Don't You Forget About Me Part 13

'I know I'm rubbish,' I admit, reappearing shamefaced from behind my hands.

'I thought you were very good actually you could have fooled me,' teases Fergus good-naturedly.

Despite myself, my face breaks into a helpless grin. 'Well, I'm glad you find me so funny,' I smile, 'but I don't think anyone else does. In fact the only reason I have a job is because of Sir Richard, my boss. He's so sweet but he's retiring soon.'

'And then what?' Fergus stops laughing and looks at me evenly.

'Back to temping I suppose,' I shrug, trying to keep the worry out of my voice. 'Though to be honest, I'm not much good at that either.'

'What are you good at?'

His question throws me slightly. No one's ever asked me that before. All my school reports told me what I wasn't good at. 'Um, I dunno, nothing really,' I mumble, feeling suddenly self-conscious. 'I don't have some big mega-talent like you.'

'Hey, don't get too excited, you haven't seen me act yet,' he quips with a grin.

'You know what I mean,' I smile. 'Some people are naturally really brainy, or talented at sport, or have an ear for music it's like they were born good at something, they don't even have to think about what they're going to do in life, they just know. But I'm just not one of those people,' I shrug.

He studies me for a moment, as if weighing me up, then, propping his elbows on the table, leans closer.

'You're telling me you don't have a dream?' And he looks at me so intently, it's as if he's seeing right inside of me. 'Everyone has a dream, Tess. What's yours?'

For a split second my mind flashes back to me sitting next to my granddad at the sewing machine a few days ago, the excitement I felt as I watched the needle flying over the material, the thrill I always feel when I see my ideas start taking shape.

Imagine if one day I could- I stop myself right there, before I even let the thought form in my head.

'Nope, not me,' I say quickly, shrugging his question off. 'Though if you'd have asked me earlier, I'd have said my dream was finding that DVD.' I give a little laugh, trying to make a joke of it, and turn back to my potato. Though for some reason my appet.i.te seems to have disappeared and I realise I'm not really that hungry any more.

There's a gap in the conversation, and for a moment Fergus doesn't say anything. He doesn't look convinced and for a brief moment I think he's going to challenge me, and I feel my defences rising. But then he seems to think better of it and, taking my cue, he turns back to his lunch with renewed vigour. 'Well, in that case, glad I could be of service,' he says cheerfully, 'though to be honest, I wouldn't have thought it was your kind of film. Johnny Depp isn't in it, you know?' He looks up from his potato and flashes me a mischievous smile.

I reach over and swipe him with my paper napkin. 'It's not my favourite,' I confess. 'In fact I think sci-fi films are boring, but it's my boyfriend's-' I break off. Can I call Seb my boyfriend yet? We've only had one date. Well, officially.

'Oh, right,' nods Fergus, without missing a beat. But I feel the intimacy s.h.i.+ft. As if, by mentioning I have a boyfriend, Seb's pulled up a chair at the table and suddenly it's not just the two of us any more.

'What about you?' I ask, ignoring it and throwing the focus back on him. It's always like this when you make a friend of the opposite s.e.x. I once read an article about it called 'Establis.h.i.+ng the Platonic Boundaries'. Apparently this is all perfectly normal.

'You mean have I seen Star Wars?' He pulls a face and scoops up the last of his potato. 'Once, ages ago, when I was a kid. To be honest, I never really got what all the fuss was about.'

Resisting the urge to agree, I shake my head. 'No, I mean do you have a girlfriend?'

'Oh, right, gotcha.' He finishes chewing and shakes his head. 'Nope, 'fraid not.' He suddenly freezes mid-chew and sits up like a meerkat. 'Saying that, I think I've just fallen in love.'

'In love?' I repeat. Hang on, have I just missed a step?

But he doesn't answer, just stares over my shoulder like a shop dummy.

Twirling around in my seat, I look across the cafe and see the object of his affections: a girl sitting by herself, engrossed in a book. Looking up, she catches Fergus gazing at her, and for a brief moment they make eye contact, before she smiles blus.h.i.+ngly and quickly glances back at her page.

