The Bucket List to Mend a Broken Heart

by Anna Bell

  ‘He told me about her,’ I say, nodding. ‘Sounds like he really lost someone he loved.’

  ‘Yeah, and then there’s everything that happened with his mum. So when he met Tammy at some biking event they started dating and it quickly became apparent that she wasn’t the type of girl to settle down. She was never at home, always off somewhere at a race and it didn’t take long for Ben to realise that she blew hot and cold like the wind. But much to our amazement, he put up with it. It’s a shame as we’d like nothing more than to see Ben settle down with someone nice – he deserves it.’

  Giles gives me a fleeting look, before opening a cupboard and pulling out the biscuit tin.

  ‘I’m not saying that Tammy isn’t nice,’ he says quickly. ‘She’s usually all right. It’s just that none of us like the way she walks in and out of Ben’s life.’

  ‘None of you like her? Not Pete, not Doug?’

  ‘Don’t like is probably a bit strong, but no, none of us are impressed with how she treats him. Please don’t say anything to him, though. He’d hate to know how we feel.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I say. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

  He grabs a handful of biscuits and offers me the tub, but there are only Garabaldis filled with evil raisins left, so I shake my head. He slams the lid shut, putting it back in the cupboard.

  I can’t help thinking him shutting the lid like that is a metaphor for our conversation about Ben and Tammy – firmly closed. Whether Giles feels guilty about going behind his best friend’s back, I don’t know, but suddenly it’s as if there’s a super-injunction on the topic and Giles goes stony silent.

  ‘I better get ready for this meeting,’ I say, taking my cue to leave.

  I settle myself at my desk and pull up my to-do list. But before I can get stuck into it, my phone buzzes.

  I see it’s a text message from Sian.

  Have you texted Ben yet about Sunday? x

  I sigh. This is probably my third text of the day from her, all along the same lines. On the long, long drive back from Snowdonia, where the topic of conversation was pretty much exclusively about Pete, Sian came up with a plan. We’d all go and visit a vineyard in West Sussex on Sunday to tick wine tasting off my list.

  I did try to point out that it would seem like I was suggesting a double date with Ben, Pete, Sian and me, but I was overruled. It seemed that my list was the perfect excuse for Sian to legitimise seeing Pete again. I pointed out that I could just get his number from Ben and she could call and ask him out herself, but she was having none of it. His cool response to her friskiness at the weekend had made her doubt her mojo and she wanted to engineer an informal outing to see what would happen between them.

  I had wanted to keep Sunday free as Sian and I have got the Race for Life on Saturday and Ben and I are off to Paris on Tuesday. I was looking forward to having some downtime, but then I reasoned that wandering round a vineyard in the spring sunshine would be quite relaxing and I’ve only got two more weeks to tick it off my list before the abseil.

  Besides, I don’t think she’s going to give me any peace until I get it organised. So I fire off a quick text to Ben, using the words that Sian had so carefully crafted between Birmingham and Oxford. Apparently it needs to seem casual, but also be clear that it would work best if it was only the four of us. I can imagine Tammy’s wrath now . . .

  ‘Hey, Abi.’

  I finish sending a quick text to Sian with the word ‘done’. I look up and see Fran peering through the partition.

  ‘Hiya, you all right?’ I say, thinking that I don’t need any more interruptions this morning.

  ‘Yeah, just checking you were all set for the meeting with Vista later.’

  ‘More or less,’ I say, lying. Fran’s a real organised cookie who always has a neatly prepared folder for every meeting she attends.

  ‘Great. I was speaking to Rick about it and he was waxing lyrical about you landing the account. It seems you’ve earned yourself a lot of brownie points.’

  I’m still pleased as punch that I managed to snag my own client. It’s usually the account execs that bring in the business, not us designers.

  ‘I’m glad he noticed,’ I say, looking over at him in the far corner with Linz.

  Fran follows my gaze.

