Read Don’t You Forget About Me Online
Authors: Alexandra Potter
Don’t You Forget About Me
Don't You Forget About Me
Alexandra Potter
Contents
For my dad
Ray Potter
Who loved and laughed and lived and left
And nothing will ever be the same again
A New Year’s Eve Ritual
Many ancient cultures believe in the magic of New Year’s Eve to cleanse yourself of anything from the old year that you don’t wish to take into the coming one. Be it fears or regrets, heartache or painful memories, ill-health or bad habits, this is the time you can leave the past behind and move, unburdened, into the future.
First light a fire. Then take a piece of paper and write a list, or use pictures, or some other symbol to represent the things you want to be rid of and, at the stroke of midnight, throw them into the flames.
As they burn away, sparks will well and truly fly. So make a wish. Because it will be carried on these sparks, sending your hopes and dreams out to the universe, to be blown by the wind, into the New Year . . .
Dear Diary,
Seb and I broke up.
Well, that’s not strictly true. He broke up with me. He said he loved me but wasn’t in love with me, that it would probably be better if we break up, how he hopes we’ll always remain friends . . .
But you know the worst thing of all? When he told me he couldn’t see a future with me. That pretty much broke my heart.
I’m not sure what to write now. Shall I write that I still feel numb? That it’s only been a few hours and I still can’t believe it’s over? That I know that soon the shock is going to wear off, like an anaesthetic at the dentist, and I’m terrified of the pain?
Or shall I write that I know it’s all my fault. That there are so many things I wish I’d done differently. So many regrets. So many ‘what ifs’. But now it’s too late. I’ve never loved anyone like I love Seb, and now I’ve lost him.
I miss him already.
Chapter 1
What’s on your mind?
Sitting at my desk, I rest my chin on my hand and stare glumly at my computer screen.
Facebook stares back.
Correction
: Taunts me with everyone else’s marvellous love life.
Scrolling down, I read through my friends’ status updates:
Chrissie Hattersley
is loving the Gucci handbag her boyfriend bought her for Christmas.
Jenny Hamilton-Proctor
Looking forward to celebrating New Year’s Eve with my perfect hubby and baby. I am so blessed.
Aneela Patel
Imran Butt
Melody Dabrowski
Andy popped the question, and I said yes!
Sara Jenkins
Since I can no longer fit into my jeans, it’s time to spill the beans, John and I are pregnant!!!!
Emily Klein
Only two sleeps before my Bali honeymoon. I CAN’T WAIT!!
Emily’s going on honeymoon? I didn’t even know she’d got married!
I’m distracted by an email pinging into my inbox. It’s from my boss, Sir Richard, reminding me about his visa for his upcoming trip to India in the New Year.
Shit. I’d forgotten all about it.
‘All under control,’ I type breezily, hitting reply.
It’s 3 p.m. on New Year’s Eve, and while most people are either at home on the sofa, watching repeats on TV and finishing off the rest of the mince pies, or thousands of miles away on a beach in Goa, enjoying some winter sunshine, I’m ensconced in an office block in southwest London.
The office is home to Blackstock & White, drinks merchants famous for their whisky and other brand-name spirits, where I’m PA to Sir Richard Blackstock.
PA
. That sounds rather swanky, as if I should look like something out of
Mad Men
and be terribly efficient, but in reality I’m not the best PA in the world. In fact, to tell the truth, I’m pretty rubbish. But that’s not really my fault. I was working here as a temp about a year ago, when his PA left to go on maternity leave, and Sir Richard offered me her job.
From the start I told him I wasn’t PA material. I’m not entirely sure what PA material is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not someone who types with two fingers, has a ‘filing system’ which consists of shoving everything in a drawer and then forgetting about it, and for the life of her can never remember whether it’s supposed to be ‘faithfully’ or ‘sincerely’ at the end of a letter.
But Sir Richard waved away my concerns with one of his jovial smiles. Fifty-something, with a penchant for shiny brown suits and a comb-over that’s fooling no one, he’s the nicest boss I’ve ever had. Which is why it’s such a shame he’s retiring in a few months, I reflect, scribbling myself a reminder about his visa on a Post-it note and sticking it onto my computer which is fast becoming covered with them.
Staring at the pink and yellow Post-it wallpaper, I feel a niggle of worry. I should really start addressing some of them, otherwise pretty soon I won’t be able to see my screen.
Or Facebook.
Spotting a friend’s album entitled
Paradise
, I start idly clicking through the pictures: there’s one of a sunset . . . a view of the infinity pool . . . having his’n’hers henna tattoos . . . him with his arms wrapped around her, gazing lovingly into her eyes . . .
I heave a deep sigh. If I felt depressed before, now I feel even worse. Faced with the gift-bearing boyfriends, perfect husbands and romantic holidays, my love life, or lack of it, is thrown into sharp contrast. I mean, I know I’m lucky in lots of ways. OK, I might not have a high-flying career, but I’ve got a job. I’ve got a roof over my head (well, technically it’s my flatmate Fiona’s roof as she owns the flat and I rent her spare room) and, as my mum is always fond of telling me, ‘You’ve got your health, Tess.’
Still, it would be nice to have my health
and
an adoring boyfriend.
Abandoning their album I look back at the nagging question next to my profile picture, ‘
What’s on your mind?
’, I feel a familiar knot in my stomach. I’ve been trying to ignore it, but it’s impossible.
One word:
Seb
.
To tell the truth, he’s never off my mind. He’s on it from the moment I wake up in the morning to the moment I go to bed. Ever since we broke up two months ago. Well, actually it was two months, one week and three days.
Yes
, I’m still counting.
Two months, one week and three days since we had ‘that conversation’. Well, I call it a conversation, but that implies a communication between two people. In actual fact it was mostly Seb telling me he loved me but wasn’t in love with me, whilst trying to avoid eye contact and staring uncomfortably down at his trainers, and me sitting across from him on the sofa, fighting back tears and trying not to let him see my heart was breaking.
We’d been together for nearly a year and I really,
really
loved him. I loved that he was American and so different to me, with his strange cultural references, addiction to soy lattes and habit of mispronouncing the tube stations (he once called Leicester Square
Lie-ces-ter
Square). Loved that he was successful and smart and had these big broad shoulders that I could snuggle up against, into what I used to call ‘the nook’. I even loved his terrible guitar playing – his rendition of ‘Wonderwall’ was his favourite – and it was so cute and rather adorable how he could never remember half the chords.
And then of course there was the sex. At the memory I feel a familiar tugging inside. I
really
loved that bit.
Some people grow to love each other. Start out as friends. But with Seb it was instantaneous. He was The One. From the moment we’d gone on our first date, and I’d been so nervous I’d clumsily knocked my glass of red wine all over his lap, I knew I was a goner. There was no point trying to resist. I was going to fall in love with him and there was nothing I could do about it.
What I didn’t know was just how hard I was going to fall.
Since ‘that conversation that wasn’t really a conversation’, I haven’t heard from him, apart from the odd text ‘just to say hi’ and an e-card wishing me a Merry Christmas. But I only have myself to blame. Although he never said it, deep down I know it’s all my fault we broke up, I’m the reason it didn’t work out between us, and I can’t help thinking if I’d done things differently we’d still be together . . .