Don't You Forget About Me Part 33

'Before you say anything, I can explain,' I blurt. 'My boyfriend took me s...o...b..arding to France as a surprise, only he didn't tell me we were going to fly back today and when I made him try to change the flights they were all busy, so I didn't get in till nearly lunchtime, but I'll stay late tonight and make up for all the time missed . . .'

'Thank you Tess, I'm sure you will,' smiles Sir Richard, 'but that's not the reason I called you in here.'

'It's not?' I look at him in confusion. 'But-'

'Please, close the door and sit down,' he says, gesturing to the chair opposite.

His tone is serious again and, suddenly nervous, I push the door to, then perch myself on the edge of my chair. My mind is racing. Normally in a situation like this I'd be expecting to be told I'm losing my job, only I know that already.

'Can I be a.s.sured in the first instance that anything I tell you in this room goes no further?' he asks gravely, pushing his gla.s.ses onto the bridge of his nose.

For the first time I notice he's not wearing his old tortoisesh.e.l.l ones, but a trendy designer pair.

'Um, yes . . . of course,' I nod hastily.

Gosh, I wonder what he's going to tell me? Unexpectedly a thought strikes. Oh no, please don't tell me he's going to confess his online p.o.r.n addiction! I feel a flurry of panic as he clears his throat and I almost want to squeeze my eyes shut tight.

I swallow hard. Remember, Tess, be calm and mature. Calm and mature.

'It's about the company-'

Phew, what a relief!

Sir Richard raises his eyebrows in surprise. 'I'm sorry?'

'Oh, nothing . . . you were saying,' I fl.u.s.ter, realising I'd spoken out loud.

Steepling his fingers, he looks at me solemnly. 'I don't know if you are aware, but my great grandfather, Sir Angus Blackstock, founded Blackstock and White, along with his great friend Ross White, in 1882.'

'Yes, I read that in the company brochure,' I nod diligently.

'Four generations have worked here, each one taking this company from strength to strength, and when I took over from my father and became CEO thirty years ago, it was with the desire to do the same. A desire to pa.s.s on a legacy of achievement and expansion. Sadly my son Edmund has never wanted to enter into the family business, choosing instead a different career of sorts . . .'

He doesn't need to finish his sentence. Everyone in the office knows about Edmund, his estranged son, who works in a bar in Ibiza and, according to his Facebook profile, seems to spend his whole time partying and wearing neon vests.

'But regardless, I wanted to leave to my successor, whoever that may be, a legacy of strong growth . . .' He pauses, then lowers his voice. 'However, because of the current economic crisis affecting Europe, nay the world, I am sad to say that that might not be the case.'

He breaks off to clear his throat, then heaves a deep sigh. 'Blackstock and White is in trouble, Tess.'

I jerk my head up.

'Trouble?' I repeat. I might not be the most business-minded of people (I once joined in a conversation with Seb and some of his friends about footsie by merrily regaling how when I'd first met my teenage boyfriend's parents, I'd flirtily rubbed my stockinged foot up against his underneath the dinner table, only to later discover it had been his father's. Which was embarra.s.sing enough, but made more so when I realised they were talking about the FTSE.) However, trouble is trouble, whichever way you spell it.

Sir Richard nods seriously. 'So far I've managed to avoid making any redundancies, but I'm not sure how long this can continue for with the current market trends, which is why my trip to India tomorrow is so crucial. India is one of the largest emerging markets, and in contrast to what's happening in Europe, they've experienced double-digit growth in the alcoholic drinks market over the last two years. If my trip is successful, and we can broker a deal with one of the key players, it could keep Blackstock and White going for another hundred and thirty years.'

He looks at me, his eyes shining, and for a few moments I can tell he's considering the future of the company as a bright one; that he really does believe he can turn the company's fortunes around.

'I probably shouldn't be telling you all this, Tess,' he continues with a smile, 'but as my PA and support this past year, I feel as if we've worked well together as a team. I know all the hard work you've put in to help organise this trip and, before I leave tomorrow, I just wanted to let you know that I really do appreciate it.'

'Why, thank you,' I reply, almost blushing at his compliment.

'No, thank you, Tess. This isn't just another business trip, it's much more than that, and I felt it was important for you to know how significant all your efforts have been, and for me to thank you for the part you've played in all this. Especially during what's been quite how shall I put it? a transitional period in my personal life,' he adds awkwardly.

