Don't You Forget About Me Part 21

'Oh, and I wanted to ask you . . .'

I snap back to see Granddad looking at his pocket leather diary. 'I'm having a poker night a week on Friday. Interested?'

'Gramps, you know gambling's against the rules,' I begin, but he waves away my concerns with a flick of his hand.

'In or out?' he challenges.

'In.' I smile ruefully.

'Splendid,' he beams, scribbling down my name.

'Actually, can I bring someone?' I ask, suddenly having a thought. 'Seb, my boyfriend,' I add, waiting for his reaction.

It's as I expected.

'A new boyfriend?' His eyes light up. 'Well, yes, of course I must meet this new chap. See if he's worthy of my granddaughter.'

'Gramps.' I feel myself going red.

'Gramps nothing.' He clicks his tongue and scribbles down something in his diary, then tucks it back into his breast pocket and reaches for his tape measure. 'Righty-ho, let's get cracking,' he says, patting the seat next to him.

Getting up from the sofa, I slide my bottom next to his.

'Just one more thing.'

'What?' I ask, turning to him.

Leaning close, he presses his whiskery cheek to mine. 'This bag is going to be amazing, my dear,' he whispers and, before I can answer, he turns away and fires up his sewing machine.

Chapter 21.

A few hours later I wave goodbye and, telling Gramps to try to keep out of trouble until I see him next week, I head to the shopping centre. Ali, the computer technician, has left a message on my mobile saying my laptop is ready to pick up.

'It was as I thought,' he says gravely, placing my newly fixed computer on the counter in front of me. 'There was a catastrophic motherboard failure due to a head crash where the internal read-and-write head of the device touched a platter, though in this case it was a magnetic data-storage surface, which of course led to severe data loss.' He looks up and, seeing my glazed expression, grinds to a halt in his explanation. 'It works again,' he says simply.

'You're amazing,' I smile.

His mouth twitches. Ali, I've learned, when he's not in shop a.s.sistant mode, is not a natural when it comes to smiling. As a baby he probably skipped learning that bit and went straight onto logarithms. Pus.h.i.+ng his thick gla.s.ses onto the bridge of his nose, he peers myopically at me. 'So, how are things? You seem in much better spirits.'

Reminded of how last time I burst into tears in front of him about Seb, embarra.s.sment p.r.i.c.kles. 'Um, yes, great,' I nod, feeling myself blush slightly. 'I got back with my boyfriend,' I confide, in explanation. Well, it's only fair, considering last time he was having to pa.s.s me screen wipes for me to blow my nose on.

'So he's not such an idiot after all,' he nods approvingly.

I smile ruefully. 'What about you?'

'Still single,' he shrugs.

'Well then, your ex-girlfriend is still an idiot,' I say firmly.

Unexpectedly, the ever-serious Ali starts laughing.

'What's so funny?' I ask in confusion.

'Boyfriend,' he corrects, his dark eyes flas.h.i.+ng with amus.e.m.e.nt.

It takes a moment, then the penny drops. 'Oh gosh, I'm sorry, I didn't realise-'

'It's fine, don't worry, not many people do,' he says, cutting off my apology. 'It's not easy for an Indian man to be gay. My parents are still not speaking to me; they won't accept me how I am . . .' He shakes his head sadly. 'Still, I'm glad for you. I'm glad your boyfriend realised he made a mistake. It gives me hope that people can change.'

'Yes, they can,' I smile rea.s.suringly, but inside I feel a bit uneasy. Because only now, hearing those words, does it occur to me that there's only one person that's changed.

And it's me.

But then change is a good thing, isn't it? I tell myself firmly as I wave goodbye to Ali. Fiona has a stack of self-help books on her shelf, and when I first broke up with Seb I started reading one and it was all about growing and changing. Admittedly I only got to about page twenty as The X Factor came on, but it made the point that we all need to evolve to survive. I mean, look what happened to the dinosaurs!

Leaving the computer shop, I glide down the escalators. The original plan was to pick up my laptop and head straight home, but now I'm here I might as well get a few things, I decide, pausing by a shop window displaying lots of silky lingerie. I desperately need some new underwear. The only s.e.xy stuff I've got is the bra and knicker set that Seb bought me and I can't keep hand-was.h.i.+ng it. Before, when it came to my choice of underwear, 'comfort' and 'support' were the key words. But not any more. Now the key words are s.e.xy, plunging and . . .

How much?

Having gone inside, I've pulled a black satin G-string off the rack and am now staring open-mouthed at the price tag. Surely that must be a mistake. 75! For what amounts to pieces of string and a triangle the size of a postage stamp? And as for comfort and support . . . trust me, those words have no place here. In fact, I saw more comfort and support in a medieval torture museum I once visited, I wince, fingering a 'rhinestone playsuit' with a certain trepidation.

