Don’t You Forget About Me (51 page)

‘Sorry buddy,’ I whisper, tickling his ear and showering him with pitta crumbs. He gives another little grumble, then curls up again, tucking his tail neatly underneath him so he resembles a big, hairy orange croissant.

Picking up the remote, I turn on my little portable TV and start flicking absently through the channels, while munching on half-stale, half-toasted pitta. There’s nothing on, just a bunch of soaps and bad reality shows and I’m just ruminating over the important topic of where would I be without pitta bread and Flea, which are the two main staples of life – well, apart from Gramps
of course
, when I see it.

It’s some entertainment show and they’re doing a news bulletin about some actor who’s got a part in a new hospital drama:

‘
From bog roll to dream role .
. .’

I stare rigidly at the TV as the presenter begins his introduction.

‘
. . . an actor whose previous claim to fame was a certain commercial is set to become a new hearthrob as Dr Lawrence in
Accident and Emergency
, a new prime-time series .
. .’

A photograph flashes up on the screen.

Oh my god.
It’s Fergus
. He got the part after all! No wonder he hasn’t been into the office lately, he must have left the courier company when he got the role.

‘Tess?’

Vaguely I hear the door slam and Fiona’s voice call out, but I can’t answer. I’m staring at the screen, transfixed.

‘Tess, are you home?’ She appears at my bedroom door, all breathless and flushed.

‘There you are!’ she exclaims.

I’m still glued to the TV and she glances at the screen.

‘That him, isn’t it?’ she says after a pause. I told her all about the long story that was Fergus this past week.

I nod wordlessly.

‘I take it you haven’t heard from him, then?’ She raises a hopeful eyebrow.

I shake my head. ‘And I’m not going to,’ I say resignedly.

She plonks herself down on the bed, and gives my arm a comforting squeeze.

‘Well, it’s lucky I’m here, because I’ve got something that will cheer you up,’ she says, encouragingly, flashing me a smile.

‘It’s going to take more than a bag of Maltesers this time,’ I smile ruefully, knowing her tried-and-tested cure-all.

‘No, it’s a lot better than that.’ She starts rummaging around her bag, which is gigantic and filled to the brim with who knows what, until finally she pulls out a magazine. ‘
Ta daaah!
’

I look at it blankly. ‘A magazine?’

‘Not just any magazine, it’s my magazine! It’s not on sale till tomorrow but I got an early copy and look, it’s my article,’ she says, quickly flicking to the page and spreading it out in front of me.

‘Oh that’s great Fiona, well done,’ I nod, my eyes glancing over the photographs of models posing with different beauty products. And it is great – though to be honest, Fiona has done hundreds of shoots, I don’t know why she’s so excited about this one.

‘No, I’m not talking about
my
stuff,’ she exclaims, as if it’s perfectly obvious what she’s going on about it. She flicks over a page. ‘I’m talking about your bag! Look!’ she demands, jabbing it with her finger.

I look at where she’s pointing, and there, sure enough, taking up the whole page, is a glossy photograph of a model with my bag slung over her shoulder.

‘Wow, yes,’ I say, feeling a surprised rush of pleasure. Fiona gave me back the bag a few days ago, but it’s strange to see it in a photograph in a magazine. ‘It looks good, doesn’t it?’

‘Good? It looks bloody fantastic!’ tuts Fiona, flicking over onto the next page. ‘And look, the stylist loved it so much, she used it here as well.’

Gosh. So she did. Somewhat stunned, I stare at all the different colour photographs: there’s one where my bag is filled with beauty products; another where they’re spilling over the sides and you can see the lining; another close-up where you can see the tiny sequins; one with the model and the leather handles against her bare skin . . . I feel myself swell up with pride. I knew I’d done a good job, but even so, it looks so much better than I ever dared dream.

‘And that’s not all,’ announces Fiona. Turning over the pages to the end of the shoot, she points out the credits
. Photographer: Jean-Claude. Model: Amy@ TrueInc. Stylist: Amy Woods. Beauty Writer: Fiona Mannering
.
Bag by Tess Connelly
.