  ‘Quite,’ she says. ‘When does Hayley get back from maternity leave?’

  We share a smile in solidarity.

  ‘I better get back to the preparation for this meeting,’ I say to Fran, when in reality I’m scanning Facebook to check if there has been any new Joseph activity.

  ‘Great, well, let me know if you need any help,’ she says as she disappears from the gap.

  ‘Thanks,’ I call, but I shouldn’t need any help. For once I feel in control.

  I finished my designs late last week and I was ridiculously happy with them. I often like to tinker with work right up until the last moment, but something about these designs just clicked.

  I hope that Lucinda and Thomas, the clients from my Spanish class, love them as much as I do.

  I open InDesign to load up my files and I can’t stop the grin exploding on my face. I’m still brimming with enthusiasm for my job and I really can’t help thanking the list.

  For the first time in what feels like months, my life seems on the up. My job’s going well, my boss is pleased with me, I’ve done amazing feats that I never thought I’d be brave enough to do, and I’m hopefully starting to impress Joseph and am therefore closer to getting him back.

  I’m practically whistling with joy as I navigate finder looking for my client folder. I open it up and am gobsmacked to find it’s empty.

  ‘It can’t be,’ I say, clicking out of the folder and back in.

  I might be messy in the real world, but in my virtual world I’m a total neat freak.

  I start to look at folders either side in case I’ve accidentally dragged or dropped the files somewhere else. But there’s nothing – only what’s supposed to be in there.

  My heart starts to race and I’m finding it difficult to breathe.

  I know the files have to be here somewhere. They couldn’t have just disappeared, could they?

  Think, Abi, think.

  It’s not only my designs that are missing from the folder but the initial client brief isn’t there either, and neither is the outline of my work I’d sent to Rick at the beginning.

  I can feel the beads of sweat starting to collect on my forehead.

  I try and think logically, or as logically as my brain will let me.

  I bring up the search button and type in the file name.

  The wheel of death appears on my Mac for a moment and I close my eyes, unable to watch its progress.

  When the search comes up empty I start to inwardly panic.

  ‘Hi, Abi, everything ready for the meeting?’ says Rick.

  Why is everyone asking me that question today?

  ‘Um, doing the last-minute changes now,’ I lie.

  There’s no point in worrying him unnecessarily. They’re going to turn up – they have to.

  ‘Perfect. Well, I’ll see you in the meeting room in twenty minutes then.’

  Twenty minutes!

  I look up in shock at the clock and realise the time. Why on earth did I leave the printing so late in the first place? It was so late last Friday when I finished them and I couldn’t face waiting for the printer to warm up and do its slow-time printing. I should have printed them when I came into the office first thing this morning, instead of grilling Giles about Ben or trying to tackle the mountain of emails from when I took yesterday off travelling back from Snowdon.

  I pick up the phone and wonder who I’m going to call. I don’t really want anyone else in the office to get a whiff of what’s going on, but at the same time my technical knowledge in the field of locating missing work is pretty non-existent.

  I look over to Giles’s side of the office as he’s a computer whizz kid, but it’s empty.

 
I stare up at the big clock hanging on the office wall and the second hand seems to tick loudly, reminding me that I’m ever closer to my impending doom. I can’t go to this big client meeting empty-handed and it’s way too late to postpone it.

  The dial tone makes that funny noise and reminds me that I’ve had the phone off the hook too long. I replace the receiver before picking it up again in a moment of clarity. I can phone our IT people. They’ll be able to help.

  We outsource our IT work to a company who I’m pretty sure work out of their bedrooms. I’m always convinced that I can hear Game of Thrones on in the background.

  ‘Hello, Abi.’

  ‘Hello,’ I say, not knowing whether I’m speaking to Greg or Adam. The two are the same person in my head. Too much skill and glasses to tell the difference.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m trying to locate some files. I did some work last Friday and now the files are gone. When I open InDesign and try and open the source files from there it says the files no longer exist in their location.

