Don't You Forget About Me Part 22

Plus where's the harm? He'll never know.

'So how far did you run?'

'Oh . . . er . . . not far, about ten miles,' I say, plucking a number out of the air.

'Wow, that's far!' He sounds impressed.

'Yes, isn't it?' I agree. G.o.d, why did I go and say ten miles? Three would have done it.

'You must be all sweaty,' he continues wickedly.

'Very,' I reply, playing along. What am I worrying about? I could have said I'd run a marathon, Seb will never know, he's in Geneva. Plus my exercise regime starts on Monday as I've signed up for my first military fitness cla.s.s, so it's not like I'm completely making it up. I'm just getting a bit ahead of myself. I fully intend to run ten miles. I just need a bit of practice first, that's all.

'So you'll be needing to get in the shower, won't you?' he continues.

'Well, first I've got to take all my clothes off,' I say flirtily.

'Get all naked you mean?'

'Completely starkers. Just me and a bar of soap.'

'Mmm, s.e.xy,' he says and I laugh.

'So, how did your meeting go?' I ask, steering the conversation back before it gets totally X-rated.

'Awesome,' he enthuses. 'We brokered the deal.'

'Gosh, that's great,' I say, feeling proud of him. I'll never understand Seb's job in the mind-boggling world of finance, but I do know he's incredibly good at it. 'So what are you doing to celebrate?'

'Taking you out for dinner,' he quips.

'Ha ha, very funny,' I quip back.

'Why is it funny?' he asks.

'Well in case you hadn't noticed, I'm not in Geneva.'

'Neither am I.'

'You're not?' I feel a jolt of surprise.

'No, I flew back early to see you.'

'You did?' I sit bolt upright on the sofa, dislodging Flea from my lap. He lets out a disgruntled meow.

'Yeh, I'm just driving back from the airport now and heading over to yours. It's number twenty-seven, right?'

The surprises are coming thick and fast; I'm momentarily lost for words. 'Um . . . yeh,' I manage to croak. 'So whereabouts exactly are you?' Which sounds like a innocuous question, but is really me desperately trying to gauge how much time I have. An hour and I can get in the shower, wash and blow-dry my hair and iron my dress. Forty-five and it's a choice between wet hair or a crumpled dress. Less than half an hour and it's both. Fifteen and- 'I'm outside.'

I'm screwed.

Suddenly the buzzer goes and I nearly jump off the sofa with fright.

f.u.c.k!

'Yes, er, that's right,' I say, swallowing hard and trying to keep my voice even when inside another voice is shrieking: you just told him you'd been to military fitness! You told him you'd run ten miles! You told him you were all hot and sweaty and needed a shower! I glance down at myself, sprawled on the sofa in a pair of jeans and sheepskin slippers, with a cup of tea balanced in my lap. I couldn't look less like someone who's just run ten miles if I tried.

'Come right up. Top floor. Flat seven.'

But I have to. And in less than three minutes!

Arggghh. Putting down my phone, I leap up from the sofa and, tugging off my clothes, race naked around my flat, hiding all traces of cups of tea, shopping bags and aforementioned clothes and tugging on my new leggings, sports bra and sweatbands. Lacing up my trainers, I dash to the mirror in the hallway and glance at my reflection. Only there's something missing . . .

Das.h.i.+ng into the bathroom, I dive into the airing cupboard and grab the spray bottle we keep by the ironing board. I start frantically spritzing my face and chest I need to look like I'm all sweaty.

In the middle of spritzing I hear a knock. Oh my G.o.d, he's here!

By the time I dash to the door and pull it open, I'm genuinely breathless.

'Hey, look at you, all sweaty,' he grins.

'Yes, I know, sorry.' I pull a face.

Wrapping his arms around me he draws me to him for a kiss. 'Mmm . . .'

It's like magic. Suddenly all that panic is forgotten and I feel myself melting into his kiss. Feeling his tongue, I close my eyes as we start kissing deeper and deeper and . . . That's funny, my face is starting to feel a bit weird.