‘Oh my god!’ I gasp. I stare at it in amazement. I got my name in a magazine, and not for me, but for my bag, for something I made.

‘Isn’t that great?’ enthuses Fiona.

‘Wait till I tell Gramps, he won’t believe it,’ I say excitedly. But knowing Gramps, he will. He always said I had a gift; he always believed I could do it. Just like Fergus. As he flicks back into my mind, I feel a prick of sadness. I can’t tell him. I can’t share this with him.

I glance once more at the TV, then turn it off. ‘You know, I think I’ll get an early night,’ I say, closing the magazine.

‘Too much excitement, hey?’ grins Fiona.

‘Yeh, something like that,’ I smile back. And it’s true, it is exciting. My bag in
Saturday Speaks
magazine. Not bad for a first effort. You never know, this might be a first step towards my dream of actually selling one. Hope flickers like a flame. I’ve been thinking about work and I’m not sure what I’m going to do, apart from sign on with some temp agencies, do some dog walking, a bit of babysitting. But maybe now if I work on my bags in my spare time . . . maybe this is a start . . . maybe one day I’ll get a whole photoshoot with my bags.

Well, a girl can dream, can’t she?

Leaving Fiona, I go into the bathroom to wash and get ready for bed. I’m in the middle of cleaning my teeth when I hear Fiona’s phone ringing. It’s probably Richard; they’re never off the phone from each other, when they’re not spending all their time together. I’m getting used to it. Though I’ve made Fiona promise she’ll put a lock on the bathroom door before he stays over. After what happened last time . . . Fair enough, he might not be my boss any more, but bumping into Sir Richard on the loo . . .

I shudder.

‘Sorry, it’s who? Oh . . . yes . . . no . . . don’t worry, it’s fine to ring so late . . .’

Hmm, wonder who she’s talking to? Not Richard, there would have been about five ‘darlings’ by now. Plus, she’s suddenly put on her posh voice.

‘If you’d care to hold the line one moment.’

She appears at the bathroom door, her hand clamped over her BlackBerry.

‘It’s for you.’ Her face has gone a funny pink colour.

I pause, mid-brushing. ‘Who is it?’ I ask, through a mouthful of spearmint froth.

‘Super Chic.’

‘Who’s Super Chic?’

Fiona looks at me in shocked disbelief. ‘You’ve never heard of Super Chic?’ she exclaims.

Something tells me I should have. ‘Um . . . no,’ I shake my head.

‘It’s only the hottest, most talked-about fashion website! It has its own online store – everybody uses it . . .’ She breaks off and looks at me, obviously remembering I’m a charity shop junkie.

‘Oh I see . . .’ I nod, then frown in confusion. ‘But why do Super Chic want to speak to me?’

She’s going a really funny pink colour now,
and is she trembling
?

‘It’s the head buyer,’ she gasps. ‘She saw your bag and she’s sorry to call so late but she’s too excited to wait until tomorrow morning and . . .’ She breaks off, almost breathless, before the rest of her words come tumbling out. ‘You’re not going to believe this,
but they want to place an order
!’

What?

Stunned, I stare at Fiona. For a moment I can’t take her words in; it’s as if they remain floating above me in giant bubbles. I can’t believe what she’s just said, what this means, how a dream can just come true in the blink of an eye.

And now she’s holding out the phone to me, and with nerves, excitement, joy and disbelief fluttering in my stomach, I take it from her.

‘Hello, Tess Connelly speaking.’

They always say you’ve got to start somewhere. When they interview famous businesswomen, successful entrepreneurs, or even novelists, they always talk about how they started out in their garage, or set up their business in a spare bedroom, or did their writing in a café to keep themselves warm. For me, it was in our bathroom that didn’t have a lock.

Because there, standing on our shaggy bathmat, in my Snoopy pyjamas with a mouth full of toothpaste, I take my very first order of what is to become Bags by Tess Connelly Designs.

And that’s only the beginning.

