Don't You Forget About Me Part 5

The ground shifts beneath me and I grip onto the side of the table to steady myself.

What did she just say?

For a moment I stare at her in bewilderment, not sure what to say or how to react.

Then suddenly I get it.

'Oh ha ha, very funny,' I grin, my body relaxing. 'You had me going there for a minute.' Feeling a flush of foolishness, I let go of the table. Of course, now I remember, I'm not supposed to talk about Seb any more or even think about him. According to Fiona, this is the only way I'll forget about him.

Though, to be honest, I'm not sure I actually want to forget about him.

'I have to pretend like he doesn't exist, right?'

Fiona looks at me uncertainly. 'Who doesn't exist?' she says slowly.

'I know, I know,' I nod, playing along, 'but can we stop pretending for just a minute?'

'Pretending?' She looks at me in confusion, as if she doesn't know what I'm talking about.

I have to say I'm impressed. I didn't know Fiona was this good an actress.

'Look, I won't talk about him after this, I promise,' I say, pulling up a chair next to her. I'm bursting with my news. Fiona and I share everything about our relationships, apart from the men themselves. 'But I have to tell you . . . I just saw him, at Starbucks, and he ignored me!'

With a flourish I throw my hands up in the air and wait for her reaction.

But instead of leaning forwards and going 'no way!', and launching into a detailed a.n.a.lysis of the situation, Fiona blows smoke down her nostrils and frowns. 'What are you going on about? I'm not pretending anything!'

I pause. I feel a slight wobble. Wow, she's really good at this acting malarkey. She's got that indignant thing down to a tee.

'Oh Fiona, come on . . .' I try pleading, but she lets out a gasp of impatience.

'Come on, what? I don't have a clue what you're talking about.'

'I'm talking about Seb!' I gasp. Now it's my turn to get impatient. It's time to stop fooling around with this 'never existed' stuff. After all, this isn't some one-night stand I'm talking about. This is Seb! This is the man I was I still am in love with. A man I'm heartbroken over. A man whose texts she used to painstakingly a.n.a.lyse for hours in the beginning, and whom she called every rude name you could think of and then some in the end.

'I mean seriously, how can you pretend not to know a man you called . . . what was it again?' I pause, trying to remember her exact words, '"A b.l.o.o.d.y stupid idiot with s.h.i.t for brains"?'

Fiona reaches for her mug of tea and sighs. 'Sorry Tess, but you've lost me.'

I suddenly get a very weird feeling. Fiona might be a decent actress when it comes to feigning a wrist sprain so she gets out of her turn to do the dishes, but this is more than that. She's so adamant, so calm, so sure, it's like she really doesn't know who Seb is.

'But what about the time we all got drunk on toffee vodka and did karaoke?' I try jogging her memory but it's met with a blank stare.

'Six foot, short blond hair, American accent?'

Another blank stare.

'Really handsome?' I can't help adding.

Nothing.

'My boyfriend for nearly a year?' I gasp finally.

Her forehead furrows and she peers at me with a worried expression. 'Tess, have you been doing drugs?'

'Me? Drugs? Of course not!' I protest hotly. 'Well, unless you count paracetamol . . .'

Reaching over, I grab the family-size bottle that sits permanently in the middle of the kitchen table. Where most people would have a vase of flowers to make them feel better, we have painkillers.

'Are you sure you didn't have any of that fruit punch that was going around last night?' she continues, raising an eyebrow as I down two more tablets. 'I heard a rumour from Pippa that it had been laced with some hallucinogenics; apparently her friend Tarquin had just come back from visiting this tribe in the Amazon-'

'No, I didn't have any fruit punch!' I can't help snapping.

'So what the h.e.l.l is wrong with you?' she says exasperatedly.

'Wrong with me? You're the one who can't remember Seb, my ex-boyfriend.'

'That's because you've never had a boyfriend called Seb,' she fires back.

That shuts me up. I open my mouth to say something but no words come out. Instead I just stare at her in astonishment.

For like a second, then I get a stab of annoyance. 'This isn't funny you know.'

'Do you see me laughing?' Hugging her knees to her chest, she balances her mug on them and frowns. 'You're the one with the imaginary boyfriend,' she adds sulkily.

For a moment there's a standoff and neither of us speaks. I can't believe I'm arguing with Fiona over this. What is it with her? Why is she being like this?

'Look, I don't know what's going on here, but I for one am not in the habit of making up boyfriends,' I reply calmly. 'I mean, h.e.l.lo? If I never went out with Seb, then why is there a photograph of us together stuck on the fridge then, huh?' I glance self-righteously across the kitchen.

Only there is no photograph. Just a s.p.a.ce where it used to be.

I meet Fiona's eye. She gives me an 'I-told-you-so' look.

'Oh . . . of course, I took it down when we broke up and threw it away,' I fl.u.s.ter, remembering. 'Well, I didn't want to be constantly reminded, did I?'

'Whatever,' she sighs, as if she doesn't believe me, then looks back down at Grazia.