In the middle of snogging, the thought zips through my brain, then out again. After all, it's probably because his five o'clock stubble is rubbing against my skin . . . I focus back on the kissing . . . mmm, Seb is such a great kisser.

Like it's going really tight.

Shut up! I'm having a s.e.xy reunion with my boyfriend. I feel Seb's hands wandering across my sports bra . . .

Actually, the word I'm looking for is stiff.

Suddenly I have a flashback to the spray bottle, to Fiona ironing that guy's s.h.i.+rt for work, starching his collar . . .

And suddenly I realise.

Oh my G.o.d! I've starched my face!

'I'll just jump in the shower,' I blurt, hastily breaking away.

Panic is shooting through my body. Any minute now and my face is going to set like concrete.

'Oh . . . uh . . . OK,' says Seb, visibly taken aback by my abruptness, I notice, glancing down at his trousers.

'Make yourself at home,' I say hurriedly.

'Sure you don't want me to join you?' he asks, recovering and throwing me a s.e.xy smile.

I try to smile s.e.xily back but my face is having trouble creasing. 'Um no, you stay here, relax, watch TV, I'll be back in a jiffy.' I turn to go.

'Oh, hey, Tess?'

'Yes?' I turn back.

'You've left the sales tags on.' He gestures to my sports bra.

'I have?' I freeze. 'Oh . . . um . . . they must have been on for ages and I didn't notice,' I fl.u.s.ter, trying to twist my arm around to pull them off and nearly dislocating my shoulder.

'Here, I'll do it,' he offers, moving towards me.

'No!' I shriek. 'I mean, it's fine, thanks,' I say quickly, tugging them off with such violence I make a hole.

'Oh, OK,' he shrugs, looking at me as if I'm acting really weird.

Probably because I am acting really weird, I think helplessly.

'Well, wear something nice, I'm taking you to a fancy restaurant,' he says, changing the subject.

'Great!'

'Oh, and don't forget to bring your sneakers this time. We can go for that run we didn't get around to the other morning, work off some of those carbs we're going to consume tonight . . .' He shoots me a smile. 'And it'll be a chance for you to kick my a.s.s,' he jokes, pretending to kick my bottom.

'Ha ha . . . yes,' I laugh, pretending to kick him back but losing my balance and nearly toppling over. 'Just you wait!' And turning back I dash towards the bathroom.

Kick your a.s.s.

Ha ha.

Oh G.o.d.

Dear Diary, Tonight Seb took me to Mala, a super-posh restaurant in Mayfair. It was very romantic though I barely ate anything as I can't eat spicy food. Which was a shame as it all looked really delicious and Seb seemed a bit disappointed. He made some joke about going to Pizza Hut next time. Though, to be honest, I'm not sure if he was joking . . .

Chapter 22.

Fifteen minutes later we're speeding along in Seb's sports car that he's just got back from the garage. 'I had a little accident, smashed my wing mirror,' he grins, as we zip through the streets of London. Despite the freezing cold weather, he's got the roof down and the heaters blasting and I snuggle against the soft, heated leather seats, feeling all warm and snug as he expertly navigates the traffic, the radio tuned to some club music.

I sneak a peek across at him. At his broad shoulders clad in expensive cashmere, the softest kind you can only get from some exclusive shop in Knightsbridge, and not the machine-washable jumpers you find in Gap. He's still sporting that tan, and he's got the kind of strong, square jaw any leading man would kill for. He senses me looking and glances across at me, his mouth breaking into a smile and showing off his perfect, gleaming-white smile.

'So what do you think of the car?'

'It's lovely,' I nod.

'You don't seem very impressed,' he jokes, but I get a sense that he's a little miffed that I haven't raved on about it. When we dated before, I don't remember him bragging about his car, but then I probably didn't notice. Funny, how you often don't notice things first time around, isn't it?