I swear, it's like I'm invisible.

'She's pretty,' I note, and am surprised to realise I feel a little miffed. It must be those platonic boundaries I was talking about.

'Pretty? She's Venus herself,' he waxes lyrical, a misty glaze in his eyes.

I watch her self-consciously playing with her pale blonde hair. She knows we're talking about her.

'So go over, say h.e.l.lo,' I suggest encouragingly. 'I think she likes you.'

He looks at me as though I've just told him to take off all his clothes and run naked down the high street. 'No way!' he hisses, visibly recoiling into his waterproof neon jacket. 'She's never going to want to go out with me.'

'Don't be ridiculous, why not?' I ask, suddenly not recognising the man sitting before me as the one who's usually flirting with all the girls in reception. Hang on a minute, where's the Irish charm gone? The roguish smile? The winks and gift of the gab? It's all disappeared.

'How long have you got?' he replies.

And been replaced by a man who's now curled up in the plastic chair like a five-year-old on their first day at school, I think, watching him nervously chewing his fingers.

'Don't tell me you're shy?' I tease, playfully poking him in the ribs.

'No, of course not,' he counters hotly.

'Well then?' I persist.

Heaving a sigh, he takes a deep breath. 'OK, well for starters I'm an out-of-work actor whose most recent job was an ad for bog roll and who's resting as a bike courier to pay the rent on a poky little bedsit at the wrong end of Shepherd's Bush-'

'You know you've got to stop talking yourself up like that,' I interrupt.

'And by the time I've paid my rent I'm usually broke and have to survive on beans on toast.'

'Lot of fibre,' I say supportively.

He looks unconvinced. 'And, last but not least, I'm losing my hair.'

For a moment I gaze speechlessly at his head of thick black hair, then burst out laughing.

'It's not funny,' he pouts, 'I keep finding it in the plughole.' Leaning across the table he sweeps it off his forehead. 'Look, it's receding!'

I stare at his straight black hairline.

'I'm going to go bald.'

'When? In thirty years?' I gasp, finally finding my voice.

'For an actor, going bald is the kiss of death,' he counters solemnly.

'Fergus, stop worrying, you're not going bald,' I say rea.s.suringly. Now I know what Seb must have felt like when I used to go on about a nonexistent spot on my chin and wail that I had acne. 'And anyway, I'm sure there are lots of successful bald actors.'

'Like who?' he demands.

'Um . . . well, I don't know, but I'm sure I can think of some.'

There's a sc.r.a.ping of a chair, and we both turn to see the girl getting up from the table and leaving the cafe. As soon as she's out of the door, Fergus lets out a loud groan.

'And now she's gone. d.a.m.n. Why didn't I say something?'

'I don't know, why didn't you?'

I'm still trying to figure out what's caused the sudden transformation. Fergus is like a changed man. His confidence has evaporated and now he's like a six-foot-five ornament that doesn't know where to put himself.

'Maybe because we were too busy arguing about you not being bald,' I suggest, trying to joke him back to his earlier good humour.

But he refuses to raise a smile. 'Maybe I just don't want another rejection,' he shrugs. 'I've had enough of that in my so-called acting career.'

Oh, so this is what it's all about.

'But you're not auditioning for a role,' I try to persuade him.

'Aren't I?' he raises his eyebrows. 'So when a guy asks you out, you don't look at him and think: Possible date? Boyfriend material? Could be The One?'

Actually, he's got a point.

'But maybe you'd have got the part?' I smile ruefully. 'If you don't try . . .'

'Yeh, maybe,' he acquiesces. 'But she was Beauty to my Beast, a princess to my frog . . .' He starts waxing all lyrical on me again.

'From what I remember, the princess kisses the frog,' I point out.

'That's the stuff of fairy tales,' he counters, 'not real life.' Spearing a forkful of my unfinished potato, he falls silent, and together we look out of the window, watching as her figure recedes down the high street and disappears into the crowd.

I stay late at the office to catch up on the backlog of work, then pop into the library on the way home to pick up the movie. Letting myself into the flat, I dump my bag in the hallway and walk into the kitchen, where as usual I find Fiona, barricaded behind her laptop in a swirl of cigarette smoke, with the radio playing loudly.

