Don't You Forget About Me Part 27

For example, there's the night we go to the concert. Like I said, it's one of his favourite indie bands and, just like before, it's lots of shouting and clas.h.i.+ng guitars. Only this time, instead of spending the whole time with my fingers in my ears for fear of tinnitus, I'm prepared, with my extra-strength Fiona-o.r.g.a.s.m-proof earplugs, and merrily join Seb in the mosh pit, pogo-ing around by the speakers with the best of them. It was brilliant; I couldn't hear a thing!

Including Seb talking to me afterwards, as I'd wedged them in so far they got stuck and I had to spend the whole journey home in the car trying to lip-read. Which was quite stressful as he was driving and kept looking forwards so it was difficult to see his mouth moving. At one point I nearly got busted when I thought he was accusing me of being lazy and I got all defensive, before realising he actually said the band were crazy. I swear it was like a bad game of Chinese Whispers.

Then there's the wedding. Usually I love a good wedding, but this time I go as a marriage sceptic and do my best to have a terrible time. The bride looks beautiful, but instead of oohing and aahing over her dress, I bite my lip. I even remain dry-eyed when they say their vows (which is a lot harder than I thought as I always cry at weddings, but thinking about my Visa bill really helped). As for the bouquet . . . this time when I catch it, I throw it straight back.

Admittedly I feel a total killjoy, as weddings are supposed to be a joyous occasion. Still, at least Seb and I are on the same page this time around, and instead of rowing, we get along like a house on fire, sharing little digs about how people must be crazy to get married, and rolling our eyes at each other during the ceremony. It works a treat, even if I've never been so miserable at a wedding before!

Then when Seb declared he missed the ocean, we drove down to the coast after work one evening, back to the same beach we went to the first time we dated, where he found me the piece of driftwood and went paddling in the frozen sea. Except this time, instead of staying on dry land, I rolled up my jeans and joined him. See, I'm not a chicken!

'Achoo!'

Fast-forward to Friday and I've caught a cold. Moonlight paddling on the Suss.e.x coast might seem romantic, but have you any idea how cold the English Channel is in January? It was freezing! I nearly died of hypothermia. In fact I think I've still got frostbite in my toes.

'Bless you!'

I look up from my desk to see Sir Richard walking through the office with his red setter, Monty. Apparently he and the soon-to-be-ex-Lady Blackstock have agreed to share custody and, as it's his weekend, their driver has dropped him off.

'Oh thanks,' I sniffle, looking up and blowing my nose. Since his bizarre behaviour with the computer I've barely seen Sir Richard, as he's had lots of meetings out of the office, but he seems to have really perked up. In fact, I'd go as far as to say he's undergone a bit of a transformation.

Gone is the old, s.h.i.+ny brown crumpled suit, scuffed ancient brogues and his alma-mater tie from his college days at Oxford. In their place is a brand-new charcoal grey suit that looks suspiciously designer, with the only creases being the ones down the front of his trousers; a pair of loafers which Kym swears are Paul Smith, as apparently there was a photo of Jude Law wearing a pair in Grazia, and get this no tie! Instead he's wearing his s.h.i.+rts open-necked.

Open-necked! Sir Richard? What next? A T-s.h.i.+rt? An earring? Stubble?

'Well, have a wonderful weekend,' he beams, striding past my desk, Monty at his heels.

'Yes, you too,' I call after him as he walks out through reception with a visible spring in his step. Obviously his 'online hobby' has worked wonders in restoring his mojo. Which is brilliant, and I'm not feeling in the least bit prudey about it or anything, I remind myself firmly.

I watch as he walks out through the doors, pa.s.sing Fergus, who enters carrying a large box with 'PartyTime' in bold lettering down the side. It's probably the balloons I ordered for the party. I know it's in a super-posh private members' club, but even so, you can't have a party without balloons.

'So c'mon, spill the beans, tell me what's been going on!' demands Kym before Fergus is barely through the door. She's been off sick with a cold and now she's back with a vengeance. 'I'm dying to know what happened. Did she get in touch? Have you been on a date? Are you in love?'

As she fires off questions without pausing for breath, Fergus shoots me a desperate look. I throw him an encouraging one back. We've only seen each other briefly since our heart-to-heart in the cafe but I know there's been no more news.

'Not yet,' he says, borrowing my line. 'Now, if you just want to sign here,' he continues chirpily, putting the package on the counter.

But Kym's not having any of it. Pursing her frosted-lipsticked mouth, she frowns. 'Not yet as in you're not yet in love, or not yet as in she didn't reply?'

'The second one,' he says, colouring slightly and pa.s.sing her his electronic pad for her signature.