Still, it will all be worth it, I tell myself firmly, imagining Seb's reaction when he sees me in it. Plus, I won't be wearing it for very long if the last time in bed is anything to go by, I think naughtily to myself as I scoop one up. Along with several pairs of French knickers, barely there G-strings, peek-a-boo bras and a basque that laces up at the back and is fully boned . . . Gosh, I wouldn't like to wear that after eating a baked potato . . .

Momentarily I feel a wistful twinge for my comfy old T-s.h.i.+rt bras and big knickers. This stuff might look s.e.xy, but it's all so much effort. But then, dating Seb first time around I didn't make enough of an effort. I wasn't s.e.xy enough. This time it's all going to be different. I'm going to be different. This is the new s.e.xy me, remember?

Handing over my credit card to the sales a.s.sistant, I try not to look at the total on the machine as I punch in my PIN, but I can't help glimpsing a few noughts. My stomach does that churning thing it always does whenever I press 'check balance' on the ATM, but I try to ignore it. After all, it's not as if I'm spending money: I'm investing it in my future. Forget cash ISAs, this is like a relations.h.i.+p ISA.

Pleased by my financial brainwave, I leave the shop with my big bag swinging over my shoulder. OK, speaking of investing, what other investments do I need? Ah yes, of course, something a lot less glamorous, but just as necessary. Trying not to give a little shudder, I walk next door into a sports shop. I always find these places really intimidating. All those bouncy, ponytailed a.s.sistants in tracksuits, trainers and Madonna-style headsets, ready to pounce on you and make you feel like a total moron for not knowing your Nike Airs from your Asics Gel.

Speaking of . . .

'Hi, can I help you?' chirps an a.s.sistant, bouncing over as I stare at the vast display of trainers on the wall, feeling completely overwhelmed.

I take a deep breath. This isn't just the new s.e.xy me, it's also the new sporty me. The one who does all that military fitness. I've signed up for my first cla.s.s on Monday so I need to get kitted out.

'I need some new trainers,' I say, trying to sound confident and resisting the urge to ask which are the cheapest.

'How long have you had your last pair?'

I think about my old pair that are falling apart and buried in the back of a cupboard and try to remember. 'Um, about five years,' I say vaguely.

The bouncy ponytailed shop a.s.sistant's smile slides from her face. 'Five years?' she gapes in horror. 'They need to be replaced every twelve months, six months if you're exercising regularly.' She gives me an accusing look and I can feel my inner thighs wobble.

'Do you overp.r.o.nate?'

I have no idea what she's talking about, but it sounds painful. 'Um, I'm not sure-'

'And what kind of exercise will you be doing? High impact? Running? Aerobics? Or are we talking more cross-training?'

'Er . . .'

Twenty intimidating minutes later, I leave with new top-of-the range trainers, along with a new gym kit, some leg weights, sweatbands and a gym ball. All this investing can get very expensive. I've completely maxed out my credit card. I don't even have enough money on my Oyster for the bus home and I have to walk back to the flat.

I arrive tired and broke to find Fiona at the kitchen table frowning at her computer screen.

'What's campanology?' she asks, bypa.s.sing the hi-how-are-you pleasantries and diving straight into a conversation without any explanation, as only your best friend who's known you for years can.

'Bell ringing,' I reply, dumping my shopping. See, there are advantages to growing up with a father who's addicted to the Sunday Times crossword. 'Why, you thinking of taking up a new hobby?'

'No, I got an email from someone on Sa.s.sy Soul Mates . . .' She starts reading: 'Hi, my name's Steve and I'm searching for that special someone for a committed loving relations.h.i.+p-'

'Sounds promising,' I interject encouragingly. 'He mentioned the word "commitment".'

'Exactly,' nods Fiona. 'Unlike the men I've met who can't say it without coming out in a rash.'

'So are you going to go on a date with him?'

'Well here's the thing . . .' She glances back down at her computer screen and continues reading, '. . . and to share my great pa.s.sion in life: campanology . . .' She breaks off and we exchange glances.

'Well, I suppose it's different,' I say, trying to sound positive.

'I'm widening the net, not looking for Quasimodo!' she protests, hitting delete firmly on her keyboard. Looking up, her gaze lands on my bags. 'Oooh, you've been shopping,' she says, diving on them excitedly. Nothing can distract Fiona like a shopping bag. 'Wow, very s.e.xy,' she nods approvingly, pulling out my peek-a-boo bra and holding it up against her own large chest. Fiona is forever complaining that she can never find any nice bras as her b.o.o.bs are too big and she has to resort to buying these huge, cantilevered things that leave deep red grooves in her shoulders and are deeply unflattering.

Seeing it's way too small, she lets out a little sigh of disappointment and puts it back reluctantly. 'What else have you . . .' She breaks off as she peers inside the other bag. 'Hang on, who's all this sports gear for?'

'Me,' I say, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, flicking on the kettle.

'You?' Her gaze flicks from the sweatbands and back to me in astonishment. 'But you hate sport!'

