, this time, for the first time, neither can I.

After the major upheavals of the past couple of days, the rest of the week pa.s.ses in relative calm. Which is not a bad thing. To be honest, I don't think I could take any more shocks to the system. I feel like when I was six years old and used to play that game where they blindfold you and spin you around, then whip off the blindfold and you stagger about, trying not to fall over.

But it's fine, I just need to get my bearings again, I tell myself firmly. I just need to sit still and regain my balance; in fact what I need is a bit of boringness.

To tell the truth, I think boring is very underrated. Sometimes in life you need a bit of boring, a bit of trundling along without anything jumping out and blindsiding you and turning your world upside down. Everyone tells you change is good, but right now I could do with a little bit of dull, thanks very much.

So, keeping with the theme of dull and boring, I decide to spend the weekend tidying up my room and having a total clear-out. Since New Year's Eve I've let things slide: there's tons of was.h.i.+ng that needs doing, a pile of ironing; my wardrobe is bulging with clothes that I don't even wear . . .

I open the door and glance in it with dismay. Is it just me, or does no one wear at least seventy-five per cent of their clothes?

It's 8 a.m. on Sat.u.r.day morning and I'm already up, caffeinated, and rifling through the hangers, spying things I haven't worn for ages, if ever. That's it, I'm never going to buy anything ever again, I tell myself sternly, grabbing handfuls of clothes and shoving them in a bag for the charity shop. Look! There's still something that has its price tag on! Wincing, I avert my eyes quickly. OK, so what else needs to go? I cast my eye around the room and it falls on the Obama book sitting on my bedside cabinet, still unread. Correction: never to be read.

Well, maybe it can change someone else's life, I decide, adding it to the pile of clothes with a sense of relief and satisfaction. Oh look, and there's the lingerie Seb just bought me. I look inside the bag and unwrap the tissue paper it's a diamante G-string. I hold it between thumb and forefinger, like a catapult. It almost makes my eyes water imagining where the diamante bit goes thank G.o.d I'm never going to have to wear it.

The bag is full now so, grabbing an old cardboard box, I drop it inside, along with the Obama book which is threatening to break the already stretched-to-bursting bin liner, and I start looking around for more things to give away. Like, for example, here's that piece of driftwood I got from when we went to the beach; maybe someone would like that. I stick it in the box, then suddenly pause . . .

Hang on a minute . . .

Still holding the box, I rummage around the room for a few moments, collecting different bits and pieces. On my dressing table I spot the cork from the bottle of red wine lying next to the plastic wristband from the concert; next to the fire is the box of matches from Mala; one of Seb's plectrums has found its way into my holdall, along with the stub for my s...o...b..arding lessons . . . and what's this in my jeans pocket?

I pull out the ticket stubs from when we went to see Star Wars, and chuck them in the box. What else is missing? Oh right, yes, the photo from the wedding. Going to the wardrobe I feel inside my jacket and pull out some old confetti, and with it a Polaroid of Seb and me. I drop it in the box. That's it. That's everything.

I stare at the contents. How funny. It's just like before. Like the first time we dated. Except it's not because this time when I look through all the mementos, I don't feel sad, or regretful, or sentimental. Instead I just remember how bored I was watching Star Wars, not to mention that entire boxed set afterwards; having to stuff my earplugs in so hard at that concert that they were still jammed in on the way home and not having a clue what Seb was going on about; the Polaroid from the wedding where we look so d.a.m.n miserable is because we were so d.a.m.n miserable.

I have a flashback to throwing back the bouquet and the look on the bride's face . . .

And suddenly, out of nowhere, a giggle escapes, then another, and another, until tears of laughter are streaming down my face as my mind flicks through all the different memories attached to each item.

You had to be there. And I was. Twice.

Only when I've finally dried my eyes do I rescue the book and the G-string. Those can go to charity. And the rest? I unceremoniously throw the whole box in the bin. Like I said, it's just junk after all.

Three large bin bags, two cardboard boxes and several hours later, I'm finally done and I drag it all to the charity shop. I do it in a sort of relay system until, by the time I've dropped off the final bag, I'm exhausted.