  ‘OK, I’ll just take control of your machine.’

  I panic for a second as I check my screen to make sure I don’t have Facebook still up.

  Having someone else remotely manipulate my computer freaks me out. In a matter of seconds my curser moves across the screen like it’s being controlled by a poltergeist. It always makes me feel violated.

  ‘What are the file names?’

  I list them off and I watch as he does the same search I did five minutes ago. So much for the genius of the IT department.

  I can see Pat the office manager taking the hot flasks of water into the conference room as the meeting time gets ever closer.

  My cheeks are starting to burn and I know without looking in a mirror that they’ll have gone all red and blotchy.

  ‘They don’t appear to be on the system, either in your personal or the shared drives,’ says the IT guru.

  ‘Well, can’t you fix it? Can’t you track them down?’ I ask, thinking about the stories I’m always reading about the police taking away hard drives and retrieving files that criminals wanted hidden. I’ve always been under the impression that it’s super hard to actually get rid of things permanently from your computer.

  ‘I’m sure we can. When did you say you last edited them?’

  ‘Friday night, just before I left.’

  ‘OK, well the files are backed up every night, so I can just go to the backup files and find them.’

  ‘Great,’ I say, releasing the biggest breath and fighting the urge to tell him how much I love him.

  The relief is immense. And it’s not a moment too soon. Pat’s just walked into the meeting room with the fancy biscuits and the clock says it’s five minutes until meeting o’clock.

  ‘If you leave it with me, I’ll retrieve them and send them over this afternoon.’

  ‘This afternoon!’ I cough. ‘But my meeting is in five minutes. I need them now.’

  Greg/Adam sucks air through his lips. ‘No can do. I have to access the server computer and then find Friday’s directories and I guess if I did it quickly it would take half an hour at the very least, but usually when we recover design files because of their size they can take an hour.’

  ‘What?’ I say gulping. ‘This is supposed to be the twenty-first century.’

  ‘And that’s if the files are there.’

  ‘What do you mean if the files are there? Why wouldn’t they be there?’

  ‘Well, they were obviously deleted, so if they were deleted before the back up happened at midnight then there’s no hope of getting them back.’

  I’m back to the hyperventilating.

  ‘Look, Abi. I’ll give it a go right now and get them to you if they’re there as soon as I can.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, mumbling, and hang up the phone.

  What the hell happened to my files? It sounds like we’ve ruled out the idea that me or someone else has accidentally moved them. They’ve been deleted. What sort of a moron would do that?

  I see Rick striding through the office on his way to reception. He gives me a nod of the head which he does when he’s off to welcome clients from reception.

  That’s usually my cue to position myself in the conference room and put my boards up ready. Only today I’ve got no boards. I’ve got no designs. I’ve got nothing. I don’t even have my Word file of ideas. I’ve never been so unprepared for a meeting in all my life.

  I rise to my feet and look over to the back fire escape. I’ve probably got time to hot foot it down those stairs and out on to the street. But I can’t do that. These are my clients. The first clients that I’ve bought to the agency.

  I’m going to have to wing it. I know what the designs looked like, I’m going to have to try and describe them.

  I force my legs to walk over to the conference room, but they’ve gone limp and jelly-like.

  ‘You all right, Abi?’ asks Linz, her perfect white teeth gleaming as she smiles.

  ‘Fine,’ I say, even though I’m anything but.

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing your final designs.’

  I stop for a second and stare into her eyes. There was something about the way she said that that makes me suspicious.

  What if Linz deliberately deleted my files? I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. She might be a peppy pain in the arse, but she’s not evil.

  She pushes the door open and takes a seat at the large round table.

  I’m studying her face to look for clues about my predicament when Rick walks in with the clients.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, standing up and planting a fake smile on my face, hoping I can make up for my lack of designs with my winning personality.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Abi,’ says Lucinda, walking in, followed by Thomas who smiles warmly.