My annoyance ratchets up a notch. Right, that's it. I've had enough of this ridiculous messing around. I don't know what she's playing at, or why, but I'm going to prove it, and then let's see what she has to say. Stomping into the bedroom, I s.n.a.t.c.h up my laptop from my bedside cabinet, then march back into the kitchen.

'What are you doing?' She looks up curiously as I plonk it down on the table in front of her.

'I've got hundreds more photos on my laptop,' I explain simply.

Ha. That told her.

Flicking open my computer, I click on the little icon for my photo library and wait for the application to open. I've got so many photos on here it takes a while to load . . . though not usually this long . . . Suddenly the little rainbow wheel pops up and starts turning. Oh no, it's the Wheel of Doom. I hate it when that happens; still, it should be OK in a minute . . .

I watch it for a few seconds, turning around, then all at once there's a funny high-pitched whining noise and abruptly the screen goes blank.

I feel a twinge of alarm.

'Oh no, what's happening?' I start jabbing at the keyboard in the vain hope that it might spring back to life, but nothing. The black screen stares back at me. 'I know, it must be the battery!' Triumphantly I rush back into my bedroom to grab my charger. Of course, that's what it is. Durr, I'm such a dummy. Dashing back into the kitchen, I plug it in and turn it back on.

Nothing. No lights come on. No familiar blue screen. No Johnny Depp screensaver.

My heart plummets. 'Oh G.o.d,' I groan, staring at the lifeless laptop with a feeling of dread. Desperately I click the on/off b.u.t.ton a few more times, but it's no good. 'My laptop's crashed!'

The whole time Fiona has been watching me wordlessly.

'No photos then?' she says at last.

'No, they were all on my computer . . .' I trail off.

She pauses, a worried expression on her face, then leans over and squeezes my arm. 'Oh well, never mind, that's the end of that then, isn't it?' she says brightly, but in a way that's more a statement not to be argued with than a question. 'Now why don't you sit down and I'll make us both a nice cup of tea' and, pa.s.sing me her beloved copy of Grazia, she hits a b.u.t.ton on her BlackBerry and goes to fill the kettle. 'Pippa sweetie,' I hear her hiss, 'what the f.u.c.k was in that fruit punch . . . ?'

OK, now let's not panic. Like it says on my mug: Keep Calm and Carry On. You've just got a hangover, that's all. A really bad hangover. The kind of hangover that makes your flatmate seem to lose all memory of your ex-boyfriend.

Or something like that anyway.

After a cup of tea and several pages of Peter Andre, I leave Fiona on the phone and go back into my bedroom. I need to lie down. My head is pounding and I can't think straight. Being blanked by Seb was bad enough, but Fiona acting all weird has freaked me out even more. And now, on top of all that, my laptop has gone and died on me. Can today get any worse?

Maybe I need to just rest for a little while, try to get some sleep even? I'm actually pretty tired. Kicking off my trainers I climb back under the duvet. It's still warm in the middle where Flea has been sleeping. I sink into the pillow and close my eyes. Gosh, this is nice. I feel better already. In fact I'm sure when I wake up, things will be all back to normal . . .

I don't move again. Coc.o.o.ned within my soft feather walls, I spend the rest of the weekend sleeping off my hangover by watching old black-and-white movies, cuddling Flea, and sleeping some more. Occasionally I venture out to make tea and toast, which I bring back to bed so I don't have to break the cycle. At some point I hear Fiona yell 'bye' and the door slamming, but it barely registers. Lost in time and duvet, I snuggle further into the depths as It's a Wonderful Life washes over me, lulling me back to sleep again.

By the time Monday morning rolls around, I feel so much better. It's a Bank Holiday, so I don't have to go to work, plus my hangover's gone, there are no strangers in tighty-whities lurking in the bathroom, and when I pad into the kitchen I'm not greeted by a Stepford Wife. Everything's back to normal. In fact, the weekend seems like such a distant, blurry memory, it's almost as if it never happened, I think with relief, banging on Fiona's door to see if she wants a cup of coffee.

Getting no answer, I pop my head inside and discover she's still fast asleep. She never gets up early. In fact, the only time she's ever been sighted before noon was when she was flying to Spain on a family holiday last summer. 'Being freelance means never having to set an alarm,' is one of her favourite sayings.

Unfortunately for Fiona, it isn't one of easyJet's. When she turned up late at Gatwick, they refused to let her on her flight, and she was forced to kill three hours in Accessorize waiting for the next one. Apparently, to this day, she's never been able to look at another pair of glittery flip-flops again.

She's still not awake when I'm ready to leave the flat, which also means I don't get a chance to speak to her again about Seb. Not that I need to, I tell myself firmly, running to catch the bus which is indicating to pull out from the stop. Like I said, I'm sure it was all a misunderstanding.

Touching in with my Oyster card, I jump on board and make my way to a free seat at the back. Relishing the stuffy warmth after the bitterness outside, I rest my head against the gla.s.s and gaze out of the window. After all, what else could it be?

After twenty minutes the bus reaches a leafy suburb and I get off outside Hemmingway House, a shiny redbrick building that looks as though it's been made out of Lego and plonked in the middle of a car park. According to its colourful brochure, filled with cartoon drawings of Doris and Bert with their curly grey hair and denture smiles, it describes itself as a 'retirement community that offers a.s.sisted living for those who need it'.

