Don't You Forget About Me Part 8

Chapter 9.

At the sound of his name he turns to look at me.

My breath catches in the back of my throat and I hold it tight inside of me, waiting to exhale.

His eyes search mine out and there's the longest pause. It seems to stretch out like chewing gum. Everything around me seems to disappear, people, chatter, noise . . . All gone. It's as if someone's just turned off the volume; all I can hear is my heart beating a drum roll in my chest. Last time he totally ignored me, but this time there's no way he can pretend he hasn't seen me. I mean, I'm right here. Sitting right in front of him.

I wait for him to say something. Anything.

'I'm sorry,' he says finally, his face void of all recognition. 'Have we met?

But not that.

I stare at him in disbelief. You've got to be kidding, right?

Except the spooky thing is, he doesn't seem like he's kidding. Whenever Seb used to fool around there were always telltale signs. But today there's no twitching of his lips, no nervous scratching of his head, no shifty not meeting of the eyes.

Indignation suddenly hits me around the head like a frying pan.

Well, come on, this is crazy. Not to mention f.u.c.king rude. OK, I know everyone deals with break-ups differently; going out and getting drunk, sleeping around, lying in bed with their cat eating Jaffa Cakes and watching Desperate Housewives on a loop (I've gone for the last option).

But pretending you've never met that person? Like they've never seen you naked? And on the loo? A flashback of Seb sitting on the toilet, with no clothes on, reading the Proust questionnaire from the back of Vanity Fair and shouting to me that there's no loo roll. I mean, come on, this is me you're talking to, I think hotly. The girl who came to your rescue with more Andrex.

'Are you seriously trying to tell me you don't know who I am?' I blurt out.

He looks abashed. 'You have to forgive me, I'm terrible with faces. Sometimes I look in the mirror and don't even recognise myself.' He smiles ruefully. 'Then again, I'm pretty sure I'd remember you if we had met.'

Oh my G.o.d, is he flirting with me?

I stare at him aghast. I honestly don't know what to say. Or how to react. It was bizarre before but now . . .

'So . . . is it OK?' He gestures to the free seat next to me.

'Erm, yeh,' I nod dumbly. My mind is all over the place, trying to find a logical answer for what's going on. Maybe Seb got the same advice as I got from Fiona. Pretend like I don't exist. Forget about me.

Even so, isn't this a bit extreme?

'So, was I nice?' he says, sitting down.

I look at him in confusion. 'Excuse me?'

'When we met?'

I have a sudden urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, tell him to act normal. Like once when I was little and Dad was fooling around, pretending to be a scary monster, and I started crying and begged him to be himself again.

'Er . . .' I grope around for something to say, but now I'm lost for words.

Only he's still looking at me, waiting for an answer. As if we're two strangers making chitchat, not a couple who've just broken up.

'I . . . er . . . can't really remember, it was a while ago.' Caught in some bizarre, dream-like scenario, I struggle to form a sentence.

Seb, on the other hand, seems to be having no such problem.

'Well I hope I was,' he smiles cheerfully and, sitting down next to me, starts looking at his iPhone.

Conversation over, I sit back in my seat, stunned. I can't believe what just happened. What is still happening, I remind myself, sneaking a look at him out of the corner of my eye. Maybe I got it wrong. Maybe it's a case of mistaken ident.i.ty. After all, isn't everyone supposed to have a doppelganger? Maybe this is Seb's.

I peer at him from under my eyelashes. He's still looking down at his iPhone and I trace the familiar outline of his face: same golden tan from his frequent skiing trips; same thick blond hair and neatly trimmed sideburns; same strong jaw and s.e.xy cleft in his chin; same habit of distractedly pulling at his eyebrows when he's concentrating . . .

My heart thumps. The same name is one thing. Same physical appearance is another thing. But the same characteristics?

'I broke the screen.' He tuts loudly and turns to look at me, catching me staring.

Startled, I jump. 'Excuse me?' I say quickly, grabbing my fringe and trying to hide beneath it.

's...o...b..arding,' he shrugs, gesturing to the gla.s.s on his iPhone that's shattered. 'I tried to get an appointment at their store in Regent Street, but they were booked solid till next week. So I raced over here instead.'

He's talking to me as if everything is completely normal, as if he hasn't noticed my discomfort. As if he hasn't noticed it's me. Tess. The girl he used to spoon before he fell asleep at night. I stare at him in bewilderment. What the h.e.l.l is going on?

