Don't You Forget About Me Part 4

'Happy New Year!' he chirps jovially, as if greeting me in the street.

For a moment I just stare, stunned into speechlessness, clutching my bath towel to my chest. I'm like a deer caught in headlights. Unable to say or do anything.

'Um, yeh, hi . . .' I finally manage to stammer, trying to avert my eyes from a very hairy torso which appears to be tucked into a very tight pair of white underpants. So tight you can see everything, if you know what I mean.

Arrggh. Look away Tess, look away.

I s.n.a.t.c.h my eyes away in mortification. This is not what I want to see first thing on New Year's Day. And with a raging hangover.

Oh my G.o.d, he's got moobs, I suddenly notice.

And are his nipples pierced?

'I didn't know anyone else lived here . . .'

I zone back to see him looking at me. Staring at him. My cheeks flush with embarra.s.sment. Oh f.u.c.k, Tess, what are you doing? You're supposed to be looking away, not staring at his nipples! Dropping my gaze to my feet, I begin hurriedly backing out of the bathroom.

'Oh right . . . yes . . . they do, I mean, I do . . .'

Not that there's anything wrong with pierced nipples, I mean, I'm not a prude or anything, I can do piercings, and tattoos, and . . . I trip backwards over the bathroom scales and nearly go flying. I let out a strangled yelp.

'Hey, you OK?'

'Ouch, yes, fine,' I gabble, trying to ignore the pain that's now shooting up from my big toe. 'Perfectly fine, thanks.'

'Great, well, I'm finished, so the bathroom's all yours,' he grins and strides nonchalantly past me and into the hall. With one hand, I notice, stuck down the back of his boxer shorts, giving himself an enthusiastic scratch.

Shuddering, I lunge for the door and close it firmly behind me, then collapse against it. My heart is pumping. My toe is throbbing. My head is pounding. I mean, what the h.e.l.l is some strange guy doing in our bathroom?

Like I have to ask.

Fiona.

She must have met him last night at the party and invited him back. Well, it wouldn't be the first time. Not that I'm saying she's 'a woman of loose morals', as my mother would call it, but put it this way, since moving in with Fiona I've taken to wearing earplugs when I go to bed.

And not the foam type, but the mega-strength industrial ones that are supposed to block out about a million decibels. Obviously the earplug testers have never heard Fiona having an o.r.g.a.s.m.

Wedging the laundry basket behind the door so I don't get any more surprises, I turn to the sink.

And get an even bigger shock.

Forget about the strange half-naked man in the bathroom, what about the absolute horror in the mirror? Bird's-nest hair, bloodshot eyes, last night's make-up. Which is bad enough when it's just a few coats of mascara and some lip gloss, but quite something else when it's crayoned-on whiskers and a black nose which are now smudged all over my face.

Oh my G.o.d, and is that a spider on my cheek? My heart skips a beat. Nope, it's just one of my fake eyelashes, I realise, peeling it off.

Resting my hands on the sides of the sink for support, I peer at my reflection and let out a groan. I feel as bad as I look. Or should that be: look as bad as I feel? Whatever. It's the same thing. I look, and feel, dreadful. Not exactly the brand-spanking-new me I was hoping for, New Year and all that.

Turning on the shower attachment, I tug off my Lycra catsuit that seems to have vacuum-sealed itself to my body, climb into the bathtub and set about scrubbing off make-up, cleaning teeth and washing hair, until half an hour later I emerge bare-faced, clean-haired and wrapped in my dressing gown. At least now I feel half alive. Now onto the next stage in the reconstruction of Tess Connelly. Coffee.

Padding barefoot into the kitchen I get my second surprise. Gone is the mountain of washing-up and countertops cluttered with Fiona's overflowing ashtrays and lipstick-ringed wine gla.s.ses. Instead I'm greeted by pristine surfaces, a shining, stainless sink and Fiona in full make-up and her best kimono silk dressing gown, flitting around the showroom kitchen, b.u.t.tering toast.

And hang on a minute . . . I glance at the radio on the windowsill. Instead of the usual thumping Capital Radio, is that cla.s.sical music?

'Morning,' she trills.

'Oh hi,' I reply, dazedly. I feel as if I've stepped into a parallel universe. Normally the morning after the night before, Fiona would be sitting in a zombie-like state at the kitchen table, nursing a hangover, a pot of tea, and a Marlboro light.

But instead, this morning, the half-naked man from the bathroom is sitting at the kitchen table, a display of speciality jams and herbal teas spread out before him.

Of course. So he's the reason for all this.

'This is Gareth,' continues Fiona, pa.s.sing him the toast.

'We already met,' he grins, opening her prized cognac marmalade. 'Sorry about earlier, the lock on the bathroom door didn't work.'