'a.s.sisted living, my a.r.s.e, it's like b.l.o.o.d.y Big Brother', is how my granddad chooses to describe it. But then Granddad Connelly never did like anyone telling him what to do. Not even my nan when she was alive. Once, when she told him not to smoke his pipe inside, he rigged up the portable TV in his garden shed, moved in his armchair and refused to come out for weeks. Nan said he would probably have stayed in there forever, if hadn't been for the great British winter which drove him back indoors to the warmth. 'Stubborn he might be, stupid he's not,' she used to laugh.

Pushing open the double doors, I walk into the reception filled with houseplants and the type of cane furniture you find in conservatories. On the walls are hung framed photographs of jolly old-aged pensioners doing activities. I have a sneaking suspicion they are pictures 'posed by models' and not actual residents of Hemmingway House, as I've never seen any evidence of anyone sharing a bottle of rose on a sun-drenched patio. Usually it's more a case of Scrabble in the stuffy games room.

'Hi Tess.' Walking towards the main desk, I b.u.mp into Melanie, one of the younger members of the nursing staff. Mel's got bright pink dreadlocks and a nose-stud and is a hit with all the residents as she treats them like friends instead of nuisances to be bossed around. Arm in arm with one of them, she flashes me a huge grin. 'Looking for your grandpa?'

'Hi Mel,' I smile, pulling off my gloves and scarf. Gosh, they always have it so hot in here. No wonder all the residents are always nodding off in their armchairs: this heat makes you want to lie down and take a siesta. 'How is he?'

'Busy leading others astray,' answers the sour-faced staff manager, Miss Temple, from behind the front desk. Glancing up from her paperwork, she removes her reading gla.s.ses and gives me a hard stare.

Uh-oh. I feel a beat of trepidation. What's he done this time?

'Really?' I reply innocently, as if I have no idea what she's talking about. But I'm not fooling anyone, least of all Miss Temple. Since my parents flew to Australia and left me responsible for Granddad, she's called me three times to complain about his bad behaviour.

The first time was because he was playing his jazz records too loudly and refusing to turn down the volume; the second time was for breaking into the kitchen in the middle of the night and making pancakes; and the third time was for smoking his pipe inside. 'Hemmingway House is a non-smoking establishment, Miss Connelly,' she'd intoned down the phone, 'and your grandfather is deliberately breaking the rules.'

'He's in his room,' interrupts Melanie, and as I glance across at her she gives me a little wink. 'Last time I checked he was playing poker.'

'Right, thanks,' I smile and, avoiding Miss Temple's steely gaze, I quickly scoot off down the corridor.

'And will you kindly remind your grandfather that gambling is strictly not allowed,' Miss Temple calls after me, but thankfully I'm already through the fire doors and I can pretend not to hear.

Chapter 7.

I discover Granddad's door firmly closed. Locked actually, I realise, trying the handle. I give a little knock.

'Go away,' bawls a voice from inside. 'I'm busy.'

Granddad, it seems, isn't that eager to adopt the 'Open Door' community spirit talked about so much in the Hemmingway House brochure.

I knock again gently. 'It's Tess,' I hiss.

There's a pause, I can hear rustling inside, then the door is flung open to reveal a man with snow-white hair and crinkly blue eyes. Dressed impeccably in a grey pinstriped suit, complete with silk handkerchief in his top pocket, gold watch hanging on a chain from his neatly b.u.t.toned waistcoat, and highly polished brogues, he cuts an immaculate figure. Not surprisingly. This is Sidney Archibald Connelly, who for nearly fifty years was renowned as one of Savile Row's finest tailors.

But to me he's just Gramps.

'h.e.l.lo beautiful.' His whole face lights up. 'What a lovely surprise.'

'Happy New Year,' I grin, breathing in his familiar scent of pipe smoke and cologne as I go to hug him. He ushers me inside. He's alone, but there's evidence of a recent poker game: playing cards stacked neatly on the table, four empty tumblers, a half-empty bottle of Blackstock & White whisky.

'Apparently I've to tell you that gambling isn't allowed,' I begin, but he snorts derisively.

'Pah, says who?' he demands, leaning heavily on his cane as he makes his way across to the Chesterfield sofa that's shoehorned into the corner. It's far too big for the room, but he insisted on bringing it from his shop. Along with a tailor's dummy, a framed picture of the Queen at her Silver Jubilee in 1977, and his beloved sewing machine, which has pride of place on the wooden sideboard.

Easing himself down into the well-worn cushions which, according to Granddad, have seen many a famous man's bottom 'I've had all the Bonds: Sean Connery, Roger Moore, even that Craig fellow' he pats the cushion next to him for me to join him. 'Life itself is a gamble,' he says, clicking his tongue.

'I know, but if you keep getting into trouble-'

'What're they going to do? Kick me out?' He looks delighted at the very thought. Granddad has made no secret of the fact that he resents being in a care home, and the fiercely independent streak that runs right through him, like the letters in a stick of Blackpool rock, rebels against everything it stands for.