Don't You Forget About Me Part 1

Don't You Forget About Me.

Alexandra Potter.

For my dad.

Ray Potter.

Who loved and laughed and lived and left And nothing will ever be the same again.

A New Year's Eve Ritual.

Many ancient cultures believe in the magic of New Year's Eve to cleanse yourself of anything from the old year that you don't wish to take into the coming one. Be it fears or regrets, heartache or painful memories, ill-health or bad habits, this is the time you can leave the past behind and move, unburdened, into the future.

First light a fire. Then take a piece of paper and write a list, or use pictures, or some other symbol to represent the things you want to be rid of and, at the stroke of midnight, throw them into the flames.

As they burn away, sparks will well and truly fly. So make a wish. Because it will be carried on these sparks, sending your hopes and dreams out to the universe, to be blown by the wind, into the New Year . . .

Dear Diary,

Seb and I broke up.

Well, that's not strictly true. He broke up with me. He said he loved me but wasn't in love with me, that it would probably be better if we break up, how he hopes we'll always remain friends . . .

But you know the worst thing of all? When he told me he couldn't see a future with me. That pretty much broke my heart.

I'm not sure what to write now. Shall I write that I still feel numb? That it's only been a few hours and I still can't believe it's over? That I know that soon the shock is going to wear off, like an anaesthetic at the dentist, and I'm terrified of the pain?

Or shall I write that I know it's all my fault. That there are so many things I wish I'd done differently. So many regrets. So many 'what ifs'. But now it's too late. I've never loved anyone like I love Seb, and now I've lost him.

I miss him already.

Chapter 1.

What's on your mind?

Sitting at my desk, I rest my chin on my hand and stare glumly at my computer screen.

Facebook stares back.

Correction: Taunts me with everyone else's marvellous love life.

Scrolling down, I read through my friends' status updates: Chrissie Hattersley is loving the Gucci handbag her boyfriend bought her for Christmas.

Jenny Hamilton-Proctor Looking forward to celebrating New Year's Eve with my perfect hubby and baby. I am so blessed.

Aneela Patel Imran b.u.t.t.

Melody Dabrowski Andy popped the question, and I said yes!

Sara Jenkins Since I can no longer fit into my jeans, it's time to spill the beans, John and I are pregnant!!!!

Emily Klein Only two sleeps before my Bali honeymoon. I CAN'T WAIT!!

Emily's going on honeymoon? I didn't even know she'd got married!

I'm distracted by an email pinging into my inbox. It's from my boss, Sir Richard, reminding me about his visa for his upcoming trip to India in the New Year.

s.h.i.t. I'd forgotten all about it.

'All under control,' I type breezily, hitting reply.

It's 3 p.m. on New Year's Eve, and while most people are either at home on the sofa, watching repeats on TV and finishing off the rest of the mince pies, or thousands of miles away on a beach in Goa, enjoying some winter sunshine, I'm ensconced in an office block in southwest London.

The office is home to Blackstock & White, drinks merchants famous for their whisky and other brand-name spirits, where I'm PA to Sir Richard Blackstock. PA. That sounds rather sw.a.n.ky, as if I should look like something out of Mad Men and be terribly efficient, but in reality I'm not the best PA in the world. In fact, to tell the truth, I'm pretty rubbish. But that's not really my fault. I was working here as a temp about a year ago, when his PA left to go on maternity leave, and Sir Richard offered me her job.

From the start I told him I wasn't PA material. I'm not entirely sure what PA material is, but I'm pretty sure it's not someone who types with two fingers, has a 'filing system' which consists of shoving everything in a drawer and then forgetting about it, and for the life of her can never remember whether it's supposed to be 'faithfully' or 'sincerely' at the end of a letter.

But Sir Richard waved away my concerns with one of his jovial smiles. Fifty-something, with a penchant for shiny brown suits and a comb-over that's fooling no one, he's the nicest boss I've ever had. Which is why it's such a shame he's retiring in a few months, I reflect, scribbling myself a reminder about his visa on a Post-it note and sticking it onto my computer which is fast becoming covered with them.

Staring at the pink and yellow Post-it wallpaper, I feel a niggle of worry. I should really start addressing some of them, otherwise pretty soon I won't be able to see my screen.

Or Facebook.