'Oh, don't mention it, I was only doing my job,' I say breezily, trying not to think about that time I found him on the sofa a couple of weeks back, all crumpled and unshaven. To be honest, that seems so long ago now. Since then he's all smartened up and got his mojo back it's like he's a changed man.

'I shall miss this company but I shall take solace in the fact that I'm leaving it in the best position it's ever been in.'

'I know you will,' I smile. 'I've got every faith. We all have.'

'Splendid.'

He makes to stand up, which I take as my cue to leave, and I get up out of my chair.

'Oh, and I'd prefer it if we just kept this between ourselves,' he adds. 'I don't want anyone worrying about their job security, especially in this recession. Fingers crossed they won't have to.'

'Of course,' I nod. I think about Kym and her holiday booked to Ibiza next year, the girl in Accounts who's having a baby, John in Marketing who's just got married and is buying a house.

'Oh, and Tess, just one more thing.'

I turn.

'I just had a quick look through all the paperwork for the India trip and it all seems to be in order, except you haven't returned my pa.s.sport. I know it was sent off to the emba.s.sy for the correct visa, so I'm a.s.suming you must still have it.'

'I'll go and fetch it,' I reply confidently. 'I've probably filed it away in a drawer, or in my in-tray.'

'Just as long as it's not been lost in the post,' he chuckles jovially.

'Ha, yes,' I laugh.

Leaving his office, I go back to my desk to get his pa.s.sport. To be honest, there's been so much going on in the past few weeks that I can't actually remember sending it off to the emba.s.sy, but I must have, as there are no Post-it notes about it on my computer screen. I only peel them off when whatever it is it's reminding me to do is ticked off my list. Maybe not the most orthodox of organisation systems, but it works perfectly for me.

So if I hadn't sent it off, it'd still be left on there. And it's not, I tell myself firmly, turning my attentions to my in-tray.

I rummage around for a bit, but there's no sign of any pa.s.sport. How odd. I wonder if the emba.s.sy sent it back? Gosh, I do hope so, I muse, feeling a flicker of worry. I quickly dismiss it and start going through the piles of paperwork on my desk instead. I always pay the extra fee to get the visas expedited and couriered back. So it can't have got lost; it must be here somewhere.

Out of the corner of my eye I spot a flash of pink. A sc.r.a.p of colour almost hidden in the gap between the monitor and the bit where all the cables go. I feel a slight iciness around the bottom of my spine. What's that? I try to reach it with my fingers but it must have fallen down the back and become wedged. Grabbing a ruler, I try to poke it out. The iciness is creeping up my spine but I pay no attention. It's nothing. Probably an old flyer. Or something that's fallen out of a magazine. Nothing important at all.

It's a Post-it note.

All scrunched up and torn where I've stabbed it with the ruler, but most definitely a Post-it note. Realising my mouth's gone dry, I swallow hard, then, with trepidation, smooth it out.

I stare at my scrawled handwriting with disbelief.

VISA.

Just one, seemingly innocuous word, but it's enough to send me reeling. Oh no. Please tell me I'm wrong. Please tell me . . . I can't even finish the thought before I'm gripped with panic.

OK, come on, calm down, I instruct myself firmly. Let's not jump to conclusions. So I've found a Post-it. So what? It's a ridiculous b.l.o.o.d.y system anyway. Sticking Post-it notes as reminders on my computer screen. Honestly! It doesn't definitely mean I haven't done it. I've applied for dozens of visas for Sir Richard in the past. Admittedly I always leave it until the last minute to send it to the emba.s.sy, but I've never just forgotten.

I try to focus, but my mind is spinning. I can't think straight. You're looking for his pa.s.sport, I remind myself sharply. Yes, of course, I just need to find Sir Richard's pa.s.sport, check the visa's in there and then I can stop worrying over nothing. It's like when I think I've lost my keys and they're in my bag the whole time, I just can't recollect putting them in there. It will be the same with this Indian visa, I'm sure of it.

I start emptying the contents of my desk drawers, in the middle of which Wendy the Witch strides past and makes some comment about the state of my desk and how 'a tidy desk makes a tidy mind', but I don't answer. I'm too busy frantically rummaging through piles of c.r.a.p . . . packet of Cup-a-Soup . . . emergency pair of tights . . . mini sewing kit . . . an envelope with some forms inside and oh my G.o.d, here it is! Sir Richard Blackstock's pa.s.sport!

With a burst of relief I pull it out of the envelope and start flicking through it. It's filled with visas from all his foreign travel. China . . . Hong Kong . . . Australia . . . the rest are blank pages.

