Don't You Forget About Me Part 24

'That's so strange, I must have caught a bug from somewhere.'

Fast-forward to Sunday morning, and I've just crawled back into bed after spending the last twelve hours doing a relay between the bedroom and the bathroom. Last night my stomach staged a revolt from all that spicy food and I was held hostage on the loo for hours at a time. At one point I actually fell asleep with my head in the sink.

But of course I can't admit the truth to Seb, can I?

'There's probably a virus going around,' he nods sympathetically, pa.s.sing me a gla.s.s of water and two aspirin. 'It's that time of year. Here, take this.'

'Thanks,' I say gratefully, giving him a little smile and taking a sip. There's an ominous growl from my abdomen, rather like when a dog bares its teeth to warn you it's going to attack. I brace myself. Oh no, please G.o.d no. I know I wanted to do things differently, but I think maybe this time I went a bit too far. Making Seb happy is one thing, but making myself ill is something else.

Still, he is being very sweet, playing nursemaid and looking after me. I'm a very lucky girl to have such a caring boyfriend.

'OK, well I better dash,' he says, checking his watch.

I feel a beat of surprise. He's leaving? 'Where are you going?' I ask as he pads quickly across the bedroom floor and disappears inside his walk-in wardrobe.

'For my run,' he replies, his voice m.u.f.fled, before reappearing a few seconds later in his tracksuit. 'I know we were going to go together, but now you're sick . . .' He trails off.

'Of course, you go ahead.' I force a bright smile. The only running I'm doing now is in the direction of the loo. 'So when will you be back?'

'Probably later this afternoon. I'm going to hit the gym afterwards, do some weights, have a sauna. I like to do a proper workout at the weekends.'

'Oh, I see.' For some reason I was a.s.suming he'd only be gone an hour. 'Well, have fun, and don't worry about me,' I set about rea.s.suring him, along with myself. So what if Seb isn't going to stay home today and keep me company? I'm not disappointed, I totally understand. OK, I admit, if the tables were turned I wouldn't leave him, but girls are different, aren't they?

'You should just stay in bed, watch TV.' He gestures to the giant flat screen pinned on the wall of the bedroom.

'Yes, I will,' I nod. Actually, maybe it will be nice to be home alone. Watch TV. Rest. I still feel physically weak and want to stay near the loo. I don't want to be caught out like last night.

As my memory flicks back, I give a little shudder. I can still barely think about my expensive s.e.xy new lingerie. It's lying ruined, hidden in the bottom of my handbag as I wasn't, how shall I put this delicately, quick enough. I swear, spicy food should come with a government health warning: 'Could seriously damage your s.e.x life and your underwear.'

'Oh, before I forget, I've got a friend's wedding coming up and I wondered if you'd be my guest,' he asks casually, doing a hamstring stretch.

'A wedding?' At the mention of the word, all thoughts of my ruined underwear are forgotten and I feel a rush of delight. He's asking me to accompany him to his friend's wedding. Already.

'Well not really a friend,' he qualifies, 'more a colleague.'

My mind is racing ahead. Who cares whose wedding it is? Everyone knows a guy has to be really serious about you before he invites you to a wedding. It's an unspoken rule. You don't take your girlfriend to see another couple waltz up the aisle unless you want to follow them up there. It's like a public declaration you might as well put an announcement in The Times which says, 'Here she is, everyone, my future wife!'

'When is it?' I ask, trying not to look too excited. Gosh, I wonder what I should wear? I'll need to get a new dress. And some new shoes.

'A week from Wednesday, but it's just a lunchtime thing at a register office. They're both lawyers and have afternoon meetings scheduled . . .' He lets go of an ankle and bends his body in a side stretch. 'What do you say?'

Oh wow, yes, I'd be delighted, what time shall we meet, do I need to get a gift . . . ?

The words are stacked up on the runway like aeroplanes about to fly out of my mouth when suddenly I remember the last time we went to a wedding. The bouquet. The row. Seb telling me he didn't believe in marriage.

Actually, on second thoughts . . .

'No, I don't think so,' I say, slamming on the brakes and promptly doing a U-turn.

Seb pops back up from his side stretch and looks at me in surprise. Obviously that wasn't the response he was expecting.

'You don't have to take time off work. It's just a quick "I do", a gla.s.s of champagne, and then back to the office,' he justifies quickly.

'It's not that,' I say, shaking my head.

'It's not?' He crumples up his forehead. 'Then what is it?'

I swallow hard and cross my fingers underneath a cus.h.i.+on. 'I don't believe in marriage.'

'You don't?' He looks at me in astonishment. To be fair, I'm probably the first girl that's ever said this to him.

