Don’t You Forget About Me (21 page)

Blinking at him in the stark winter light that is coming through the window, I feel as if I’ve just been plunged into an icy cold shower.

‘I did?’ I squeak, a flashback of that night at the pub suddenly coming back to me. ‘Um . . . yes, I did . . . I mean I do,’ I correct myself quickly, hoisting myself up on the pillow with my elbows and rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

‘Though you military-fitness types are super-fit – you’ll probably outrun me,’ he laughs.

Outrun him?
I look at him dazedly. Before he used to leave me in bed snoozing when he went for a run, but not now. Now he thinks I’m a fitness fanatic. Now he thinks I’m one of those lunatics who run around the park in the freezing cold wearing a coloured bib while some bloke in camouflage army trousers yells at them.

‘Afterwards you can show me those bench presses you were talking about,’ he winks flirtily.

Bench presses?
‘Um . . . I’d love to but . . .’ I start grappling around for an excuse in my groggy brain, which is still half asleep, then it comes to me. ‘I don’t have my trainers.’

Which is absolutely true. And of course if I had them I would go. Honestly.

‘Maybe you can borrow a pair of mine,’ he suggests brightly. ‘What size are you?’

‘Tiny,’ I say quickly, knowing full well Seb is a size nine.

His face falls in dismay. ‘Bummer.’

‘I know, bummer.’ I pull a disappointed face.

‘Oh well, next time.’ Doing a calf stretch, he bends over and gives me a kiss. ‘I’ll be back soon, you stay there right there.’

‘OK, if you insist.’ I give a little smile.

‘I insist,’ he murmurs, kissing me deeper. ‘Last night was so amazing,
you
were amazing, that thing you did . . .’ He slips his hand underneath the duvet and pulls me towards him. ‘How did you know . . . ?’

‘Now that would be telling,’ I whisper, unzipping his tracksuit and tracing my fingers downwards.

His breathing deepens. ‘You know what, maybe I’ll skip my run this morning . . .’

I float into the office on a sex cloud. A white fluffy orgasmic sex cloud that transports me all the way from Seb’s flat, onto the tube, into Starbucks, and through the revolving doors of Blackstock & White as if I’m on some magical flying carpet.

Nothing can pierce my good mood. Not the train carriage that’s crammed with commuters and the bloke in a suit who keeps treading on my toe. Or the huge queue in Starbucks. Or the hail cloud that decides to follow me up the high street, shooting little hard pellets of ice at me.

Not even the fact that Seb had to fly to Geneva this morning on business and is gone all weekend.

Instead I waft along with a huge smile on my face, my mind drifting back over the past few days. It’s been such a whirlwind, I’ve barely had a chance to stop and draw breath. When we haven’t been seeing each other we’ve been calling, texting, emailing . . . It’s incredible. We’ve only been on two dates but it’s almost as if we’re closer than we were before. More connected, somehow. It’s funny, before I used to hear people talk about how it feels to be on the same page as their partner, and I never knew what they meant.

But now I do.

Sitting at my desk I gaze dreamily at my computer screen and think about Seb. I’m not seeing him until Monday and it seems like aeons away. Still, at least I’ll be able to put on some comfy knickers, I console myself, wriggling around in my chair and trying to free my
vajayjay
from the stranglehold of my lacy G-string. And only making it worse.

Ouch.

I wince as it pinches.

Actually, I think I might just have to go commando, I realise, as a series of little shockwaves shoot up inside me. Only this time it’s got nothing to do with Seb and that thing he does with his . . .

I feel myself blush and quickly glance around to see if anyone’s looking. That’s the thing with morning sex, I always feel like everyone must be able to tell. Like the whole office must be able to read my mind and it says:
I’ve just done IT with my boyfriend
. But there’s only Kym sitting at her desk and as usual she’s engrossed in her daily helping of Missed Connections.

‘Oooh, look at this one,’ she says, reading out loud, ‘ “I doubt you remember me but I was visiting London and I saw you on the London Eye. You were in the next pod and we stared at each other through the glass. A year later I still think about it.”’ Resting her chin on her elbows, she heaves a loud sigh. ‘Isn’t that just the most romantic thing you’ve ever read?’

