Don’t You Forget About Me (5 page)

‘Now listen, you’re under strict orders to enjoy the rest of the party and get horribly drunk,’ I instruct, giving her a big hug before she can protest any further. ‘And, by the way, I think Henry the Eighth has got the hots for you.’ I gesture across the room to a guy who’s wearing breeches, a fake-fur cape and has a big ginger beard stuck on his face.

‘That’s what they said to Anne Boleyn, and look what happened to her,’ she pouts sulkily, finishing off her glass and starting on mine.

She glances across at him.

He winks.

‘Then again, maybe he’s worth losing my head over,’ she says and, as I watch her sucking in her stomach, I leave her to flirt and dash outside to the waiting cab.

Chapter 4

‘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.

God, 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 washing-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 finishing 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 snatched 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 sexy 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 glass.

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.

Damn. 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 glass of champagne and two very large tequila shots down already, and now it seems like a bloody marvellous idea. As does finishing 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 prickle, 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 arse 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 space-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. Sexy 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 shoebox.

And yet . . .

And yet inside it holds something just as important to me. Something even more valuable. Because inside is my relationship 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 Institute 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 shore 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 clashing 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 sex . . .

Card with a picture of a snowbunny on the front

Seb adored snowboarding 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 snowboarded 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 après-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.