'And . . . er . . . I think it would be hypocritical of me to go to a wedding when I feel this way,' I continue firmly. Put like that, I actually feel quite proud of myself for sticking by my principles. Even if they don't happen to be real. 'I hope you understand.'

Seb is still looking at me in amazement. Like he can't quite believe his ears. 'Oh wow, totally,' he says, finding his voice. 'I'm exactly the same. I don't believe in it either. I'm like, why get married? It's such an outdated inst.i.tution and a total waste of money.'

'I know, right?' I agree, and roll my eyes. 'All that expense for just one day!'

I'm actually getting into this; in fact I'm starting to convince myself. I mean, maybe Seb is right. Maybe marriage has no place in the modern world and all this time I've just been really old-fas.h.i.+oned. After all, isn't this what feminists have been going on about for years? Isn't this what my mother burned her bra for? Well, not my mother personally.

'I just don't get all these girls that are obsessed with the dress and the big white wedding and the honeymoon on safari!' I snort.

OK, I confess, going on a safari for my honeymoon has always been a fantasy of mine. It just seems so romantic: floating in a hot-air balloon above the Serengeti with your new husband; driving out into the bush at daybreak to spot lions and elephants with the man you're going to spend the rest of your life with; sipping gin and tonics by the campfire at sunset, making plans for your future together . . .

But then who's to say you can't just go on a safari anyway? You don't have to be married.

'I mean honeymoon schmoneymoon,' I huff dismissively.

Seb is nodding away vigorously like he's really identifying.

'Seriously, what's the big deal about a piece of paper?' I continue emphatically. 'Why can't two people just live together?'

'Totally,' he enthuses, gazing at me as if he's just found a kindred soul.

'It's like I always say . . .'

'If it ain't broke, don't fix it,' we both say in unison.

There's a pause as we both look at each other, marvelling at this new bond between us. It's as though we're suddenly closer than ever.

'It's just with them being colleagues, I feel like I have to go,' says Seb sheepishly. 'Would you mind coming with me? It will only be like an hour. Ninety minutes max.' He looks at me beseechingly. 'I'd be really grateful.'

I take a few moments to think it over though, let's be frank, I only really need a second. 'Well . . . OK,' I sigh magnanimously, while making a note to self: No catching the bouquet this time.

'Awesome!' grins Seb, his face lighting up and revealing his perfect white teeth. My stomach flips over and this time it's got nothing to do with the spicy szechuan noodles. Gosh, he really is handsome. 'I owe you big time.'

'Don't mention it,' I smile, but inside I feel a happy glow.

'In fact I know how I can repay you . . .'

'You do?' I smile, but I feel a slight twitch of anxiety. Oh G.o.d, I hope he's not going to get all fruity; after last night I'm really not feeling up to doing any tricks.

But instead of moving closer, he strides over to some shelves that are filled with DVDs. 'Wow, why didn't I think of this before?' he's saying excitedly. 'You're gonna be stoked!'

'Great,' I smile bemusedly. Seb is so cute when he gets all animated about something.

'Ta-daah!' Triumphantly he pulls out a large box. 'Here it is!'

'Here's what?' I laugh.

'Only the special digitally re-mastered edition boxed set of Star Wars: The Complete Saga Episodes I to VI.' His face is flushed with exhilaration. 'The entire series!'

Abruptly I feel a sinking dread.

'All six movies,' he continues enthusiastically. 'And in Blu-ray!'

I stare at him, my brain slowly registering. Oh my G.o.d, this cannot be happening. What happened to spending Sunday lazing in bed watching EastEnders?

Suddenly an entire day of never-ending galactic battles is stretching out in front of me . . . All digitally re-mastered and in high definition.

'It's the director's cut, so it's got all the extra behind-the-scenes footage, and special interviews, and there's even some never-seen-before special effects that were deleted . . .'

My smile is frozen. There are no words.

'I knew that would cheer you up and put a smile on your face,' grins Seb, misinterpreting my horrified silence for one of delight. 'Just think, you can lie here all day and watch it, you don't have to move.' He's already sliding out the silver discs.

That's exactly what I am thinking, and it's terrifying me. One Star Wars film was bad enough. But now I've got to watch six? Back to back? It's like a life sentence.

'Actually, you know, maybe I'll just watch TV these DVD controls seem really complicated,' I say, finally managing to find my voice. I wave the remote and pull an 'I'm-such-an-idiot-when-it-comes-to-anything-technical' face.

'No, not at all, they're super-easy,' enthuses Seb, steamrollering me. 'I've got this new DVD recorder, it can load six discs at a time so you don't even have to do anything.' He presses a b.u.t.ton and a holder pops out, and he starts merrily inserting discs. 'It'll run for hours. Just press play.'