'Yeh, I know, it needs fixing.' I shoot a look at Fiona but she's staring dreamily at Gareth. Mentally I add it to my list of things to do around the flat. Fiona might officially be the landlady, but in the whole time I've lived with her, I don't think I've ever seen her so much as replace a light bulb.

'Another cup of peppermint and hibiscus tea?' she coos.

'Great,' he replies through a mouthful of toast. 'Mmm, this marmalade stuff is delicious.'

She smiles proudly. 'Though you don't need very much as it's so sweet,' she adds, and I can see her looking slightly alarmed as he slathers another huge dollop on a piece of toast.

'Like its owner,' winks Gareth, holding out his teacup for a refill.

Fiona blushes like a schoolgirl. 'Now, now, flattery will get you everywhere,' she giggles flirtily.

Watching this scene of domestic bliss, I change my mind about the coffee. It's too much. I'll have to get my caffeine fix at Starbucks.

I turn to leave the kitchen.

'Oh Tess,' Fiona calls after me.

I pause in the doorway.

'You haven't seen The Diptyque, have you?'

'The Diptyque?' A memory flashes across my brain, like a streaker at a cricket match. 'Umm . . . no . . .' I say, as innocently as I can, but I feel a sort of icy dread trickling down the back of my neck.

'Huh, how weird.' She frowns, and for a moment I think I'm busted and I'm going to have to come clean and confess that I borrowed it. At least with Gareth as a witness she wouldn't be able to kill me with the b.u.t.ter knife. But then she flicks her hair and shrugs, 'Well, it must be somewhere', and goes back to making herbal tea.

Which is my chance to escape and seek refuge in my bedroom, where the first thing I spot is the stolen item in question, proudly displayed on my mantelpiece. I feel a bolt of relief followed by horror as I realise all the wax has vanished. There's nothing left but an empty gla.s.s and the remnants of a wick.

f.u.c.k. I must have fallen asleep and let it burn down! I stare at it, feeling a bit sick. Forget the safety issues. Forget the fact I could have burned the flat down. Forget that we could have both been charred to a crisp. That's about forty quid's worth of candle! Gone! While I was out cold on the sheepskin rug.

Quickly grabbing hold of the evidence, I stuff the empty gla.s.s holder in my sock drawer. There's nothing else for it, I'm going to have to replace it without her knowing, which isn't going to be easy a scene from TheThomas Crown Affair flashes across my brain: the bit where Pierce Brosnan concocts that elaborate ruse in the art gallery to replace the stolen artwork without anyone noticing, and there're all those men running around in bowler hats like something from a Magritte painting.

I feel a seed of panic. Right now I can barely stand up straight, never mind think about men in bowler hats. I'll have to figure it out later, I decide, quickly throwing on my jeans and a jumper and stuffing my feet in a pair of old trainers. It's not a good look, but they're the first things I can find, and trying to plan an outfit is beyond me this morning. In fact, to be honest it's beyond me most mornings, I curse, sticking my wet hair under a woolly hat and grabbing my coat.

Outside it's one of those grey, freezing cold days. Even the trees look cold, with their branches devoid of leaves, stretching skeleton fingers into the white, frozen sky. Shoving my hands into my duvet coat to keep them warm, I start tramping down the street, my breath making white puffy clouds.

Fortunately Starbucks isn't far and it's only about ten minutes before I'm pushing open its familiar door and entering the espresso-scented warmth. Inside it's pretty quiet, just a few mums with their babies in pushchairs, and I walk straight up to the counter. Brilliant. Caffeine at last.

'I'll have a tall triple-shot latte.' I rattle off my order before the barista even has a chance to say 'hi'.

'Are you sure you want three shots in a tall size?' she asks dubiously. 'The tall size isn't very big, it will be very strong.'

'Perfect,' I smile. It's like music to my hungover ears.

Dubiously she scribbles my order on a cup. 'Anything else any croissants or m.u.f.fins or toasted sandwiches?'

'No, I'm fine thanks, just the caffeine . . . I mean coffee,' I add quickly, digging out my purse and handing over a fiver.

Collecting my change, I go and wait at the end of the counter for my latte. As the barista starts frothing the milk, I let my gaze idly wander around the cafe: at the bad artwork on the walls; the hara.s.sed mum in the corner with a toddler who seems intent on throwing his babyccino all over the floor; a guy near the window tapping away on his laptop . . .

A blast of cold air distracts me and I glance at the door, which is now being pushed open as someone else enters. Hurry up and close it behind you, it's freezing, I curse inwardly, watching as a blurry figure in a tracksuit emerges from behind the Starbucks logo on the gla.s.s and into clear view.

All at once my stomach goes into free-fall.

Oh my G.o.d, it can't be. It just can't be . . .

I stare in disbelief at the tall, broad figure walking towards me.