  Linz bounces up immediately, introducing herself and offering coffee.

  She does have her uses after all, because there’s no way I’d be able to hold a coffee cup straight enough to get any liquid into it as my hands are shaking worse than a jelly in an earthquake. I’m sitting on them to try and numb them in a bid to stop the quaking.

  ‘Right, then, shall we hand over to Abi who will talk you through the designs. I’m sure you’ll be eager to see them.’

  I see him looking round the room, noticing that neither the whiteboard is on nor the easel loaded with boards. I can tell he’s clicked that there are no designs present.

  ‘Thanks, Rick,’ I say as best I can. My mouth has gone so dry that my tongue is getting stuck to the roof of it.

  I stand up, hoping that it will make whatever I have to say seem more authoritative, as if it was all part of my grand plan.

  ‘So, I know you are all dying to see what I’ve come up with.’ I laugh nervously. They’re not the only ones. My hands haven’t been so clammy since I slow danced with Russell Thomson at the year nine disco. I try and rub them on my jeans as discreetly as I can, but it only makes them quiver more.

  ‘Well, I’m going to be honest with you. I had done designs for today. Brilliant ones, even perfect ones, but we’ve had a tiny problem with our IT system.’

  I hear Rick gasp, and I know it’s going to be downhill from here.

  ‘So, I’m going to have to explain my concept as best I can, and then email you the files this afternoon.’

  The look of hope on Lucinda’s face has fallen, and Thomas shifts in his chair. Rick looks like he’s going to throw the fancy biscuit he’s just picked up at my head, and Linz has that stupid inane grin on her face that makes me want to punch her even more than usual.

  ‘So,’ I say, realising that I’m starting to ramble, ‘the idea for the concept is to subtly rebrand your logo. You want to position yourself in the luxury hotel market, which obviously your refurbishment allows you to, but your logo is currently a little out of date. We think that whilst you want to hang on to the word Vista, it would be worth rebranding as the Vista Boutique Hotel.’


  Thomas and Lucinda look at each other.

  ‘Do you think we should really change our name? That would mean changing everything – all our leaflets, our website,’ says Thomas, sighing.

  I can’t point out that that’s why they’re at our design agency, as I’m supposed to be on a charm offensive to make up for the lack of designs.

  ‘Yes, but I think if we get the branding right, it would be worth it. You’ve already done the hard work with the refurb, and the rooms and hotel are looking fantastic. What you want is a design that really reflects the changes you’ve made. And as you’ll be able to charge more for the rooms, you’ll hopefully be able to recoup the marketing costs easily.’

  ‘And the refurb costs,’ says Thomas, looking at Lucinda.

  I get the impression that he didn’t really want to make the changes to the hotel, but Lucinda was right to do it. She’s transformed what was a tired old seafront hotel with pink floral carpets and peeling wallpaper and made it modern and fresh, with Farrow-and-Ball-painted rooms, Egyptian cotton bedding and twenty-first-century carpet.

  ‘We’ve been through this,’ says Lucinda. ‘In two years’ time everything, including these marketing costs, will be paid off.’

  He sighs loudly and rubs his hand through his hair.

  ‘I like the name, but what would the logo look like?’ she says.

  ‘Well,’ I say, feeling like an idiot having to describe my designs rather than show them. ‘I’d taken the colours from your new rooms. The deep grey, turquoise and the fuchsia. They work really well in combination. The word Vista is large in fuchsia, with the boutique hotel written in grey below. The turquoise is used to highlight it and to give the impression of waves to represent what that vista is.’

  I see the confused looks on their faces. Even I could barely follow that description and I can see it like a photograph in my mind.

  Linz reaches into her bag and pulls out a bag of felt tip pens. She walks calmly over to the flip chart beside me.

  ‘I saw Abi’s designs last week,’ she says. ‘They go a bit like this.’

  In the space of two minutes she manages to draw on the flip chart a pretty accurate rough sketch of what my design looks like.