Don't You Forget About Me by Alexandra Potter
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, snatching 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 buttons 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 spacehopper 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 spacehopper ears on his head, for Christ’s sakes. As if I’m going to believe anything he says. It’s superstitious rubbish. I’d have to be completely bananas.
And yet . . .
A chink 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.
‘Tess!’
It’s Fiona again. Resisting the urge to yell back ‘Go away’, I get up. I check my reflection in the mirror, attempt to do something with my hair, then give up and walk through into the hallway. I can see the back of Fiona, her bathrobe-clad figure blocking someone in the doorway.
She’s talking to them, but as I approach she turns. ‘There you are!’ she reprimands in her Sunday-best voice. ‘Apparently you left your bag at the store.’
‘My bag?’ I had to take two bags with me today as I couldn’t fit my laptop and everything else in just my leather rucksack. Now it suddenly dawns on me I only brought one home. I must have left the other one. God, I’m such an idiot . . .
‘Honestly, Tess, what are you like?’ She gives a tinkly little laugh, the kind of laugh she always adopts when there are men around. ‘Luckily for you, this very nice man found it.’ Aha, I knew it.
Beaming brightly, she gestures at the figure in the doorway.
‘Oh, gosh, thanks . . .’ As I reach the door, Fiona steps to one side so I can thank the stranger.
Only it’s not a stranger.
My voice stalls in my throat. Oh my god, what’s Seb doing here?
‘You left this.’ He smiles awkwardly and holds out my bag.
Blankly I look at him, then it registers. In the computer store. I was sitting next to him. I rushed off quickly . . .
I realise I’m just standing there, gawking.
‘Um . . . yes, thanks,’ I nod, quickly taking it from him.
‘I hope you don’t mind, I had to look inside to find your address.’
‘No, no of course not,’ I fluster, hugging it to my chest tightly and feeling light-headed. I’ve got to hang onto something. Anything.
There’s a pause and I’m vaguely aware that Fiona has disappeared and it’s just me and Seb. I swallow hard. I have to say something. I can’t just ignore what’s happened. What’s happening?
‘I just want to say . . .’ I manage to gulp. He looks at me expectantly with his pale blue eyes. I struggle inwardly, trying to find the right words. ‘Um, I just wanted to say . . .’ I repeat again, then break off. Oh, who am I kidding? It’s pointless: there are no right words. How can I explain it to him when I can’t explain it to myself?? He’ll think I’m a lunatic. ‘Thanks again,’ I stammer.
For a split second I think I see disappointment flash across his face, but then it’s gone and he’s smiling agai
He’s leaving. I have to stop him.
‘OK,’ I nod dumbly. Is that it? I’m never going to see him again and that’s all I’m going to say?
‘But before I do, I was going to ask you something,’ he says, turning back, and I feel a rush of relief.
‘Yes?’
His hands are shoved deep into his pockets and he’s got a nervous look on his face. My chest tightens. ‘Well, I was just wondering . . . if maybe . . . you’d like to go out for a drink with me sometime . . .’
As he trails off, his eyes meet mine, and for a split second I’m right back to that moment when we first met. The moment a year ago when, standing in a crowded bar, I turned and caught his eye and he spoke to me, offered to buy me a drink and proceeded to ask me on a date. A moment in my life when everything changed.
Only this time we’re standing in the hallway of my flat. Different time, different place. But it’s still the same Seb. It’s still the same me. Everything’s changed and yet nothing’s changed. I’m right back to where we began. Where it all started.
Except this time I can stop it from ever happening.
I can stop us before we even start.
Relief bursts like a firework. Just think, no more heartache. No more tears on my pillow. No more walking down the street and suddenly, without warning, being hit with such an intense longing to see him again it takes my breath away. I need to forget I ever met him and now, for all intents and purposes, I haven’t, have I?
It’s so simple. So easy. Why on earth would I put myself through all the heartache again? Why repeat it, when all I have to do is politely say no, close the door and never look back? I know how this story ends, and it’s not happily ever after.
‘Well?’ asks Seb uncertainly.
I open my mouth ready to turn him down; I’m already rehearsing the lines in my head, but as I look into his familiar, faded-blue eyes, all the old feelings come rushing back. They never went away, I just tried to bury them deep inside of me. And something stops me. A realisation: I might have erased an entire relationship, but I haven’t erased my feelings towards Seb. I still love him.
Well, you don’t just unlove someone, do you?
And suddenly, out of the blue, a shiver of possibility runs up my spine. An idea starts to form, grow, take hold . . . It seems crazy and yet this whole thing is crazy.
What if I can make us have a different ending?
What if I can do all the things I wish I’d done? Have the time again to make right all the regrets? They say no one ever gets a second chance at their relationship; no one gets to give it a rehearsal, to do it second time around. But I do. Until now I never believed in rituals, or superstitions, but somehow, by some strange, incredible, magical twist of fate, I’ve got a second chance to get it right. With the gift of hindsight I can make it work out . . .
My mind spools backwards through our relationship, rummages through the shoebox of memories, all the mistakes I made, the things I didn’t do, all the silly things I wish I could change: accidentally making fun of his favourite movie, the snowboarding trip we never went on, the book he gave me that I didn’t bother reading, having that stupid argument after I caught the bouquet at the wedding. Seriously, what was I thinking? Why the hell didn’t I throw the bouquet back?
But this time I can.
This time I can change everything.
Teetering on the edge of that moment, like a diver on the high board, I take a deep breath. And smiling at Seb, I jump right back in.
‘A drink sounds great.’
Dear Diary,
Had my first date with Seb! We went for a drink in Chelsea and I was so nervous I knocked a glass of red wine all over him. God, it was SO embarrassing! He was really nice about it but still, why can’t I be cool for once in my life? Why am I such a clumsy idiot!!!???