'So where are we going?' I ask, getting off the subject. A list of the restaurants we used to go to zip through my mind. Gosh, I hope it's that Italian in Soho. I really feel like a big plate of pasta.

'One of my favourite restaurants,' he grins as we turn into a cobbled side street.

Hang on, this looks familiar . . .

We pull up outside a large, gla.s.s-paned building and a valet parker rushes out to greet us.

Mala. One of the best restaurants in London. Famed for its award-winning, spicy food.

'This looks great,' I enthuse, but my heart plummets. Now I remember. We've been here before and it was a disaster as I couldn't eat anything. It's not that I'm a fussy eater, I just can't eat spicy food; I have no tolerance for it.

For a split second I think about suggesting a different restaurant. But I can't. I was given a second chance for a reason: this time I have to get it right.

'The food's delicious,' continues Seb. 'Do you like spicy food?'

'Love it!' I reply emphatically.

I'll just have to eat rice. Or maybe I can do that thing models do where they just move the food around their plates to pretend they're eating. One thing's for certain, I'm not going to mess it up this time.

'Awesome,' he grins. 'You're gonna love this place!'

We walk through the gla.s.s doors into the Stygian depths of the lobby. What is it with expensive restaurants and hotels being so dark? Surely they can afford more light bulbs? But then I read somewhere that dim lighting is supposed to equal sophistication.

Although there's nothing sophisticated about fumbling down the staircase, clinging onto the handrail for dear life as I can't see where one step ends and another one starts. Gingerly I put one high heel in front of the other. Unlike Fiona, stilettos are not my footwear of choice.

I follow Seb's lead and we make our way towards the bar, where he orders us both the house c.o.c.ktail, a lychee martini. After a few minutes a waiter comes and, taking our drinks, asks to show us to our table. I smile graciously. Unlike last time. I cringe at the memory. Well, how was I to know he wasn't trying to clear away my martini before I'd finished it?

A tussle had ensued as I'd tried to cling onto it (well, at fifteen quid a drink those last few dregs were worth at least a fiver) and Seb had had to quickly jump in, like a referee at a boxing match, before I'd release my grip. G.o.d, it was so embarra.s.sing.

Still, this time I'm determined everything is going to be very different, and as we're led to a discreet booth in the corner of the restaurant, and I slip into my seat as the waiter fluffs out my napkin, I get one of those lovely, rare feelings where, right now, at this precise moment, everything is exactly how I want it to be. At a romantic restaurant, with my boyfriend, who's gazing adoringly at me across the table.

'So, did you miss me while I was gone?' asks Seb, reaching across the table for my hand.

'Of course,' I reply as he interlaces his fingers with mine. I feel a lovely warm glow inside and it's got nothing to do with the martini.

'So what did you get up to while I was away brokering deals?'

I root around for a funny anecdote to tell him. Oh I know! I lean forwards, Seb is going to love this. 'Well, you'll never guess what I did last night,' I enthuse, already giggling as I think about mine and Fiona's fish pedicures. I pause for him to play along and guess, but instead he seems suddenly distracted. I feel a funny vibration. 'What's that?'

'My iPhone,' he replies, s.n.a.t.c.hing it up from the table and glancing at the screen. 'It's an email from the Geneva office.'

Until now I'd forgotten about Seb's iPhone. Ever since we broke up, I've been too busy missing all the good bits to think about all the other bits. It's as if your memory purposefully edits out any annoying habits or things you didn't like about a relations.h.i.+p, and gives you the rose-tinted version instead. A bit like when you throw away all the c.r.a.p photographs of yourself and just leave the ones where you look nice. So that when you look back on that holiday to Greece last year you have this distorted view that you were a size thinner, had no cellulite, and every day was a good hair day. When, in actual fact, half the time you looked b.l.o.o.d.y awful, with hair that had gone yellow from the chlorine in the pool, a spare tyre from when you'd forgotten to breathe in and as for when the sun was s.h.i.+ning directly on the backs of your thighs . . . Ouch!