No, that can't be right. I went too quickly, I must have missed it. I start again. Slowly this time. Page by page. I reach the end.

No, it can't be.

There's no Indian visa.

I stare at the blank pages in horror. It's not there! The Post-it note must have fallen off my computer screen and I never sent off his pa.s.sport to the emba.s.sy.

And his flight goes first thing tomorrow.

I glance frantically at the clock, but it's already nearly four o'clock. It's too late. By the time I get a taxi to the emba.s.sy, it will be closed. Plus, there's no way they'd process it there and then.

Suddenly Sir Richard's voice plays in my head. 'So far I've managed to avoid making any redudancies, but I'm not sure how long this can continue for with the current market trends, which is why my trip to India tomorrow is so crucial . . . This isn't just another business trip, it's much more than that.' As I start to take in the consequences I feel sick. I've f.u.c.ked up. I've f.u.c.ked up big time.

My heart is racing and I feel dizzy.

What the h.e.l.l am I going to do?

Chapter 32.

'Tess? Are you OK? Tess?'

It's like I've dived underwater. Everything has receded and I'm only vaguely aware of m.u.f.fled noises, but I can't make out what they are. Instead there's a growing sound in my ears as I sink lower and lower into the depths. A whooshing that's getting louder as everything else diminishes. Fades away around the edges. Disappears into the darkness- 'TESS!'

I suddenly come up for air to see Fergus peering at me with a worried expression.

'Huh?' I mumble. I feel dizzy. Like I'm going to faint.

'Crikey woman, what's got into you?' he complains.

My mind's like a computer booting up again. Sh.e.l.l-shocked, I stare at him for a few moments. 'I've done something terrible,' I finally manage in a whisper.

'You've done what?' he frowns, leaning closer to hear me.

I swallow hard, trying to slow my racing heart. 'I'm in big trouble,' I say in a low voice.

'Don't tell me, you've been busted for impersonating your voicemail again?' he quips, snapping on a mischievous grin.

'It's really bad,' I'm muttering to myself now as the consequences of my mistake start to run away from me like a line of toppling dominoes.

'What's worse than pretending to be an answering machine?' he laughs.

'Fergus, this isn't funny!' I snap, close to tears. 'This is really serious.'

He looks taken aback by my outburst. 'Sorry, I didn't realise . . .' Coming around the side of my desk, he pulls out my chair. 'Look, sit down, tell me all about it-'

'I don't have time!' I almost shriek.

Kym, who's on her way back from the Ladies, shoots a surprised look across at us.

'What are you two up to?' she asks, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.

G.o.d, the last thing I need is Kym finding out what I've done. Or haven't done.

Though she's going to find out soon enough, I realise, a surge of panic rising up again. Everyone will find out soon enough.

'Oh, nothing,' I say, forcing my voice to stay level. 'Fergus is just driving me mad as usual.' I give a tight little laugh.

'Ha, ha, yeh, that's right, I'm driving her crazy,' joins in Fergus.

Given he's an actor, that laugh couldn't be more fake. It's like canned laughter, only worse.

'Hmm, right . . .' nods Kym, but she doesn't look convinced. 'Well, don't leave me out if it's some office gossip,' she says, a little sulkily. 'I'm bored rigid.'

'We won't,' I say airily, forcing a wide smile as she continues on to reception.

f.u.c.k. If she wants gossip, how about the company is about to collapse because I've just screwed up the CEO's crucial trip to Delhi, and everyone's going to lose their jobs?

At the thought I go cold and on impulse I grab my coat. Shoving Sir Richard's pa.s.sport back into the envelope with all the paperwork, I stick it in my pocket.

'Where are you going?' Fergus shoots me a worried expression.

'I don't know . . .' I trail off, shaking my head. 'I just need to get some air. Breathe. Think.'

'Wait, I'm coming with you.'

Without hesitation he follows me as I rush outside, past Kym in reception, who looks up from the phone as we hurry past and opens her mouth to say something; but she's too late, I'm already out through the automatic doors with Fergus right behind me.

'What's going on?' he gasps, as the cold air hits us.

I hesitate. There's a part of me that doesn't want to say it out loud. I'm the only person who knows right now, and if I don't acknowledge it I can almost fool myself it's not really happening.

'Tess, tell me!' demands Fergus.

My heart is hammering in my chest. I don't want to tell him, because as soon as I do, it becomes real.