'Gosh it's smoky in here,' I say, going to open a window.

'Is it? I hadn't noticed,' she says, looking up from the screen. 'I've been trying to write my column all day and it's just not coming.' She tuts loudly and takes a drag of her cigarette.

'Oh, what's it about?'

'Piranha pedicures,' she says, breathing out a cloud of smoke.

I look at her blankly.

'Well, they're not piranhas exactly, but you put your feet in tanks full of these tiny little flesh-eating fish and they nibble off all the dead skin,' she explains.

'Ouch, that sounds painful,' I cringe, flicking on the kettle and starting to make tea.

'It's all the rage in j.a.pan; apparently they leave your feet feeling really soft.'

'But what if they get really hungry and nibble off a toe or something?'

Fiona suddenly looks worried. 'Oh my G.o.d, you don't think that can happen, do you?'

'Well, don't you remember that James Bond film on Boxing Day?'

We exchange looks, both remembering that scene from You Only Live Twice where Blofeld feeds a piece of meat to his piranhas and within seconds it's reduced to a bone.

'So anyway, how was your date last night?' she asks briskly, changing the topic. 'I was dying to ask you this morning, but you'd already left by the time my alarm went off.'

Fiona says this as if it's a first and not an everyday occurrence.

'Really good,' I smile happily, grabbing the milk from the fridge.

'So when are you seeing him again?' she asks excitedly.

'Tomorrow,' I say, feeling a tingle of antic.i.p.ation. Seb's already sent me about half a dozen flirty texts about how much he's looking forward to our second date and I can't wait.

'Wow Tess, that's so great,' she grins, then adds, 'Does he have any friends?'

I look at her in surprise. 'What happened to Henry VIII?'

'He hasn't called.' She tries to sound nonchalant, but the hurt in her voice is audible.

'It's only been a few days, he still might,' I encourage her, pa.s.sing her a mug of tea.

'I don't think so. Pippa says he only ever goes out with really skinny girls. Apparently his last girlfriend was a size zero,' she says dolefully, taking a sip.

I didn't think it was possible to dislike Pippa more than I do already but, seeing Fiona's expression, I realise that actually, yes, it is possible.

'She was also probably only about four foot tall,' I say supportively. 'He was tiny.'

'Not in the bedroom,' sighs Fiona, putting down her mug and reaching for the bowl of half-eaten food next to her computer. In times of distress, Fiona always turns to food for comfort. Though in this case, I'm not sure how much comfort it's going to be.

'What are you eating?' I ask, quickly getting off the topic of the size of Henry VIII's you-know-what and trying to identify the strange-looking concoction.

'Aubergine mixed with prunes it's part of the rainbow diet,' she says, eating a large mouthful. 'Today's blue, remember?' she explains, visibly wincing. 'Want to try some? There's loads left.'

'Um . . . no, thanks, I'm still stuffed from lunch,' I say quickly, backing away from the scary purple gunge. 'I think I'm just going to lie on my bed and watch a DVD I rented.'

'Oooh, what did you get?' asks Fiona, perking up. 'Is it that new Johnny Depp one you've been dying to see?'

'Um, no, not exactly,' I say, feeling a bit awkward. 'I thought I'd try something a bit different from usual.' For some reason I realise I don't want to admit the truth to Fiona.

'But you love Johnny Depp.'

'Yes, but he doesn't have to be in every film I watch.' I see Fiona looking at me dubiously and I try to brush it off. 'Anyway, want to join me?'

'Yeh, why not,' she shrugs, standing up. 'I could do with a good movie, it's probably just what I need, clear this writer's block.' Carrying her bowl of purple food and mug of tea she follows me into the bedroom and plops herself onto the beanbag in the corner as I slide the DVD into the player.

Pressing play, I join Flea on the bed and settle back as the music starts. Oh, I nearly forgot. I grab a pad and pencil from my bedside table to make notes.

'What are you doing?' asks Fiona, glancing over.