‘Nah, the most romantic thing I’ve ever read is “dinner’s in the oven”,’ chortles Wayne, her long-term boyfriend who at that moment walks into the foyer, dressed in his chauffeur’s uniform. He throws her a wink.

Kym throws him back a scowl.

‘What do you think, Tess?’ she asks, deliberately ignoring him and turning to me.

‘Um . . . me?’ Caught unawares trying to free my G-string, which is now cutting into me like cheese wire, I go bright red. ‘I . . . um . . . think I just need to pop to the Ladies.’

Leaving Wayne and Kym having a domestic, I dash into the loos and lock myself in a cubicle. Once inside I quickly wriggle off my G-string.
Ah, the relief
. Who would have thought a scrap of Chantilly lace could turn into a torture device? Shoving the offending item in my bag, I pull on my trousers and emerge from the cubicle.

And bump into The Witch.

What did I say about those crepe soles of hers? I never heard her come in. Standing in front of the mirrors, she’s applying more scarlet lipstick and practising her Hillary Clinton pose.

Spotting my reflection behind her, she turns to me with a beady expression. ‘Ah Tess, I noticed your desk was empty, I was wondering where you’d absconded to.’

My heart sinks. If there’s one person who can cloud my good mood, it’s her.

‘Morning Wendy,’ I nod, briefly wondering if I can make a quick exit, but she blocks my path. Despite her diminutive frame, she’s like an American quarterback. There’s no getting past her.

‘You haven’t forgotten you’re taking the minutes at the meeting this morning, have you?’ she reminds me with a fake smile.

‘No, of course not,’ I say, trying to sound casual, but my hand cramps up at the thought of it. I hadn’t so much forgotten, as blocked it out. Taking minutes is probably my least favourite part of my job. I’m never sure what exactly you’re supposed to leave out and what you need to write down and I spend the whole time madly scribbling everything down, until my hand’s gone into cramp and my notepad is so indecipherable it would take a handwriting expert to crack the code.

But it’s not for want of trying. When I first started I went out and bought all these books with titles like
How To Record Really Useful Minutes!
and
Minutes Made Easy!
, which are full of lots of jaunty bullet points about recording the ‘Date and Time of Meeting’ (well, that bit’s easy), ‘A List of Attendees’ (yup, can manage that), ‘Assigned Action Items’ (this is where it gets slightly trickier. What does this mean
exactly
?), and ‘Decisions Made’ (which sounds great
in theory
, but to be frank, there never appear to be any real decisions made. Just about three hours of everyone sitting around the mahogany conference table talking vaguely about reports and strategies whilst drinking coffee and eating lots of those ‘extremely chocolatey biscuits’ that Kym has been sent out to buy from Marks & Spencer).

Then, of course, there’s the final whammy, ‘Type up minutes and hand out copies to attendees’ (OK, now it’s time to
really
panic).

‘You know, I never received my copy of the minutes to the last meeting,’ she continues pointedly.

‘Oh, didn’t you?’ I feign an innocent expression. ‘That’s odd, they must have got lost in the internal post. Or something.’ That ‘something’ being me deliberately leaving her off the mailing list. Well, it’s hard enough without her picking them apart.

‘Can you resend them?’ She raises a thin, pencilled-on eyebrow. For some bizarre reason she appears to have plucked away her real eyebrows, then crayoned them back on in harsh black arches. ‘Sooner rather than later. If you don’t mind.’ She switches on that fake smile again.

‘Um . . . yes, of course,’ I nod, crossing my fingers behind my back. Oh crap, now I’m going to have to think of another excuse. ‘OK, well, I must dash,’ I say, carefully side-stepping her. ‘Don’t want to be late for the meeting!’

Lunging for the door, I make my escape and hurry back into the office. Anyway, it’s not like I have time to think about getting minutes to Wendy right now, I need to get to Sir Richard. He usually likes to brief me before we go in to a meeting as he knows I find them – how does he put it? – ah, yes, that’s right: C
hallenging.
Which probably isn’t the word I would choose, but then mine’s unprintable.