'Hi, Miss Connelly?'

I look up to see Ali, the technician, standing over me.

'Oh, hi,' I try to focus.

'I think I might have found something,' he whispers urgently. 'Everything else was completely erased, but this was buried deep inside your hard drive, I almost didn't find it . . .' He looks furtively from side to side to make sure no one is watching, then sticks his hand in his pocket. 'It's a Word file, I've put it on here.' He quickly stuffs a disk in my hand as if he's handing over stolen goods. 'I'm afraid it's not much . . .'

'Oh, thanks,' I smile gratefully. 'That's really kind of you . . .'

I break off as I catch Seb glancing over curiously. Or is it? Maybe it's his double.

Double of what, Tess? Some guy you dreamed up?

s.h.i.t. I need to get out of here. And fast.

Saying goodbye to Ali, I shove the disk in my pocket and quickly rush out of the store.

I go home in a daze. I don't know what to think so I try not to think anything by jamming in my earphones and turning up my iPod to full volume. The ba.s.s rattles my eardrums. Normally whenever I see those people on the tube with music thumping loudly from their ears, I tut and think, what are they doing? They're going to go deaf!

Now I am that person and I don't care. So what if I go deaf?? By the looks of things I've already gone completely b.l.o.o.d.y loopy.

I walk into the flat to find Fiona at the kitchen table in her fluffy dressing gown, hair all over the place, the phone wedged under her chin and a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. Not quite how one would imagine a health and beauty journalist. And certainly not what the readers of her magazine column would picture. The column that has a photo of her sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat, dressed in Lycra and drinking fresh orange juice.

'I don't care if it's a Bank Holiday. Don't you realise my deadline's tomorrow?' she's yelling down the handset. 'Well, fine then, you can stick your new Botox face cream!' She gives a snort and hangs up. 'Stupid PR woman,' she tuts, taking a furious drag of her cigarette and pouncing on her keyboard.

Dumping my bag on the table, I flop into a chair.

'Good day?' she asks distractedly from behind her laptop screen.

'Good and bad,' I reply, heaving a sigh. 'Gramps is good, but my laptop's broken. Apparently it needs a new hard drive.'

'Oh dear,' she tuts, not looking up from her keyboard. 'Did you back up?'

Why is it that you can go your whole life never hearing about something, and then when it's too late, that's all people talk about?

'No, I didn't. I lost everything. Including my mind,' I can't help adding, but she's not really listening as she's already furiously typing away, no doubt sending an angry email to the poor PR.

'Oh, except this . . .' Wiggling out of my coat, I remember the disk in my pocket and put it on the table.

'What's that?' Fiona stops typing and her head appears from behind her laptop.

'I dunno,' I shrug wearily. 'The man at the store says he managed to save a file or something.' I hoist myself out of the chair and flick on the kettle. I desperately need a cup of tea. Actually, I need something stronger, but I'm not sure starting on the tequila is a good idea. Look where that got me last time.

'Let's have a look . . .'

I turn around to see Fiona s.n.a.t.c.h up the disk and pop it into her laptop.

'Tea?' I ask, reaching for the PG tips.

She doesn't hear me. She's too preoccupied. 'Um . . . it looks like loads of writing . . .'

I make her a cup anyway. Fiona's not the kind of person to turn down anything. I've witnessed some of her online dates . . .

'Oh hang on, I think it's a diary . . .'

'Diary?'

'That's what it looks like.' She glances up at me. 'I didn't know you kept a diary!'

I feel my cheeks colour. 'Well, I haven't for a while-'

I'm interrupted as the microwave suddenly pings. 'My Tom Yum soup's ready.' She jumps up from her chair. 'I had some left so I thought I might as well finish it off in for a penny, in for a pound and all that . . . well, nearly five pounds now, actually,' she mutters under her breath.

As she heads across the kitchen, I abandon the tea and scoot over to her computer. Sure enough, on her screen I see a diary entry from 4 January 2011: Dear Diary, Had my first date with Seb! We went for a drink in Chelsea . . .

I see his name and break off, the words spinning before my eyes.

What the . . . ?

Suddenly I go hot and cold. For a split second there's a pause, then my thoughts begin crashing over each other, tossing my mind around like a boat on stormy seas. Yet above the din, one thought is loud and clear: So I'm not crazy. I didn't make him up. I haven't imagined it all.

I feel a flash of vindication.

'See, I told you!' I say triumphantly to Fiona, suddenly finding my voice.