'Who didn't reply?' barks a voice, and Wendy appears thundering down the corridor in her duffel coat, on her way home.

'Fergus posted a Missed Connection,' says Kym.

I quickly turn and glare at her. Honestly, talk about a betrayal.

'What?' says Kym of my look. 'Wasn't I supposed to tell anyone?'

'A Missed Connection?' chime in a few people from Accounts who are leaving and are now milling around in reception.

Fergus goes even redder.

'You? No way!' One of the guys, a chubby bloke with a paunch whose name I can never remember, lets out a little snort and looks secretly thrilled that this handsome Irishman has had to resort to posting a small ad. 'What, and she never replied?' he whoops.

'Well, he wouldn't know yet as he's still working through all the replies from the girls who did,' I announce loudly, grabbing my coat and marching over to Fergus. 'There're hundreds of them, it's taking him forever, isn't it?' I roll my eyes at Fergus who grins back gratefully.

That silences the chubby bloke and, linking my arm through Fergus's, I steer him quickly out of the office. 'Just ignore them,' I hiss in his ear as we walk out through the automatic doors and into the chilly evening.

'Hey, I'm an actor, I'm used to rejection. It comes with the territory.' Unchaining his bicycle, he starts wheeling it down the road as he walks alongside me down the street. 'In fact, I don't know why I'm even bothering with this audition.'

My ears p.r.i.c.k up. 'What audition?' I ask, rounding on him.

'For a TV drama.'

'Fergus, that's fantastic!' I gasp. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

'My agent only just called me,' he shrugs, trying to sound casual. 'It's all very last-minute.'

'When's the audition?'

'Tomorrow. I've got to learn my lines tonight.'

'Wow that's great!' I grin excitedly.

He allows himself a small smile. I can tell he's secretly really excited, but desperately trying not to be. 'What about you?' he asks.

'Going to see my granddad, it's his big poker night.' I'm interrupted by the shrill ring of my mobile. 'Sorry, hang on a sec,' I say, pulling it out of my pocket and answering. It's Seb, wanting to know where I am. 'I'm just walking to the bus stop. I should be at Hemmingway House in about half an hour,' I answer happily. I've been really looking forward to tonight all week. I can't wait for the opportunity to introduce Seb and Granddad to each other again.

'Cool,' he replies.

'So as long as you arrive before seven when the game starts-'

'Well that's the thing, there's been a bit of a problem.'

'Problem?' My good mood suddenly stalls, like a car engine. 'What kind of problem?'

'I totally forgot I had a squash game already arranged.'

I don't want to believe what I'm hearing.

'But can't you just cancel? It's only squash . . .'

At the word 'only' I can almost hear him bristle on the other end of the line. 'It's been in the diary for ages, I can't just cancel at the last minute,' he says impatiently.

'But I really wanted you to meet Gramps,' I say redundantly. The first time they met it was a disaster, and I so wanted it to be different this time. I was even planning to hide my granddad's antique pistol to be on the safe side.

'I'm sorry, babe,' he says, softening, 'I made a mistake with the dates.' But he still doesn't change his mind. 'Another time, huh?'

Disappointment kicks hard and flat in the stomach. I've spent the last few weeks doing things that Seb wanted to do, and yet the one thing that was important to me . . . Unexpectedly tears p.r.i.c.kle. I feel upset. Let down. p.i.s.sed off. Because this isn't just about me, it's about Gramps. He lives for his poker nights and will have been looking forward to this game for days. I can't upset the numbers. I can't let him down. I won't let him down.

Putting down the phone I turn to Fergus. 'How's your poker face?'

We end up doing a deal. Fergus is to come with me to the poker night, and afterwards I'm going to help him learn his lines. 'Let's shake on it,' he grins, jumping on his bike and promising to meet me there.

'Hang on, I haven't given you directions,' I yell after him.

But he just laughs. 'Don't worry, I'm a courier, I'll find it,' he replies, before disappearing into the traffic.

Sure enough, as my bus pulls up outside Hemmingway House, he's already waiting for me, and together we walk through the automatic doors.

'Ah, Ms Connelly,' cries Miss Temple, pouncing on me as soon as we enter reception.

'Oh, hi,' I force a smile. I swear she lies in wait for me.

'Who's that?' hisses Fergus in my ear.

'The dragon who hates Gramps,' I hiss back.

'And you are?' she demands sternly, turning to Fergus.

'Fergus O'Flanagan,' he replies, throwing on his charm like an overcoat. Smiling broadly, he fixes her with a twinkling gaze. 'And who do I have the pleasure of meeting?'

The effect is incredible. Miss Temple visibly melts before my eyes and suddenly goes all girlie. 'Please, call me Catherine,' she blushes.