Chapter 42

New Year’s Eve

Outside the temperature is minus god-knows-what and sleeting. I swear, sleet has to be the worst kind of weather known to man. Rain isn’t too bad, so long as you’ve got an umbrella, and snow can be lovely when it’s all fresh and white and powdery. But the combination of the two is freezing, slushy ice pellets that soak you to the skin, ruin your shoes, and make every single cab in London disappear into thin air.

I’m not kidding, I can’t see one single yellow light. But I can see tons of girls in party dresses and fake tan. Shivering and trying to shelter, they’re searching vainly for a cab to take them to their parties before a) it hits midnight or b) they freeze to death or c) both. Seriously, it’s hell out there.

Which is why I’m so happy to be inside, all snug as a bug in a rug, I smile to myself, drawing my face away from the window and the scene below on the street.

It’s New Year’s Eve and I’m in my flat with the central heating full on so it’s like the Bahamas. After going home to spend Christmas at Mum and Dad’s, which meant listening to my little brother, who’s back from his gap year, say every five minutes, ‘Would you believe it, but this time last year we were sitting on Bondi Beach’, I finally decided to come out and admit I didn’t like New Year’s Eve.

Mum was a bit upset. She couldn’t understand why her daughter wanted to go back to London to stay in on her own, when she could be joining them at the local village hall, ‘as they’re having a disco and everything’. But after last year, I decided that this year I was going to finally be true to myself, and that meant no more crappy parties, no more fighting traffic and no more trying to look as though I’m having the most fun ever whilst wishing I was at home in my pyjamas.

Which is why I turned down all the party invitations and will be spending the evening at home with Flea, drinking a bottle of Cava, eating takeaway pizza and watching the new Johnny Depp movie on DVD.
Whilst already wearing my pyjamas
. I can’t wait.

Plus, it gives me a chance to reflect on the past year – and believe me when I say it, it’s been quite some year.

So much has happened since Fiona got that phone call from Super Chic all those months ago. I’ve gone from making one bag with Gramps on his old sewing machine, to owning my own business and employing a small team of people (including Gramps, whose new title is Creative Consultant) and producing hundreds. I’ve even got my own logo and a website that Ali set up for me, and orders are flooding in. We can hardly keep up. Plus we’ve got all these new designs and fabrics, and I’ve got so many different ideas . . .

I have to stop myself before I get carried away. I get like that. Sometimes I almost have to pinch myself just thinking about it. It really is a dream come true.

And that’s not all that’s changed. I glance at a photograph above the fireplace. It’s a picture of Fiona and Sir Richard on their wedding day, together with Tallulah and Monty with flowers in their collars. They got married this summer on his family’s estate in Scotland, and he’s wearing a kilt, whereas Fiona fulfilled her bridal fantasy of wearing her grandmother’s dress. Apparently she’d never been able to fit into it before, but since meeting Sir Richard, she’s dropped a couple of dress sizes. Not that he cares about her weight, but that’s probably why. It’s as if, as soon as it ceased to matter, the pounds just melted away.

Well, until recently, but now she’s started putting them back on. Only this time she’s got a good excuse: Fiona’s four months pregnant. Sorry, I mean Lady Blackstock. God, I still can’t believe it. Fiona is now a lady! Not only that but she’s swapped her stilettos for a pair of Hunter wellies and is now living in the country. I’m now renting the whole flat from her – well, there didn’t seem much point in moving out. Flea likes it here, plus I’ve turned Fiona’s bedroom into my design studio.

But Fiona isn’t the only one who got lucky in love. Gramps and Cécilie are never apart, although their love is of a different kind. His heart still belongs to Nan, as it always will, but in Cécilie he’s found someone to share his love of poker; and in Gramps she’s found someone to dance with again. On weekends they have tea dances at Hemmingway House, and they’re always the first to take to the floor, waltzing around the common room in their finest suits and dresses.

As for his health, with Cécilie’s help we finally got him to see a doctor, and as we feared, he’s in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. The good news – if there is any good news with this disease – is that no one knows how quickly or slowly it will progress. So far he’s doing well; he’s got Cécilie to jog his memory and, like she always says in that wonderful French accent of hers, ‘We are all making new memories every day.’