Don’t You Forget About Me Read Free

Eve party looming, there are many ways I can think of to describe how I’m feeling right now, and fancy-free is not one of them.
    ‘I remember when I was your age, the things I’d get up to on New Year’s Eve . . .’ He trails off with a chuckle. ‘You know, I once got arrested for dancing in the fountains at Trafalgar Square?’
    ‘You did?’ I look at my boss’s ill-fitting suit, the thick, oversized glasses teetering on the end of his ruddy nose, his sensible brown lace-up brogues that look a hundred years old. It’s hard to imagine.
    ‘Indeed I did,’ he nods, with more than a hint of pride in his voice. ‘Actually I streaked.’
    ‘ You did? ’ My voice comes out at a higher pitch. I suddenly have a vision of Sir Richard running through fountains. Naked .
    Arggh. No. I bat the vision away furiously.
    ‘Oh yes,’ he nods gravely. ‘I was quite the rascal in my youth.’
    I’m not quite sure where this trip down memory lane is heading, but I don’t want to stay and find out.
    ‘Well bye,’ I say briskly, pulling up my fur-trimmed hood as if in an attempt to protect my ears from any more naked streaking stories. ‘Happy New Year!’
    ‘Ah yes, indeed, indeed,’ he nods vigorously, snapping back and pushing his glasses up his nose. For a moment he remains there, perched on my desk, and for the first time I notice his suit is slightly more crumpled than usual, and if I’m not mistaken, he hasn’t shaved this morning. ‘Well, Happy New Year, Tess,’ he says, reverting back into boss mode. Straightening up, he stuffs his hands firmly in his pockets. ‘Have a wonderful evening.’
    ‘You too,’ I reply. He cuts a rather sad figure, standing by my cheese plant, alone in the office, and it suddenly strikes me that if I’ve escaped to the office, is Sir Richard escaping too? And if so, what from?
    No sooner has the thought popped into my head than I dismiss it. Don’t be silly, he’s been happily married to Lady Blackstock for the past twenty years, what could he possibly be running away from? And, grabbing my bag, I give a little wave and walk towards the lift.
     
    After the central-heated warmth of the office, outside is like stepping into a chiller cabinet. I set off briskly walking. It’s too cold to wait for a bus, even in my duvet coat, plus I only live twenty minutes away. Digging out my iPod, I untangle the earphones and, to the sounds of Paolo Nutini, head towards the river.
    Two tracks later, I see the majestic arch of Hammersmith Bridge up ahead, the ornate gold detailing picked out of the darkness by the stream of car headlights. Icy blasts whip up from the river and around my frozen ears and, turning up my collar, I bury my face into my mohair scarf and keep walking. Below me the Thames is inky black, but dotted along the riverbank I can see pubs with their strings of coloured fairy lights and make out the shapes of people spilling out from the beery warmth, braving the cold to smoke cigarettes.
    I turn off my iPod. I can hear the sounds of chatter and laughter carried on the gusts of wind and for a moment I pause to lean against the railings. I let my gaze drift outwards. There’s something magical about being suspended high above the river, looking down on London and life. A sense of freedom and quiet, even with the hum of the traffic behind me, that allows my mind the space to wander. To daydream. To think.
    As usual I think about me and Seb. It’s getting to be a bit of a habit, replaying scenes and conversations in my head, imagining if I hadn’t said or done that, imagining if I’d reacted this way instead . . . It takes two people to make a relationship, and two people to break it, but there’s so many things I did wrong. Not great big things, just lots of little random things.
    Like, for instance, that stupid argument about marriage. With a stab of regret my mind flicks back to the summer. We’d gone to a friend’s wedding and what began as jokey banter after I caught