Don't You Forget About Me Part 12

'Hey, how's it going?'

's.h.i.+t, b.u.g.g.e.r, b.o.l.l.o.c.ks!'

'That good, eh?'

I pop my head out from behind my laptop screen to see a pair of bright green eyes peering at me quizzically.

They belong to Fergus, the bicycle courier.

'Oh G.o.d, did I say that out loud?'

'Don't worry, I'm the only one in earshot,' he grins with amus.e.m.e.nt, and I glance over to reception to see Kym's desk is empty. She must have made a break for it when The Witch disappeared.

'Sorry.' Turning back I throw him an apologetic look and let go of my mouse to sign for his delivery. As I do, I realise my fingers have gone stiff as I've been gripping it so hard. 'I'm just trying to find a DVD and no one has it,' I explain, wriggling my fingers to get the circulation going again.

'Have you tried that little rental place near the station?' he suggests helpfully.

'It closed down ages ago,' I reply.

'It did?' He looks surprised. 'Tower Records?'

'Ditto.'

'Blockbusters?'

'Closed for refurbishment.'

'Crikey, you've really done your research,' he says in admiration. Unfastening his helmet he shakes out his flattened hair. 'I know, what about just buying it?'

'Everyone I've tried is out of stock and buying it online takes a few days.' I pull a face.

'And you can't wait?'

'No,' I sigh, shaking my head. 'I have to watch it before I go to see it.'

He scratches his head. 'Sorry, can you run that bit by me again?'

I feel my cheeks colour. 'I just need it sooner, that's all.'

He beetles his eyebrows together. 'Hmm . . . there must be somewhere . . .' he mutters, thinking hard.

'It's hopeless, I've tried everything,' I sigh resignedly.

That's it then. My plan of being the perfect girlfriend and Seb falling madly in love with me this time around has failed before I've barely even started. Well done, Tess. Another one of your huge, groundbreaking successes in life.

'I know!' Fergus suddenly slams his fist on my desk and I jump. 'The library!'

'The library?' I repeat in astonishment.

'Yes, you know, they have them in most towns-'

'I know what a library is,' I gasp. 'It's just . . .'

'Just what? You think they're full of musty old books and homeless people?'

'No, I did not think that!' I protest.

Well, maybe a little bit, I think guiltily.

'When did you last go into a library?' he challenges. 'These days they're amazing. It's not just books, you can get CDs, video games, e-books, DVDs . . . I'm always using my local one, it saves me a fortune,' he enthuses, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng. 'You should try yours and soon, before the council tries to close it down, what with all these government cuts . . .'

But as Fergus starts on a rant I've already Googled my local one and am ringing them. A librarian picks up and for the umpteenth time today I gabble my request down the phone, only this time, 'They have it!' I hiss, putting my hand over the mouthpiece. 'OK, brilliant, thanks, I'll pick it up later.' I put down the phone with a wave of relief.

He breaks off from his tirade against the government. 'Grand,' he grins, looking pleased. 'What did I tell you? You see, it's like I was saying about the government-'

But before he can start up again, I interrupt. 'Have you had lunch?' I ask. I suddenly realise I've been so distracted I haven't eaten anything all morning and I'm starving. 'There's a great little cafe across the street that does the most amazing baked potatoes. None of the usual microwaved rubbish; these are baked in the oven so their skins are all crispy and they have all these delicious toppings . . .'

'Mmm, sounds good, but I should probably get going,' he says reluctantly as his radio springs to life and starts crackling.

'My treat, for coming to my rescue,' I tempt.

He hesitates, then flicks off his radio. 'OK, sold,' he grins.

'Great,' I smile. 'Let me just grab my coat.'

Chapter 13.

Being lunchtime, the tiny cafe is crammed with diners, but we manage to find a wobbly table in a nook by the window.

'So, how was your New Year's Eve party?' he asks, folding his long frame into one of the small plastic chairs.

'Great!' I fib, sitting down opposite. Until now I hadn't realised how tall he was and I watch as he has to scrunch himself up like a concertina to fit his knees underneath the table. 'How was yours?' I ask politely.

Now we're out of the office and alone in the cafe together I'm wondering if this was such a good idea. I suddenly feel a bit awkward. After all, I barely know him. What are we going to talk about?

'Pretty s.h.i.+te,' he grins cheerfully.

His answer catches me by surprise.

'It's the same every year,' he shrugs matter-of-factly. 'Everyone else always seems to have a great time, but I just don't enjoy it. In fact, I don't even bother to go out. This year I spent it like I always do, by myself on the sofa, watching bad TV and wis.h.i.+ng it would hurry up and be over with.' He laughs. 'I know, I probably sound like a weirdo . . .'