On the other hand, the woman who manages the shop is elated.

'Thank you sooo much, this is all sooo wonderful,' she coos, swooping down upon my piles of clothes and immediately starting to sort them into colours. 'Ooh, and I love this cardigan.'

I glance across to see her holding up a lovely little mohair three-quarter-sleeve number with pearl b.u.t.tons and feel a pang of regret. I always do that when I give things away. As soon as an item of clothing is in the charity bag, something weird happens. I suddenly love it again and can't live without it.

It's a shame there isn't the equivalent of a charity bag for people. It would save so many relations.h.i.+ps that are in trouble: just pop your partner in a charity bag and, hey presto, you've fallen in love with them all over again.

'Um, can you wait till I'm gone . . . before you go through it all,' I plead, somewhat awkwardly.

She stops holding up the cardigan and clutches it to her chest. 'Of course, I totally understand,' she confides, then lowering her voice says solemnly, 'One can get very attached, can't one?'

'Yes, one can,' I nod, trying not to smile.

The doorbell goes, interrupting us, and a pet.i.te, grey-haired woman enters. She can't be more than five feet tall but she's pulling a shopping trolley almost as big as herself. 'Oh, please, let me,' cries the manager, das.h.i.+ng over and holding the door for her. 'I'll take that . . .'

'Non, non,' replies the woman in a strong French accent, 'I am perfectly fine.' She looks across at me and winks. 'Very old, but perfectly fine. Like a vintage claret.'

She lets out a little peal of laughter, showing off two rows of tiny, perfectly straight teeth which I notice are all her own. For someone her age that's pretty amazing, but then she's not your typical old lady. Dressed all in black, with las.h.i.+ngs of red lipstick and her hair swept elegantly into a chignon, she's the epitome of chic.

'I've brought some things.' She opens her shopping trolley. Unlike me she has no second thoughts, and starts piling everything onto the counter. Which is when I spot a flour sack.

'They're yours!' So this is the mystery French lady I've heard all about.

'Oui,' she nods, 'and I have many more.' She digs in her shopping trolley and brings out a whole stack of them.

'Wow!' I gasp with delight. 'Where did these all come from?'

'From when I was a little girl, we lived on a farm . . .' She trails off, smiling at the memory. 'I keep too many things, but now I'm moving out of my house as it got too big, my children grew up and left, my husband died . . .'

'Oh, I'm so sorry.'

'Non,' she shakes her head. 'He was not well; it's better this way. It's like a dance, life. Such fun, but sometimes you get tired and forget the steps . . .' She trails off again with a shrug. 'Then it's time to take a rest.'

As she talks about dancing I remember the red dress and glance across to see it hanging on the rack. She follows my eyes.

'You should try it,' she nods.

'Oh, I'm way too big for it,' I protest.

'Nonsense.' She shakes her tiny, birdlike head, and with surprising agility crosses the shop floor and unhooks it from its hanger. 'Take off your coat.'

I'm not used to having strange little old French ladies boss me around, but wordlessly I do as she says.

'The fabric is silk; it stretches, like this, you see?' Looping it over each of my arms she starts wrapping the swathes of fabric around me with the skill of a seamstress. 'On me it was much longer, that was the fas.h.i.+on in the fifties . . . but on you parfait!'

She steps back with a flourish of satisfaction, and we both look at my reflection in the mirror propped opposite. The dress is on top of my jeans and T-s.h.i.+rt, and I'm wearing my scruffy old trainers, my hair tied up in a ponytail, but such is its magic, everything else seems to fade into the background.

Everything disappears, and all I can see are the folds of luscious scarlet fabric that hug and cling, smell its scent of perfume and days gone by, and for a brief, glorious moment I'm transported back to Paris in the fifties, a dance floor, a band playing . . .

'All you need now is someone to dance with,' nods the shop manager approvingly.

I snap back to see I'm in Oxfam in Hammersmith with Rihanna playing on the radio.