Spotting a friend's alb.u.m ent.i.tled Paradise, I start idly clicking through the pictures: there's one of a sunset . . . a view of the infinity pool . . . having his'n'hers henna tattoos . . . him with his arms wrapped around her, gazing lovingly into her eyes . . .

I heave a deep sigh. If I felt depressed before, now I feel even worse. Faced with the gift-bearing boyfriends, perfect husbands and romantic holidays, my love life, or lack of it, is thrown into sharp contrast. I mean, I know I'm lucky in lots of ways. OK, I might not have a high-flying career, but I've got a job. I've got a roof over my head (well, technically it's my flatmate Fiona's roof as she owns the flat and I rent her spare room) and, as my mum is always fond of telling me, 'You've got your health, Tess.'

Still, it would be nice to have my health and an adoring boyfriend.

Abandoning their alb.u.m I look back at the nagging question next to my profile picture, 'What's on your mind?', I feel a familiar knot in my stomach. I've been trying to ignore it, but it's impossible.

One word: Seb.

To tell the truth, he's never off my mind. He's on it from the moment I wake up in the morning to the moment I go to bed. Ever since we broke up two months ago. Well, actually it was two months, one week and three days.

Yes, I'm still counting.

Two months, one week and three days since we had 'that conversation'. Well, I call it a conversation, but that implies a communication between two people. In actual fact it was mostly Seb telling me he loved me but wasn't in love with me, whilst trying to avoid eye contact and staring uncomfortably down at his trainers, and me sitting across from him on the sofa, fighting back tears and trying not to let him see my heart was breaking.

We'd been together for nearly a year and I really, really loved him. I loved that he was American and so different to me, with his strange cultural references, addiction to soy lattes and habit of misp.r.o.nouncing the tube stations (he once called Leicester Square Lie-ces-ter Square). Loved that he was successful and smart and had these big broad shoulders that I could snuggle up against, into what I used to call 'the nook'. I even loved his terrible guitar playing his rendition of 'Wonderwall' was his favourite and it was so cute and rather adorable how he could never remember half the chords.

And then of course there was the s.e.x. At the memory I feel a familiar tugging inside. I really loved that bit.

Some people grow to love each other. Start out as friends. But with Seb it was instantaneous. He was The One. From the moment we'd gone on our first date, and I'd been so nervous I'd clumsily knocked my gla.s.s of red wine all over his lap, I knew I was a goner. There was no point trying to resist. I was going to fall in love with him and there was nothing I could do about it.

What I didn't know was just how hard I was going to fall.

Since 'that conversation that wasn't really a conversation', I haven't heard from him, apart from the odd text 'just to say hi' and an e-card wishing me a Merry Christmas. But I only have myself to blame. Although he never said it, deep down I know it's all my fault we broke up, I'm the reason it didn't work out between us, and I can't help thinking if I'd done things differently we'd still be together . . .

Feeling the tears p.r.i.c.kling my eyelashes, I hastily blink them away. Anyway, there's no point going over it all. You don't get to rehea.r.s.e a relationship so you can get it right second time around. Seb and I are over and I need to forget all about him and move on.

'Wow, it's like a ghost town in here.'

I look up sharply from my computer screen to see a tall figure wearing a neon green vest and bicycle helmet striding through the foyer. Reaching into the messenger bag strapped across his chest, he pulls out a package and, seeing there's no one on reception today, heads down the corridor towards me.

'Where is everyone?' he asks in a thick Irish accent, glancing around the office and the empty desks strewn with the remnants of Christmas decorations.

'Getting engaged . . . going on honeymoon to Bali . . . having his-and-hers henna tattoos . . .'

He frowns in confusion. 'Henna tattoos?'

'Sorry, just ignore me.' Batting the question away with my hand, I force a smile and take the package from him. 'Thanks-'

'Fergus,' he prompts, unprompted.

'Oh, right . . . Fergus,' I nod.

He's one of our regular bicycle couriers. I've seen him popping in and out of reception, but we've never really spoken before, apart from a couple of times when Kym, our receptionist, has popped to the loo and I've had to sign for urgent parcels. We used to employ a firm of motorcycle despatch riders and van drivers, but about six months ago Sir Richard, the CEO, went all green and sent out a memo insisting we use 'pedal not petrol power' and we started using bicycle couriers.