'No . . . not at all,' I protest, feeling a sudden affection towards him. 'I'm the same.'

'You are?' He frowns and peers at me across the table. 'Well, then it's a date. Next New Year's Eve. My sofa or yours?'

I laugh, feeling myself relaxing.

'So what's good here?' he asks. 'I'm b.l.o.o.d.y starving.'

'Oh . . . all the different fillings are on here,' I say hurriedly, pa.s.sing him one of the small plastic menus.

s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his eyes, he squints at the writing. 'Hang on a mo . . .' He fumbles around in the top pocket of his jacket and digs out a pair of wire-framed gla.s.ses. 'Ah, that's better, now I can actually see what I'm going to eat,' he says, shoving them up his nose.

'I didn't know you wore gla.s.ses,' I say, taking in this new bespectacled Fergus.

'I ran out of contacts,' he explains, 'used the last pair for an audition.'

'An audition?' I repeat, looking at him in surprise for the second time in five minutes. Fergus, I'm fast realising, is full of surprises.

'Ready to order?'

We're interrupted by a frazzled-looking waitress.

'Oh, um, just the goat's cheese and sundried tomato,' I say quickly, choosing my usual.

'And I'll have the black bean chilli,' chimes in Fergus.

She scribbles it on her pad and disappears. I turn back to him. 'What kind of audition?'

'It was for some TV show,' he shrugs, then, seeing my confused expression, explains, 'I'm an actor.'

'You mean like Johnny Depp?' I say stupidly, before I can stop myself. I wince with embarra.s.sment. Honestly Tess, sometimes you should try putting that brain of yours into gear before you open your big mouth.

But if Fergus thinks I'm an idiot, he doesn't show it. 'Not quite,' he says evenly. 'I don't think Johnny Depp doubles as a bicycle courier to pay the bills. Captain Jack Sparrow on a pushbike? Maybe I'm wrong but I don't think so . . .' There's a flash of amus.e.m.e.nt in his eyes.

'No, I suppose not,' I nod, smiling despite myself. 'So have you been in anything?'

'I did a bit of theatre when I was at drama school,' he shrugs, 'and I've done a few commercials.'

'Ooh, which ones?' I look at him agog across the table. Well, I can't help it. It all sounds so exciting and glamorous.

Now it's his turn to look embarra.s.sed. 'Well, I recently played the dad in a toilet-roll commercial,' he confesses. Avoiding my gaze, he starts fiddling with the condiments.

'No way!'

'Now who's the one acting?' He raises a thick black eyebrow.

I look at him nonplussed.

'Well c'mon, don't tell me you're actually impressed?'

'But I am!' I protest. 'You're on the TV!'

'Selling bog roll,' he reminds me with a glum smile. 'Not exactly an Academy Award-winning performance.'

'Everyone has to start somewhere. Look at Colin Firth!' I say encouragingly.

'Why, how did he start out?' he asks, perking up.

'Well . . . um . . . I'm not sure exactly,' I add hastily, 'but I'm sure it was something terrible.'

'Are you saying a bog-roll commercial is terrible?' he demands, looking offended.

f.u.c.k.

'No, I didn't mean-'

'I'm just fooling with you,' he winks.

'You b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' I stab him playfully with my fork. 'Anyway, I'm sure you were amazing in it,' I grin.

'Oscar-winning,' he laughs, rolling his eyes.

The waitress returns with our food and for a few moments we stop talking as Fergus dives hungrily into his potato. 'Crikey, you weren't wrong,' he groans through a mouthful. 'This black bean chilli is the dog's b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.'

'I take it that's a compliment,' I reply with amus.e.m.e.nt, watching him devour his food with alarming speed.

'So what about you?' He looks up from his plate and waggles a fork in my direction.

'What about me?' I ask.

'What is it exactly that you do in there?' He gestures towards my office block across the street.

'I'm the boss's PA,' I explain, eating a forkful of potato.

'Right,' he nods slowly. 'Well, don't take offence, but it doesn't seem like your true talent lies in being a PA.' His eyes meet mine and I blush.

'Is it that obvious?'

'Well, I'm no expert, but aren't you supposed to answer the phone if it's ringing?'

'I do!' I protest indignantly.

'And not to pretend you're the answering machine?' he adds, his mouth twitching.

I'm stung with mortification. 'Oh my G.o.d, you saw that?'

'I was in reception, I happened to glance over.' He pauses to clear his throat, then does his impression of a robot, 'I'm sorry, but no one is here right now so please call back later-'

I shriek and cover my face with my hands in embarra.s.sment. In my defence, it happened once. I had all these urgent invoices to file and the phone was ringing off the hook, so I picked up and tried to make my voice sound like one of those automated messages.