Chapter 10
It’s the next evening and I’m supposed to be getting ready to go out, but instead I’m sitting on my bed in my dressing gown reading my diary. I’ve printed it out from the disk and this is the entry from my first date with Seb last year.
And now I’m about to go on it all over again.
At the thought, a cage of butterflies is opened in my stomach.
I’m meeting him at the same bar I met him first time around – Seb suggested it and I couldn’t very well tell him the reason why I’d like to go somewhere different – but this time I’m going to make sure it is different. This time I’m not going to make the same mistakes twice; instead I’m going to be super-careful. No spilling red wine. In fact, I know, I won’t even drink red wine. I’ll order white instead.
Or vodka.
Maybe even gin. No. Gin’s supposed to be a depressant. I can’t drink gin on a first date . . .
I stop myself before I work my way through the entire drinks cabinet. Whatever, as long it’s clear and won’t stain.
Just in case, of course.
For the past twenty-four hours, since Seb asked me out, I haven’t been able to think of anything else. I still can’t quite believe it’s happening. It’s so surreal I’ve spent the whole day walking around in a daze. Every so often I’ve had to stop and remind myself: I’m going on a first date with Seb again. A couple of times I might have even said it out loud, as the lady in the corner shop gave me the most peculiar look when I popped in there to buy loo roll earlier and commented, ‘I’m sure that will be nice.’ Which at the time I thought was a bit of a forward thing to say, even if it was Andrex super-quilted.
I glance at the clock on my beside cabinet. Gosh, is that the time already? We’ve arranged to meet in just over an hour, at 8 p.m., and I’m still not dressed. Feeling all excited and jittery about seeing him again, my eyes sweep over the various outfits that I’ve tried on and discarded on the bed. I just can’t decide what to wear. None of them seems right and it’s really important I make a good impression.
Which is ridiculous considering Seb’s seen me in a scruffy old T-shirt and leggings. Except he hasn’t, has he? I have to quickly remind myself.
God, this is all very confusing
I look again at my tiny wardrobe, a find in a second-hand shop that looks lovely, all 1930s walnut curves and delicate inlay, but is completely impractical as it’s too narrow for my modern-day coat hangers and everything’s squished in at an angle.
Meaning everything I pull out of there is a crumpled mess.
I stare gloomily at a blue silk dress that now resembles an old dish rag, trying to calculate how long it will take me to iron it: finding ironing board (5 mins), struggling to put it up (5 mins), giving up and putting towel on bedroom floor (2 mins), filling iron with water and waiting for it to heat up (4 mins), dribbling water all over dress because I haven’t waited long enough and steam function isn’t working properly yet (3 mins), turning up iron even hotter (2 mins), having another go with iron and discovering it’s now too hot and has stuck like chewing gum to the silk (2 mins), staring at horrible burn mark on dress and wondering if I can hide it with a brooch (1 min), trying it on and realising instead of the sexy vibe I was going for I now look like someone’s granny (3 mins).
Shit. I’m crap at maths, but that’s a lot of minutes, and I still won’t have anything to wear.
For a moment I stare, paralysed, at my wardrobe, feeling the pressure of time tick-tocking away, when I’m suddenly hit by an idea. Hang on, wait a minute. I snatch up the pages of my old diary and quickly scan down the entry:
. . . wore my jeans and a pink chiffon top I found in a charity shop. It was a bit frumpy, so I shortened the sleeves and sewed these tiny mother-of-pearl buttons down the front (with the help of Gramps of course). Seb said I looked lovely. Though my new high-heeled boots were a BIG mistake. I could barely walk in them and the bar was miles from the tube station. I turned up really late, all r
Brilliant! That’s my outfit decided then.
Rummaging in my wardrobe, I find the chiffon top and pull out my trusty jeans. Well, I don’t have to do everything differently, not if it was a hit the first time around. Just change the stuff that wasn’t. Like, for example, those dratted boots, I decide. Shoving my heels back in the shoe hanger, I dig out my flat ankle ones instead.
Twenty minutes later and I’ve finished drying my hair, doing my make-up, and pulling on my blouse and jeans. OK, I’m good to go. Just need to check out my reflection. I don’t have a full-length mirror, just one propped on the top of my fireplace, so I do my usual trick of standing on my bed and twisting and bending myself like a pretzel, trying to check out the different parts of my body.
Well they all look OK. Separately. I bob down to see the neckline of my blouse, then jump up and, balancing on one leg, lift up the other and waggle it at the mirror . . . It’s just I’m not quite sure what they look like put together. After all, it’s been a while since I wore this outfit and second-helpings of mince pies have come between me and this pair of jeans since then.
Not to mention Fiona’s family-size tin of Quality Street.
I feel a pinch of regret. My particular weakness are the pink fudges. Saying that, I’m not responsible for all the rest of them disappearing. Ever since her grandparents sent them to her, there have been tiny screwed-up balls of glittery foil mysteriously scattered all over the flat. I say mysteriously, as Fiona is on another one of her crazy diets and insists it’s not her. Denial, it seems, is not just a river in Egypt.
Speaking of Fiona, I don’t need a full-length mirror when she’s at home. She’s a bit like the speaking clock, only instead of telling me the exact time, she’ll tell me exactly what I look like. Hopping off the bed, I shove my diary in my bag and head into the kitchen, where I find her hunched over the stove, stirring a saucepan.
‘Ooh you look nice,’ she says, glancing up as I walk in. ‘Great combo.’ She gestures at my jeans and top with her wooden spoon and nods approvingly. ‘Give us a twirl.’