But it is.

Seb.

I feel as if I've just jumped out of a plane without a parachute and I'm hurtling towards the ground at a hundred miles an hour. My mind is racing. What's he doing here? I look like c.r.a.p. He's probably been for a run along the river. Has he spotted me? G.o.d, I still love him. My heart twists up inside. Last night's anger vanishes into thin air as my drunken bravado is replaced by an urge to go over and throw my arms around him.

Tugging my woolly hat down even further, I stare at my feet and try to steady my breathing, but my thoughts are running around in a mad panic. Why oh why didn't I put on some make-up? Cover the spot on my chin at least. And lip gloss what I wouldn't give for lip gloss . . . Frantically rummaging around in my pocket, I'm overjoyed to find a lip balm. This is how the prospectors must have felt when they discovered gold, I think, rubbing a blob into my lips with the desperation of a dumped woman who's just seen her ex.

For a split second I think about hiding in the loo. If I can get in there before he sees me but my pride, however battered, won't let me. Instead it pins me to the spot, makes me swallow hard, and look up.

OK. Ready. I brace myself.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

He looks right at me. Correction: He looks right through me, as if I'm not even here. His eyes just sweep over me; his face doesn't even flicker as he walks straight past me to the counter to order his coffee.

For a dazed moment I stand there in complete and utter bewilderment. Er, hang on a minute, what just happened? Can we just rewind that again? Reeling from our encounter, or lack of encounter, I stare at him in disbelief. The adrenalin is still pumping through my veins, ready for fight or flight.

What it's not ready for is nothing. Zilch. Nada.

That's it?

I was expecting an uncomfortable encounter, awkward questions, having to pin on a happy smile and feign 'everything's just great' responses.

What I wasn't expecting was to be totally ignored.

I watch as he casually does some stretching as he waits for his change. I know, maybe he didn't see me, or hang on maybe he just didn't recognise me in this woolly hat? Yes, that must be it, I tell myself firmly. He doesn't know it's me. That's why he ignored me.

Oh, who am I kidding? I'm wearing a woolly hat, not a balaclava.

'Tall triple-shot latte?'

I snap back to see the barista looking at me, eyebrows raised, and notice my coffee is waiting for me on the stand. G.o.d knows how long it's been there. 'Oh, right, thanks,' I mumble and, s.n.a.t.c.hing it up, I get the h.e.l.l out of there.

I can't believe it.

I simply cannot believe it.

In a daze I walk down the street, my memory replaying the scene as if I'm watching footage from a CCTV camera: there I am, waiting for my coffee, in he walks, looks right at me, and completely ignores me . . . Rewind, play. Here he is again, walking in, and now he's looking right at me and . . . I slow it down, frame by frame . . . nope, there's no mistake, he totally, utterly, unequivocally blanks me.

Hurt stabs painfully: How could he do that? How could he act as if he doesn't even know me? After everything we meant to each other. Followed by a flash of anger: The b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Blanking me like that! Who does he think he is? OK, so we might have broken up, he might have fallen out of love with me, but that doesn't mean he has to just ignore me!

All fired up, I take a slurp of my long-forgotten coffee. It's gone cold. d.a.m.n! He's even spoiled my coffee!

Fuelled by indignation, righteousness and lukewarm latte, I stomp the rest of the way home, not taking much notice of my surroundings. All I can think about is Seb. In fact, this time it barely even registers when I b.u.mp into Gareth on the stairs as he's leaving. Fully dressed this time, thank goodness. Though only after he's asked me where the nearest tube station is and I've given him directions do I realise he's wearing a Henry VIII costume, minus the ginger beard. So that's who he was.

Walking into the flat, I find things back to normal. The display of jams and teas has vanished, like a magic trick, and Fiona is back to her old self, collapsed on a chair in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette and flicking through last week's copy of Grazia.

Joining her, I slump onto the chair opposite, my mind still reeling. 'I just don't believe it,' I blurt after a moment, resting my coffee cup on the table.

'I know, I didn't think he was my type either,' replies Fiona, looking up from her magazine. 'I don't normally go for small men.'

'Huh?' I look across at her in confusion.

'But seriously, once you got beneath those ermine robes, it's true what they say.' She raises her eyebrows and throws me a knowing look.

'No, I'm not talking about Henry the Eighth,' I gasp in realisation. 'I'm talking about what just happened.'

'Why, what happened?'

'I just saw Seb and he blanked me!'

I wait for her reaction. Knowing Fiona, she'll have plenty to say about this. After all, she's been very vocal about my relationship in the past.

She frowns and there's a pause as she takes a drag of her cigarette. Then, quite unexpectedly, she says only two words. But they're enough to turn my whole world upside down.

'Seb who?'

Chapter 6.