Don't You Forget About Me Part 3

'Hey fleabag, I'm home.'

One good thing about New Year's Eve, everyone's so busy partying that there's zero traffic on the roads, so it's not long before I'm letting myself into the flat, shutting the door behind me, and kicking off my high heels.

G.o.d, it feels good to be home. Padding into the kitchen in my stockinged feet, I flick on the kettle. Even if the kitchen is a mess, it's Fiona's turn to do the was.h.i.+ng-up. We're out of milk, too, I realise, tugging open the fridge and surveying the empty bottle left on the shelf.

I say empty, but there's a tiny dribble, courtesy of Fiona, who always makes sure to leave a bit so she can't be blamed for finis.h.i.+ng it off. 'But there's some left,' she'll bleat when accused, referring to the couple of drops in the bottom.

Chucking the bottle in the recycling, I nose around in the cupboards for something that doesn't require milk. There's a bunch of Fiona's herbal teas, but they're not actually for drinking, they're just for appearances. She gets them out whenever she's got 'guests', and makes a little virtuous display with them, along with her Diptyque candle and speciality jams, which she got from a Fortnum & Mason's gift hamper about four Christmases ago. And which I once mistakenly nearly opened when we ran out of our usual Tesco's strawberry.

I'll never forget it. She literally leapt across the kitchen in her silk kimono dressing gown, like something from Crouching Tiger, and with a howl s.n.a.t.c.hed the cognac and elderflower marmalade from my hands before I could get the knife under the seal. I'm not kidding, it was actually pretty scary.

Oh hang on, what's that? Behind the nettle and burdock root infusion, I spot a bottle of something that looks like- My emergency bottle of tequila.

I eye it triumphantly. I'd forgotten all about that. Sir Richard gave it to me last year for my birthday and I'd stashed it away in the cupboard. Not that I don't drink tequila, but usually when I'm at home and I fancy a drink, I'll share a bottle of wine with Fiona, not start doing slammers on the kitchen counter.

I eye the bottle.

I said usually when I'm at home. But tonight's different. There's nothing usual about it. It's New Year's Eve. I'm heartbroken. Home alone. And I'm wearing a s.e.xy kitten costume.

Sod the herbal tea. It's going to take something a lot stronger than that tonight.

OK, to do this properly I need salt and a lime. That much I do know. I glance at our pathetic excuse for a fruit bowl. With Fiona being a health and beauty writer, you'd think it would be overflowing with exotic fruits. Instead we've got two blackened bananas and a Granny Smith that's so shrivelled it should be on display in the British Museum. And I can't find the salt. Or a clean gla.s.s.

Oh well, never mind, I muse, grabbing my Keep Calm and Carry On mug from the mug tree, and pouring myself a shot. Actually, it's probably more like about four shots, I realise, looking at the amount of tequila in the bottom of the mug before slugging it back. I slam my mug down on the kitchen counter and wince. The tequila is like liquid fire, burning a path to my stomach. Whoah. Talk about strong. This stuff really blows your head off. A few more shots like that and I'll be so completely blotto I won't know what day it is.

Perfect.

Pouring another large mugful, I head into my bedroom. This used to be the living room, but because Fiona's flat is really only a one-bedroom, she converted it into another bedroom when I moved in. Which works fine as the kitchen is one of those big eat-in kitchens, and I've got my own little portable TV that I like to watch lying on my bed, plus I've got the original Victorian fireplace in my room, and it works.

In fact, I think I'll light it now, I decide. A real fire always cheers me up. Throwing on some firewood, I busy myself with twisting up bits of newspaper, a trick my granddad taught me as a little girl, and in no time at all I've got a decent fire going. On a roll, I turn my attention to my candles, only my favourite scented one is finished.

d.a.m.n. Chucking it in the bin a thought strikes me, but immediately I dismiss it. No, I can't. Fiona will kill me.

She'll never find out, whispers a drunken, rebellious voice in my head. You can put it back before she comes home. You're only borrowing it.

Now normally in my sane, rational mind I would never entertain such an idea. Borrowing 'The Diptyque', as Fiona reverently calls it, is a bit like borrowing the Crown Jewels. In other words, you just don't. It's meant to be displayed on the little corner table in the hallway, along with the white orchid in a pot, and Fiona's Smythson address book which she got as a gift from a PR.

But I'm not sane. Or rational. I'm a gla.s.s of champagne and two very large tequila shots down already, and now it seems like a b.l.o.o.d.y marvellous idea. As does finis.h.i.+ng 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 p.r.i.c.kle, 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 a.r.s.e 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 s.p.a.ce-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. s.e.xy 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 s...o...b..x.

And yet . . .

And yet inside it holds something just as important to me. Something even more valuable. Because inside is my relations.h.i.+p 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 Inst.i.tute 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 sh.o.r.e 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 clas.h.i.+ng 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 s.e.x . . .

Card with a picture of a s...o...b..nny on the front Seb adored s...o...b..arding 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 s...o...b..arded 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 apres-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 New York for my birthday; inside was a frothy French lace G-string and s.e.xy 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 s.p.a.cehopper 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 wis.h.!.+ 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 s...o...b..x and, smarting with disappointment and anger, throw the whole d.a.m.n lot on the fire.

'I wish I'd never met him!'

Immediately it catches light and, as I watch my relations.h.i.+p 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 s.e.xy 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 b.u.mper-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. Pus.h.i.+ng 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 b.u.mp 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.