Passing the kitchen, I grab his usual morning cup of coffee – black, three sugars – and go over to his office. That’s odd. Normally his door is wide open – part of his ‘no barriers’ approach to the company – but today it’s firmly closed. I knock on it. There’s no answer. Confused, I wait for a moment, then balancing the coffee in one hand, I turn the handle and push it open.

The office is in darkness, the Venetian blinds pulled down, and as I step inside it appears empty. Then I hear something. A faint rattling noise. What on earth’s that? Feeling a slight tremor, I look around, my eyes trying to adjust, but it’s difficult to see anything. And I’m not sure where the light switch is. Oh my god, there’s that noise again! What the hell is it? Maybe an animal’s got trapped in here overnight, like a stray cat,
or maybe a fox
! Suddenly all those newspaper headlines come flooding back about people being ripped to shreds in savage attacks . . . no, don’t be ridiculous. That’s just newspaper hype. Foxes are lovely creatures.

There’s a loud rustle.

Fuck.

Dumping the coffee on the desk, I quickly yank up the blinds.

Sharp, wintry sunlight streams in, flooding the office, and I hear a loud splutter behind me. ‘
What the heavens . . . ?
’

I twirl around to see a figure lying on the sofa, covered in an old blanket.

‘Sir Richard!’ I gasp in shock.

Grappling around for his glasses on the coffee table, he shoves them on. ‘Oh Tess, it’s you . . .’ Vacuuming his throat, he quickly throws off the blanket and sits upright. I notice he’s slept in his suit. So that explains why it’s been looking even more crumpled than usual.

‘Is everything OK?’ Quickly I shut the door behind me. My eyes take in everything: an overflowing holdall on the floor, a toothbrush . . . how long has he been sleeping here?

‘I’m terribly sorry, you shouldn’t have had to see me like this.’ He begins apologising profusely and trying to tame the fronds of hair that look like a dead spider plant perched on the top of his head.

‘Oh don’t worry, I’ve seen much worse – you should meet my flatmate,’ I try joking, passing him his cup of coffee.

He takes it from me gratefully and takes a thirsty gulp.

For a moment nobody speaks.

‘OK, well, perhaps I should just wait outside . . .’ I make a move towards the door.

‘Lady Blackstock and I are getting divorced. I’ve moved out.’

I turn to look at him in astonishment. ‘Oh I’m so sorry, I had no idea . . .’

‘No, don’t be,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Our marriage has been over for a long time, it’s for the best.’

‘But where are you going to go? You can’t stay here.’ I look at his large frame perched on the tiny sofa. It looks terribly uncomfortable; he can’t have got much sleep.

‘This was just a temporary measure, until I sorted myself out . . . I’d normally stay at my club but I didn’t want everyone there knowing my business . . .’ He trails off awkwardly. ‘Anyway, I went to view some flats in town yesterday.’

So that’s where he sneaked off to yesterday, I realise. No wonder it wasn’t in the diary.

‘I move into one this weekend.’

We’re interrupted by the shrill ringing of the telephone on his desk and, quickly gathering himself up from the sofa, he answers it. ‘Thanks, we’ll be right there.’ Replacing the receiver he turns to me. ‘That was Wendy, kindly reminding us that everyone is assembled in the conference room,’ he says, a slight note of irritation in his voice. Tucking in a shirt flap, he goes to fasten his crumpled jacket, then tuts loudly. ‘Oh bugger, the button must have fallen off.’

I glance across at him and feel a trace of alarm. He might be the CEO but he looks a complete shambles. As his PA I can’t let him go into the meeting like this.

‘Hang on, take your jacket off a minute,’ I say quickly.

Confusion flashes across his face. ‘But . . . ?’

‘Your jacket. Take it off,’ I instruct, holding out my hand impatiently. He hesitates – and I realise too late I really shouldn’t be bossing my boss around – before dutifully taking it off and handing it to me. Quickly I turn it inside out. ‘Yup, I thought so. Look, there’s a spare button on the inside,’ I say triumphantly, showing him.