'I watched Wimbledon last year,' I say defensively.

'Only because you fancied Nadal,' she reminds me, and we exchange l.u.s.tful looks. 'The last time you played any sport was netball at school, remember?'

Reminded, I have a flashback of me completely missing the net for the umpteenth time. In all the years I played, I never once scored a goal. 'OK, so maybe I need to work a little on my handeye coordination,' I admit, reaching for the teabags and chucking them into two mugs. 'But I'm not that bad.'

The teabags miss completely and land on the floor.

'Anyway, it's not about sport, it's about doing exercise and keeping fit,' I say quickly, avoiding Fiona's gaze and scooping them up. 'As you well know, being a health and beauty writer,' I add pointedly.

'I'll have you know I've taken Tallulah for two walks today already,' she boasts proudly.

'Wow, really?' Going to grab the milk from the fridge, I turn to her, impressed. 'Where did you walk, along the river?'

'No, to Primark. Have you seen their sale? It's amazing.'

I burst out laughing. 'You took Tallulah to Primark?' I don't know which is more funny: that Fiona thinks that const.i.tutes taking a dog for a walk, or imagining Pippa's reaction if she knew her beloved puppy had been in Primark and not Prada.

'And Waterstones,' adds Fiona, looking a bit miffed by my reaction. 'I bought a book by the world-renowned dog expert Cesar Millan, How to Raise the Perfect Dog.'

'That's great,' I nod, trying to make my face serious. Fiona is obviously taking her dog duties very seriously.

'In fact I think I'll take her out again now,' she continues, shutting her computer and reaching for her coat. 'Tallulah, walkies!' Something stirs on the rug and I notice it's Tallulah. 'You have to establish leaders.h.i.+p with your new dog,' says Fiona authoritatively, turning to me. 'It's all about showing who's the alpha.' Looking very pleased with herself, she turns back to Tallulah, who's still curled up on the rug, not moving. 'Walkies,' she repeats, only this time a little more shrilly. Tallulah lazily opens one eye, then promptly closes it, as if to say, You're out of your mind, woman, it's G.o.dd.a.m.n freezing out there.

'What does Cesar say to do if they ignore you?' I ask, trying to stifle a smile.

'Er, well, I haven't got to that bit yet . . .' s.n.a.t.c.hing up the book, Fiona starts flicking through, then gives up and closes it. 'But I'm sure there are always occasions when you need to take a more hands-on approach.' Clipping on Tallulah's diamante lead, she tugs on her collar. 'See, I'm not completely useless with animals,' she adds, as Tallulah reluctantly gets up and follows her across the kitchen, dragging her paws. 'The gerbils were just an unfortunate accident.'

'Unfortunate,' I nod in agreement.

She colours up.

'Anyway, is it OK if I borrow your scarf?? The red one with the glittery bits?'

'If you can find it,' I reply, kicking off my shoes and hanging up my coat. 'I haven't seen it since you borrowed it last time.' Fiona is always borrowing things and she never puts anything back. 'It could be anywhere . . .' I break off to see it's already tied around her neck.

'Brilliant, thanks,' she smiles brightly. 'Right, must dash.'

Hearing the door close, I flop on the sofa and flick on the TV. Bliss. At home on Sat.u.r.day night, s...o...b..ng out in front of the TV, just what I feel like. Flea curls up in my lap and, sipping my tea, I reach for the tin of Quality Street that's balanced on the side of the sofa, and dip my hand in it. Except, hang on . . . my fingers scrabble around and, dragging my eyes away from The X Factor, I peer inside . . . it's completely empty. Someone's eaten them all!

And of course it isn't Fiona, I think wryly, remembering her vehement denial and how she tried to pin the blame on Flea. I tickle him protectively under his chin and he purrs loudly, oblivious to the fact that he was very nearly the fall guy. 'It's a mystery, isn't it?' I coo, grinning to myself a complete and utter mystery.

I'm distracted by the shrill ring of my phone. I s.n.a.t.c.h it up and glance at the screen. It's Seb. I feel a flash of surprise. He's calling me from Geneva!

'Hi,' I say, picking up with delight.

'Hey there,' says Seb with his distinctive American drawl. 'How's it going?'

'Great,' I smile. 'What about you?'

'Great now I'm talking to you,' he replies, and I feel a beat of happiness. It's only been a week but there's no playing games. We can just be totally honest with each other.

'So what are you doing?' he continues cheerfully.

For a split second I think of Seb staying in some five-star hotel in Geneva, about to spend the evening in some sw.a.n.ky restaurant with all his expensively suited business buddies, and suddenly I don't want to admit I'm lying s...o...b..d out on the sofa, watching some random reality show with my cat on a Sat.u.r.day night.

'I just got back from a military fitness cla.s.s and a run,' I say, quick as a flash.

Well, honesty isn't always the best policy, is it?

'Wow, on a Sat.u.r.day evening? That's dedication,' he says approvingly.