'Told me what?' She turns around, a bowl of soup in her hands.

I'm about to drag her over to show her the evidence when halfway down the page my eyes come into focus and I see: . . . and Fiona bought a dress for her online date next week. It's super-tight and super-short and this sort of funny pale pink colour which makes her look a bit like a sausage. She asked me if it made her look fat. I lied and said no . . .

'Um, nothing,' I say, quickly pressing eject. 'It's just a load of old nonsense, nothing important.'

And, s.n.a.t.c.hing up the disk, I leave her eating her soup and beat a hasty exit from the kitchen.

I close my bedroom door and sit down on the edge of my bed. Flea lets out a disgruntled squeak at being disturbed on my eiderdown, but I'm too distracted to scoop him up. Instead I remain motionless. I'm vaguely aware of the hot cup of tea burning the palms of my hands, but I can't move.

I can't do anything. It's like every bit of energy is diverted to my mind, which is racing around and around, just like that little rainbow-coloured wheel I got on my computer, furiously trying to process all the weird, unexplained events from the last few days: being blanked by Seb in Starbucks, Fiona's reaction, everyone's reactions . . . Like a tape recording in my head, I hear a cacophony of voices. Fiona: 'Seb who?' Gramps: 'I've never met a Sebastian.' Mum: 'You've never mentioned him before.' They're all blurring into stereo, into one single voice . . . and then I see Seb again: he's sitting next to me, talking to me, and I'm looking into his eyes and there's not a flicker of recognition; it's as though he doesn't know who I am.

But that's impossible! What about my diary? demands a voice in my head. And this time it's my own voice, bringing me up short.

I place my cup of tea on the bedside cabinet and start rummaging around inside. There must be more evidence of our relationship, something more tangible than words on a computer disk. An old photograph, a card that he wrote me, something . . . My fingers scrabble around desperately. There's so much junk thrown in here: old lipsticks, my stash of earplugs, those spare b.u.t.tons that come with new tops and I never know where to put . . . Yet nothing that links me to Seb. No pictures of us together, no cards he sent me, nothing.

But of course I'm not going to find anything, I remind myself quickly. I threw it all away, remember? I wanted to try and forget about him. That's why I deleted all his texts, his emails, his Facebook page. That's why I burned all the mementos from our relationship in the fire on New Year's Eve.

As the thought strikes, a blurry memory stirs an image flashes up of the man on TV. He was wearing s.p.a.cehopper ears. What was his name? He was talking about rituals. I grope back through the tequila-sodden memories, trying to recollect . . .

'. . . an ancient ritual . . . all the things you want to rid yourself of, be it . . . painful memories, hurt . . . throwing them into the fire at the stroke of midnight.' I strain harder, thinking back: '. . . many cultures believe that by burning these things you get rid of them . . . and that way you don't carry them with you into next year . . .'

I suddenly go hot and cold.

I stop myself. Oh come on, he was wearing glittery s.p.a.cehopper ears on his head, for Christ's sakes. As if I'm going to believe anything he says. It's superst.i.tious rubbish. I'd have to be completely bananas.

And yet . . .

A c.h.i.n.k of possibility is opening up in my brain. It's completely ridiculous. Impossible. Utterly unfeasible. And I can hardly believe I'm even thinking it, but . . . but it would make sense, in a completely bonkers kind of way. That by throwing the stuff on the fire I magically got rid of all the memories, all the dates, all the time we spent together. I totally erased the relationship. I totally erased us.

Except for my diary the one shred of evidence that managed to survive through some technical blip and that prevented him from being erased from my mind and my heart it's like it never happened.

I hear the presenter's voice again in my head: '. . . as the flames burn away these things, sparks will well and truly fly . . . whatever you wish for will be carried on these sparks into the New Year . . .'

My mind flashes back to that night. To the spark I glimpsed escaping up the chimney when I threw everything onto the fire. To my wish.

My heart hammers in my chest as I suddenly remember.

I wished I'd never met him.

And now it's come true. I haven't.

My thoughts are interrupted by a loud buzzing. It's the intercom in the hallway. Vaguely I hear the murmur of voices, then Fiona calling, 'Tess, it's for you.'

'Who is it?' I call back, finding my voice.

But there's no answer. I feel a twinge of frustration. Whoever it is, I don't want to see them. I don't want to see anyone. I remain motionless for a moment, part of me hoping that if I ignore them they'll just go away.