'Grand,' replies Fergus cheerfully. 'Nearly had a punch-up with some w.a.n.ker in a Porsche who doesn't know his a.r.s.e from his indicator, but other than that . . .' Tugging off his helmet, he runs a gloved hand through a tangled shock of black hair. It's the first time I've seen his face properly and I realise he's actually quite good-looking. 'How's about you . . . ?' Raising an eyebrow he glances at the little nameplate on my desk. 'Tess Connelly.' He looks up and flashes me a flirtatious grin.

'Oh fine,' I fib, and begin briskly shuffling random papers around on my desk. I've seen him flirting with all the office girls in reception and I'm not going to fall for his charms. 'Busy.'

'Right, yeh,' he nods, glancing dubiously around the empty office.

'In fact, I haven't stopped all afternoon,' I say haughtily.

Which is a blatant lie. Work's been dead. Nothing ever happens between Christmas and New Year and most people have taken it off as holiday, especially as they're doing a bit of an internal refurb upstairs. I only volunteered to come in because I thought it would help distract me, keep my mind off things and give me something to do other than sit on the sofa with Fiona watching daytime TV and working my way through the giant tin of Quality Street her grandparents sent her.

But I don't want this cheeky Irish bicycle courier knowing that, I decide, picking up a sheet of paper and pretending to study it. 'Ooh look, an important fax from one of our clients in Brazil.'

See, I can at least look like I'm a super-efficient PA.

'What's b.u.ms, tums and thighs?' he asks, peering over my shoulder.

'What?' I glance down at the 'important fax' and see it's a list of aerobics cla.s.ses for the gym I keep thinking about joining. Thinking being the operative word. Only with the New Year just around the corner, I'm determined it's going to be one of my resolutions. 'Oh . . . um . . . it's a new kind of Brazilian rum,' I fl.u.s.ter.

'Get away,' grins Fergus, his bright green eyes flashing with astonishment. 'Seriously?'

'Well, you know what they're like in Brazil,' I fib, crossing my fingers underneath my desk. 'It's all about the body, I mean look at Gisele . . .'

'Wow, you learn something new every day, don't you?'

'Um . . . yeh,' I nod, avoiding his gaze.

'Fancy asking for that in the pub I'll have a large b.u.ms, tums and thighs.' He lets out a throaty laugh and shakes his head. 'Jeez, wait till I tell my mates back in Dublin about this one.'

Oh f.u.c.k, me and my big mouth.

'So, did you go back to Dublin for Christmas?' I ask, quickly trying to steer the subject away from Brazilian supermodels and made-up drinks.

'No, I didn't make it back this year,' he replies, scratching the little patch of stubble sprouting on his chin. 'Thought I'd have a quiet one here instead.'

'Quiet? In London?' Coming from the country, I could never describe London as being quiet.

'I've got seven sisters, eleven nieces and two nephews,' he explains. 'Imagine them all in one room. All shouting over the top of each other. Trust me, compared to that, anywhere is quiet.'

He rolls his eyes and I can't help but smile at his woeful expression.

'What about you? Big family knees-up?'

'No,' I shake my head. 'My parents flew out to Australia to visit my brother who's backpacking around the world, so I spent it with my granddad.' My earlier resolve not to engage with Fergus is fast disappearing and I can't help being drawn into opening up.

'So you had a quiet one then too, hey?'

I think about Granddad Connelly. There're a lot of words I'd use in conjunction with him, but quiet isn't one of them. 'Not exactly,' I smile ruefully, my mind throwing up an image of me and half a dozen of his eighty-something friends cl.u.s.tered around a fold-up table in his nursing home room, feasting on mince pies and a couple of bottles of Blackstock & White whisky I brought with me, while he entertained us with his repertoire of terrible jokes.

'My grandpa's ninety-two and he's always trying to lead me astray,' he grins. 'And there was me thinking he should be sitting in a rocking chair feeding me Werther's Originals.'

'Yeh, I know, right?' I laugh, despite my mood. His cheerful humour is infectious.

'So where's the craic tonight?'

I stop laughing and look at him blankly. 'Craic?'

'You know, the party . . . New Year's Eve,' he prompts.

'Oh, right, of course.' I've been trying to block it out all day. New Year's Eve isn't exactly the best date in the diary for someone nursing a broken heart. 'I'm going to a party with my flatmate.'