'Um, yes . . .' I nod, feel slightly embarra.s.sed.

'I'm sure she has lots of men to dance with,' laughs the old French lady gaily, looking across at the manageress. 'Remember when we were young? There were so many men, n'est-ce pas?'

Having no doubt spent her youth organising church jumble sales, the manageress colours at the mere suggestion. Not to mention that even though there's probably twenty years between them, it's pretty evident she didn't enjoy the same popularity with the opposite s.e.x as the French lady with her red lipstick and silk dress.

'Well, I don't know about that . . .' she laughs awkwardly and, avoiding the old lady's gaze, chooses to look at me instead. 'So, tell me how would you like to pay for that?'

Chapter 38.

After buying the red dress and the rest of the cotton sacks, I leave the shop and make my way home. On the way I make a bit of a detour. Well, actually it's less of a detour and more of a completely-the-wrong-direction. But there's nothing else for it, I've tried everything else. Turning down a street in Shepherd's Bush, I walk along the pavement, counting the number of the houses, until finally I reach the one I'm looking for.

Number seventy-four.

Fergus's address.

With my heart hammering in my chest, I stop outside the redbrick building. The last few days I've done nothing but think about Fergus and what happened. I still feel terrible for hurting him, and I don't blame him for being angry, but I've finally stopped beating myself up about it. What I did might have been stupid, but it was stupid for all the right reasons, and although I don't expect him to forgive me, I just want him to know that. I need him to know that.

My eyes sweep upwards to the top flat where he lives. I'd hoped I could explain when he came into the office this week, except a different courier came instead, and when I asked where Fergus was, he said he was new and had no idea; he'd just been a.s.signed our deliveries and pick-ups. So I sent him an email and waited for him to reply. But he didn't. So I sent him another one. Nothing. He didn't reply to my texts either. Or pick up when I called.

Which is why I'm now here, standing outside his flat, trying to pluck up the courage to go and ring the doorbell. Well, that was the plan. Only now I'm here, I feel a lot more nervous than I thought I would. I mean, he obviously doesn't want to see me or speak to me, does he? He's avoiding and ignoring me. Which begs the question, what the h.e.l.l am I doing here? He'll probably just tell me to go to h.e.l.l.

I feel my courage slipping away. This was a stupid idea. Yet another one, I think, kicking myself. I seem to be getting pretty good at them, don't I? Turning around, I start walking away, but I've only taken a few footsteps when I hear Fergus's voice in my head: It's never too late to try to put something right.

I hesitate. What have I got to lose? Turning back around I stride up to the front door and ring the doorbell. I brace myself. I'm just going to come out with it. Even if he slams the door in my face. I'm going to give it my best shot.

Only there's no answer. I wait for a few moments, then scribble a note asking him to call me. I slip it through the letterbox. Let's hope he was right about it never being too late.

By the time Monday morning rolls around I've sorted a lot out, emotionally and practically. My head is clearer, my room is certainly a lot clearer and I'm feeling a lot more positive. Which is good as I need to get into the party spirit.

With Sir Richard still away in India and his retirement party looming, I spend the rest of the week busy making sure the final arrangements are all in order. After what happened with his visa, I've changed my Post-it note way of doing things, and now have a list on which I'm ticking things off. Balloons? Tick. 'Happy Retirement Sir Richard!' banner? Tick. Caterers serving organic, sustainably farmed food? Tick. Alcohol? Well, that bit's easy. Tick.

All the staff are excited. Despite the sadness at losing a much-loved boss and still not knowing who's going to replace him, it's an opportunity for the girls to wear their new spangly dresses, the boys to try to impress with their dance moves, and for everyone to get drunk at the expense of the company. Me? I just want everything to go smoothly.

By the time I turn off my computer on Friday evening, everything on my list has been ticked off, not just once, but twice. I'm not taking any risks this time. Sir Richard is due to arrive back this evening he changed his flight so he could have a few extra meetings in Delhi and a car is picking him up from Heathrow and bringing him straight to the party. So there's no room for mistakes; everything has to be perfect.