Catherine? I stare in disbelief.

'Like our future queen herself,' he flatters, reaching for her hand and kissing it. 'In fact, I can see quite a similarity.'

'You can?' she giggles flirtily, the blush rising even higher on her cheeks.

A similarity? Between the d.u.c.h.ess of Cambridge and Miss Temple? That's like saying there's a similarity between a newborn kitten and a Rottweiler.

I clear my throat loudly and both of them turn to me. 'We should go, Gramps is expecting us.'

'Of course, I'm sorry, will you excuse us?' Fergus turns back to Miss Temple correction Catherine.

'Oh, no, not at all, don't mind me.' Reluctantly letting go of his hand, she starts fanning herself with a sheaf of papers. 'Enjoy yourselves, and give my regards to your grandfather,' she smiles giddily. 'A charming gentleman . . . you must visit again soon.'

'We will,' smiles Fergus, flas.h.i.+ng me a wink as I link arms with him and propel him through the fire doors.

'Like our future queen!' I gasp, as they swing shut behind us.

'Hey, I didn't have my gla.s.ses on,' he protests, smirking.

For a moment we don't say anything and continue down the corridor until, unable to hold it in any longer, we both turn to each other and burst out laughing.

We're still laughing by the time we reach Granddad's room and I knock on his door. Three fast raps, followed by three slow ones. Fergus glances at me quizzically.

'It's a special knock . . . poker nights are against the rules,' I whisper.

'Crikey,' murmurs Fergus, looking suddenly nervous at all this subterfuge.

There's a pause, then the sound of a lock turning, and the door opens to reveal Gramps looking dapper in his pinstriped suit, an emerald green silk handkerchief spilling from his top pocket. His face lights up when he sees it's me, and without saying a word he checks the coast is clear before ushering us both inside.

Once the door is closed he embraces me in a whiskery hug. 'Tess darling,' he beams, 'I'm so glad you could make it.'

'I wouldn't miss it for the world,' I grin, waving at all the familiar faces, all residents of Hemmingway House, who are already sitting around a fold-up table. There's a ripple of cheery h.e.l.los. 'I brought my friend Fergus.' I gesture towards Fergus; he's already being accosted by Phyllis, who's trying to get him to sit next to her.

'Phyllis, let go of the poor chap,' chastises Gramps sternly.

Caught in the act, Phyllis tuts loudly. 'What? I'm not doing anything,' she protests innocently.

Breaking free to join us, Fergus smiles gratefully. 'Thanks for that,' he says under his breath as he extends his hand.

'You be careful there my son,' grins Gramps, shaking it vigorously. 'She'll be trying to steal you from under Tess's nose.'

'Oh no, Fergus isn't my boyfriend,' I begin explaining hastily, but I'm interrupted by Phyllis.

'Did I hear the word "boyfriend"?' she says loudly, rounding on me.

I feel my face go bright red and can't look at Fergus. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

'Yes, that's right,' replies Fergus, before I've got a chance to answer.

What the . . . ? I round sharply on him to see a big grin plastered all over his face.

'You can't let me get hit on all night by Phyllis,' he hisses through gritted teeth like a ventriloquist.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Phyllis poised on the edge of her chair, her beady eyes magnified beneath her gla.s.ses. She might be nudging eighty, but she's a man-eater.

'Um, yes,' I nod, playing along. 'This is my boyfriend.'

I feel a bit guilty pretending to Gramps, but I'll just have to explain later.

'Splendid! Splendid!' he cheers, looking thrilled. Throwing his arms around Fergus he gives him a fatherly embrace. 'At last!'

Er, all right, Gramps, you don't have to go that far, I muse, catching Fergus's look of amus.e.m.e.nt. 'OK, so shall we start?' I say briskly. 'Everyone's waiting.'

'Yes, yes, indeed,' he nods, and there's a ripple of agreement as everyone starts shuffling up to make room for me and Fergus.

We sit down at the table on which is a deck of cards and a bottle of Blackstock & White whisky. And is that . . .

'Gramps, are you burning incense?' I ask, suddenly noticing the small smouldering cone in the middle of the table.

'Nag Champa,' he corrects with amazing clarity, considering his memory is failing. 'That nice nurse Melanie gave it to me. Said it would help with the pipe,' he winks, sticking it in the corner of his mouth and lighting a match.

'But Gramps, the rules,' I protest anxiously, but I'm silenced by Fergus who pours me a large tot of whisky. I give up and take a grateful glug.

'Now then, people . . .' As Gramps calls for everyone's attention, the chattering falls silent around the table. Puffing merrily away on his pipe, he reaches for the deck of cards. 'Let's get this show on the road.' And, with a flourish, he starts dealing.