completely erased, but this was buried deep inside your hard drive, I almost didn’t find it . . .’ He looks furtively from side to side to make sure no one is watching, then sticks his hand in his pocket. ‘It’s a Word file, I’ve put it on here.’ He quickly stuffs a disk in my hand as if he’s handing over stolen goods. ‘I’m afraid it’s not much . . .’
‘Oh, thanks,’ I smile gratefully. ‘That’s really kind of you . . .’
I break off as I catch Seb glancing over curiously. Or is it? Maybe it’s his double.
Double of what, Tess? Some guy you dreamed up?
Shit. I need to get out of here. And fast.
Saying goodbye to Ali, I shove the disk in my pocket and quickly rush out of the store.
I go home in a daze. I don’t know what to think so I try not to think anything by jamming in my earphones and turning up my iPod to full volume. The bass rattles my eardrums. Normally whenever I see those people on the tube with music thumping loudly from their ears, I tut and think, what are they doing? They’re going to go deaf!
Now I am that person and I don’t care. So what if I go deaf?? By the looks of things I’ve already gone completely bloody loopy.
I walk into the flat to find Fiona at the kitchen table in her fluffy dressing gown, hair all over the place, the phone wedged under her chin and a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. Not quite how one would imagine a health and beauty journalist. And certainly not what the readers of her magazine column would picture. The column that has a photo of her sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat, dressed in Lycra and drinking fresh orange juice.
‘I don’t care if it’s a Bank Holiday. Don’t you realise my deadline’s tomorrow?’ she’s yelling down the handset. ‘Well, fine then, you can stick your new Botox face cream!’ She gives a snort and hangs up. ‘Stupid PR woman,’ she tuts, taking a furious drag of her cigarette and pouncing on her keyboard.
Dumping my bag on the table, I flop into a chair.
‘Good day?’ she asks distractedly from behind her laptop screen.
‘Good and bad,’ I reply, heaving a sigh. ‘Gramps is good, but my laptop’s broken. Apparently it needs a new hard drive.’
‘Oh dear,’ she tuts, not looking up from her keyboard. ‘Did you back up?’
Why is it that you can go your whole life never hearing about something, and then when it’s too late, that’s all people talk about?
‘No, I didn’t. I lost everything. Including my mind,’ I can’t help adding, but she’s not really listening as she’s already furiously typing away, no doubt sending an angry email to the poor PR.
‘Oh, except this . . .’ Wiggling out of my coat, I remember the disk in my pocket and put it on the table.
‘What’s that?’ Fiona stops typing and her head appears from behind her laptop.
‘I dunno,’ I shrug wearily. ‘The man at the store says he managed to save a file or something.’ I hoist myself out of the chair and flick on the kettle. I desperately need a cup of tea. Actually, I need something stronger, but I’m not sure starting on the tequila is a good idea. Look where that got me last time.
‘Let’s have a look . . .’
I turn around to see Fiona snatch up the disk and pop it into her laptop.
‘Tea?’ I ask, reaching for the PG tips.
She doesn’t hear me. She’s too preoccupied. ‘Um . . . it looks like loads of writing . . .’
I make her a cup anyway. Fiona’s not the kind of person to turn down anything. I’ve witnessed some of her online dates . . .
‘Oh hang on, I think it’s a diary . . .’
‘ Diary? ’
‘That’s what it looks like.’ She glances up at me. ‘I didn’t know you kept a diary!’
I feel my cheeks colour. ‘Well, I haven’t for a while—’
I’m interrupted as the microwave suddenly pings. ‘My Tom Yum soup’s ready.’ She jumps up from her chair. ‘I had some left so I thought I might as well finish it off – in for a penny, in for a pound
‘Oh, thanks,’ I smile gratefully. ‘That’s really kind of you . . .’
I break off as I catch Seb glancing over curiously. Or is it? Maybe it’s his double.
Double of what, Tess? Some guy you dreamed up?
Shit. I need to get out of here. And fast.
Saying goodbye to Ali, I shove the disk in my pocket and quickly rush out of the store.
I go home in a daze. I don’t know what to think so I try not to think anything by jamming in my earphones and turning up my iPod to full volume. The bass rattles my eardrums. Normally whenever I see those people on the tube with music thumping loudly from their ears, I tut and think, what are they doing? They’re going to go deaf!
Now I am that person and I don’t care. So what if I go deaf?? By the looks of things I’ve already gone completely bloody loopy.
I walk into the flat to find Fiona at the kitchen table in her fluffy dressing gown, hair all over the place, the phone wedged under her chin and a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. Not quite how one would imagine a health and beauty journalist. And certainly not what the readers of her magazine column would picture. The column that has a photo of her sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat, dressed in Lycra and drinking fresh orange juice.
‘I don’t care if it’s a Bank Holiday. Don’t you realise my deadline’s tomorrow?’ she’s yelling down the handset. ‘Well, fine then, you can stick your new Botox face cream!’ She gives a snort and hangs up. ‘Stupid PR woman,’ she tuts, taking a furious drag of her cigarette and pouncing on her keyboard.
Dumping my bag on the table, I flop into a chair.
‘Good day?’ she asks distractedly from behind her laptop screen.
‘Good and bad,’ I reply, heaving a sigh. ‘Gramps is good, but my laptop’s broken. Apparently it needs a new hard drive.’
‘Oh dear,’ she tuts, not looking up from her keyboard. ‘Did you back up?’
Why is it that you can go your whole life never hearing about something, and then when it’s too late, that’s all people talk about?
‘No, I didn’t. I lost everything. Including my mind,’ I can’t help adding, but she’s not really listening as she’s already furiously typing away, no doubt sending an angry email to the poor PR.
‘Oh, except this . . .’ Wiggling out of my coat, I remember the disk in my pocket and put it on the table.
‘What’s that?’ Fiona stops typing and her head appears from behind her laptop.
‘I dunno,’ I shrug wearily. ‘The man at the store says he managed to save a file or something.’ I hoist myself out of the chair and flick on the kettle. I desperately need a cup of tea. Actually, I need something stronger, but I’m not sure starting on the tequila is a good idea. Look where that got me last time.
‘Let’s have a look . . .’
I turn around to see Fiona snatch up the disk and pop it into her laptop.
‘Tea?’ I ask, reaching for the PG tips.
She doesn’t hear me. She’s too preoccupied. ‘Um . . . it looks like loads of writing . . .’
I make her a cup anyway. Fiona’s not the kind of person to turn down anything. I’ve witnessed some of her online dates . . .
‘Oh hang on, I think it’s a diary . . .’
‘ Diary? ’
‘That’s what it looks like.’ She glances up at me. ‘I didn’t know you kept a diary!’
I feel my cheeks colour. ‘Well, I haven’t for a while—’
I’m interrupted as the microwave suddenly pings. ‘My Tom Yum soup’s ready.’ She jumps up from her chair. ‘I had some left so I thought I might as well finish it off – in for a penny, in for a pound
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