And it will be, I rea.s.sure myself, flicking on the radio to help calm my nerves and get me in the mood. I'm in my bedroom, getting ready for the party. I invited Fiona as she always loves a party and I'd rather not go alone. Well, actually I didn't have to ask, she volunteered, as she said she needed to talk to me about something 'and it would be a good opportunity'.

A flashback to a few days ago and her mentioning it to me as I left for work, all s.h.i.+fty body language and avoiding my eyes, triggers a feeling of doom. I suppose I should have asked her outright what it was, there and then, but to be honest, I didn't want to know. G.o.d, I hope it's not that she's selling the flat or something, and wants me to move out. The timing would be terrible as I'm out of a job in less than two weeks. But then, aren't things supposed to always come in threes? No boyfriend, no job, and now no home?

Not that they're all bad, of course. Breaking up with Seb was definitely the right thing to do, and it's not as though I was ever going to make a career out of being a PA, but even so it would be a bit of a triple whammy. Plus, more importantly, despite the overflowing ashtrays, bizarre foodstuffs left in pans and the fact that Fiona still hasn't got round to putting a lock on the bathroom door, I've grown rather fond of the place.

Finis.h.i.+ng applying my mascara, I stand back to check my reflection. I'm wearing the red silk dress from the charity shop and now it's not on top of my jeans, I can see the old French lady was right, it does fit perfectly. Humming along to the radio, I do a little twirl, watching how the folds of silk whirl out like a parasol. Then pause as the fabric falls against my legs hang on, what's this song I'm humming?

Is that . . . ?

The Nolans, 'I'm in the Mood for Dancing'.

I'm suddenly reminded of Fergus. I've been so busy with organising the party it's helped keep me distracted, but now there's nothing to prevent me from thinking about him and he comes cras.h.i.+ng into my mind. He never replied to my note. Part of me didn't expect him to; it was a long shot anyway. Still, I wonder if he's going to be there tonight? He was sent an invitation along with all the other regular couriers Sir Richard employs. Deep down inside, I allow myself to feel a morsel of hope. Maybe, just maybe . . .

Gosh, is it that time already? Noticing my alarm clock, I pull myself together. Quickly grabbing my coat I reach for a gold clutch. Then change my mind. It's far too small, I'll never get everything in that. I know, I'll take my bag!

My bag.

I feel a flash of unbridled pride. Finally, after weeks of hard work, I put the finis.h.i.+ng touches to it last week and, though I say so myself, it looks great. The leather handles that I made from the braces of the dungarees give it this great vintage quality, and then you've got the silk ribbons, and embroidery and the mother-of-pearl b.u.t.tons and . . . well, quite frankly I could go on forever gus.h.i.+ng about it. More importantly, where is it?

I rummage around my bedroom looking. s.h.i.+t, at this rate, if I can't find it we're going to be late! Now I'm longer dating Seb, I've abandoned the two watches and it's all fallen apart again quite quickly and I've gone back to my default setting of always running ten minutes behind. 'Hey Fiona,' I call out, 'have you seen my bag?'

'What?' She pops her head out of her bedroom. She's wearing a tight black c.o.c.ktail dress and a pair of killer heels.

'Wow, you look fantastic!' Not that Fiona doesn't normally look good when she goes out, but tonight there's a sort of s.h.i.+ny glow about her that I've never seen before.

'Thanks,' she giggles happily. 'So do you.'

I smile gratefully. She's been very supportive over my break-up with Seb. She didn't judge, or try to pump me for details, she just gave me a rea.s.suring hug and told me he wasn't that good-looking anyway and she was sure his teeth were veneers. She also very sweetly left me a copy of a magazine with an article on celebrity cellulite on my pillow, 'as it's something no girl should miss out on and will make you feel heaps better'.

'So, you ready to go?' she asks.

'Nearly, but I can't find my bag. Have you seen it?'

'What does it look like?'

'You know, the one I made with the leather straps and silk lining.'

Immediately her happy s.h.i.+ny face is replaced by one of guilt.