'Brilliant,' I croak.

'Isn't it?' he grins, pressing play on the remote for me.

'In that case, why don't you skip the gym and stay and watch them with me?' I try vainly. Well, if I've got to watch them, I might as well have the fun of cuddling up to Seb.

But it's no good. 'Sorry, I gotta run.' He pulls a face. 'Enjoy!'

'Oh . . . OK, you too.'

It's as though he's almost desperate to leave.

Then, with a quick peck on my forehead, he's out of the bedroom. I hear the door of the flat close behind him and theme music starts blasting: 'A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away . . .'

My stomach growls loudly. Oh no, not again . . .

Chapter 24.

By the time Monday rolls around, I've finally managed to get off the loo long enough to make it to the office. Briefly I toyed with the idea of taking a sickie, but I didn't want to let Sir Richard down, plus there's no way I could stomach any more sci-fi movies. Mala's chilli beef hotpot nearly killed me, but Seb's entire DVD collection might just have finished me off.

Still, there is a bright side: not only are Seb and I growing closer than ever, I've lost those five pounds I haven't been able to s.h.i.+ft since Christmas. Sitting at my desk, I take a sip of Pepto-Bismol (sadly I had to forgo my usual triple latte this morning in favour of the pink stuff). Maybe I should suggest it to Fiona as an alternative to one of her fad diets.

An image flashes across my brain of Fiona ingesting raw chillies she's never one to do things by halves followed by another image of our shared bathroom being out of bounds for the next week.

Then again, on second thoughts, perhaps not . . .

Focusing back on the paperwork on my desk, I start making a pile of invoices. I'm busy sorting out the arrangements for Sir Richard's retirement party, which is happening at some sw.a.n.ky private members' club in Mayfair next month. Next month! At the thought I'm seized by a clutch of worry. I've been trying to block the reality of Sir Richard leaving out of my mind, brush it away as some fuzzy, blurry event that's going to happen in some way-off distant future. Except I can't put off the reality forever. It is happening, and I do have to think about it.

OK, so this is what I know so far: 1) They've been interviewing several candidates for his job.

2) Much to everyone's dismay, it turned out the rumours were true and one of them was Wendy (a collective groan went around the office when she went in for her interview with the board).

3) As yet there's still been no announcement about who's going to replace him.

4) But I do know that whoever they choose, I'll have to reapply for my job as it was only ever a temporary contract.

My stomach knots at the prospect. Sir Richard said he'd write me a wonderful reference, but who am I kidding? I'm never going to make PA of the Year. In fact, it's probably pointless me even applying. Even if by some fluke I did get the job, my new boss is never going to be like Sir Richard. And it could even be Wendy, I remind myself with a shudder. Which leaves me . . . where exactly? Out of work? On the dole? PA to a boss who hates me?

Heaving a sigh, I make a mental note to call up some temping agencies this afternoon. Maybe I can find another contract. One that requires someone who can type with only two fingers, create Excel spreadsheets with too many cells that crash for no reason and can do a really good impression of the answering machine.

Exactly. I'm sure there's heaps of jobs like that just waiting for me.

Collecting up the pile of papers that need Sir Richard's signature, I make my way to his office. His door is ajar and when I poke my head around the corner I see he's not there. He's probably doing what he calls his 'walkabout'. Sir Richard has a policy of being friendly with all his staff and on Monday he tends to do the rounds after the weekend, catching up with everyone, seeing how everyone is. As a CEO he really is one in a million.

Oh well, never mind, I'll just leave him a note, I decide, entering anyway. I make my way across his office towards his desk and am just popping the papers next to his laptop when he comes back in.

'Good morning Sir Rich-'

I'm stopped in mid-greeting as he charges towards me and almost flings himself on top of his laptop, snapping closed the lid under his weight. 'Ah, Tess, yes, good morning,' he puffs, trying to appear nonchalant as he lies prostrate over his desk.

Startled, I stare at him for a moment before quickly recovering. 'Is . . . um . . . everything OK?'

'Yes, fine, fine,' he nods, smoothing down his comb-over and pus.h.i.+ng his gla.s.ses up his nose.

I wait for him to move. Except he doesn't. He remains lying there, head resting on his elbow, as if in some bizarre bikini pose.

'And you?' he says chirpily, as if everything is perfectly normal.

'Um . . . yes,' I say unsurely. His behaviour is off the wall, even for Sir Richard. Out of the corner of my eye I notice there's one of those little webcams on the desk. What on earth is he up to?