My ears prick up. ‘What audition?’ I ask, rounding on him.
‘For a TV drama.’
‘Fergus, that’s fantastic!’ I gasp. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘My agent only just called me,’ he shrugs, trying to sound casual. ‘It’s all very last-minute.’
‘When’s the audition?’
‘Tomorrow. I’ve got to learn my lines tonight.’
‘Wow that’s great!’ I grin excitedly.
He allows himself a small smile. I can tell he’s secretly really excited, but desperately trying not to be. ‘What about you?’ he asks.
‘Going to see my granddad, it’s his big poker night.’ I’m interrupted by the shrill ring of my mobile. ‘Sorry, hang on a sec,’ I say, pulling it out of my pocket and answering. It’s Seb, wanting to know where I am. ‘I’m just walking to the bus stop. I should be at Hemmingway House in about half an hour,’ I answer happily. I’ve been really looking forward to tonight all week. I can’t wait for the opportunity to introduce Seb and Granddad to each other again.
‘Cool,’ he replies.
‘So as long as you arrive before seven when the game starts—’
‘Well that’s the thing, there’s been a bit of a problem.’
‘Problem?’ My good mood suddenly stalls, like a car engine. ‘What kind of problem?’
‘I totally forgot I had a squash game already arranged.’
I don’t want to believe what I’m hearing.
‘But can’t you just cancel? It’s only squash …’
At the word ‘only’ I can almost hear him bristle on the other end of the line. ‘It’s been in the diary for ages, I can’t just cancel at the last minute,’ he says impatiently.
‘But I really wanted you to meet Gramps,’ I say redundantly. The first time they met it was a disaster, and I so wanted it to be different this time. I was even planning to hide my granddad’s antique pistol to be on the safe side.
‘I’m sorry, babe,’ he says, softening, ‘I made a mistake with the dates.’ But he still doesn’t change his mind. ‘Another time, huh?’
Disappointment kicks hard and flat in the stomach. I’ve spent the last few weeks doing things that Seb wanted to do, and yet the one thing that was important to me … Unexpectedly tears prickle. I feel upset. Let down. Pissed off. Because this isn’t just about me, it’s about Gramps. He lives for his poker nights and will have been looking forward to this game for days. I can’t upset the numbers. I can’t let him down. I won’t let him down.
Putting down the phone I turn to Fergus. ‘How’s your poker face?’
We end up doing a deal. Fergus is to come with me to the poker night, and afterwards I’m going to help him learn his lines. ‘Let’s shake on it,’ he grins, jumping on his bike and promising to meet me there.
‘Hang on, I haven’t given you directions,’ I yell after him.
But he just laughs. ‘Don’t worry, I’m a courier, I’ll find it,’ he replies, before disappearing into the traffic.
Sure enough, as my bus pulls up outside Hemmingway House, he’s already waiting for me, and together we walk through the automatic doors.
‘Ah, Ms Connelly,’ cries Miss Temple, pouncing on me as soon as we enter reception.
‘Oh, hi,’ I force a smile. I swear she lies in wait for me.
‘Who’s that?’ hisses Fergus in my ear.
‘The dragon who hates Gramps,’ I hiss back.
‘And you are?’ she demands sternly, turning to Fergus.
‘Fergus O’Flanagan,’ he replies, throwing on his charm like an overcoat. Smiling broadly, he fixes her with a twinkling gaze. ‘And who do I have the pleasure of meeting?’
The effect is incredible. Miss Temple visibly melts before my eyes and suddenly goes all girlie. ‘Please, call me Catherine,’ she blushes.
Catherine? I stare in disbelief.
‘Like our future queen herself,’ he flatters, reaching for her hand and kissing it. ‘In fact, I can see quite a similarity.’
‘You can?’ she giggles flirtily, the blush rising even higher on her cheeks.
A similarity? Between the Duchess of Cambridge and Miss Temple? That’s like saying there’s a similarity between a newborn kitten and a Rottweiler.
I clear my throat loudly and both of them turn to me. ‘We should go, Gramps is expecting us.’
‘Of course, I’m sorry, will you excuse us?’ Fergus turns back to Miss Temple – correction – Catherine.
‘Oh, no, not at all, don’t mind me.’ Reluctantly letting go of his hand, she starts fanning herself with a sheaf of papers. ‘Enjoy yourselves, and give my regards to your grandfather,’ she smiles giddily. ‘A charming gentleman … you must visit again soon.’
‘We will,’ smiles Fergus, flashing me a wink as I link arms with him and propel him through the fire doors.
‘Like our future queen!’ I gasp, as they swing shut behind us.
‘Hey, I didn’t have my glasses on,’ he protests, smirking.
For a moment we don’t say anything and continue down the corridor until, unable to hold it in any longer, we both turn to each other and burst out laughing.
We’re still laughing by the time we reach Granddad’s room and I knock on his door. Three fast raps, followed by three slow ones. Fergus glances at me quizzically.
‘It’s a special knock … poker nights are against the rules,’ I whisper.
‘Crikey,’ murmurs Fergus, looking suddenly nervous at all this subterfuge.
There’s a pause, then the sound of a lock turning, and the door opens to reveal Gramps looking dapper in his pinstriped suit, an emerald green silk handkerchief spilling from his top pocket. His face lights up when he sees it’s me, and without saying a word he checks the coast is clear before ushering us both inside.
Once the door is closed he embraces me in a whiskery hug. ‘Tess darling,’ he beams, ‘I’m so glad you could make it.’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ I grin, waving at all the familiar faces, all residents of Hemmingway House, who are already sitting around a fold-up table. There’s a ripple of cheery hellos. ‘I brought my friend Fergus.’ I gesture towards Fergus; he’s already being accosted by Phyllis, who’s trying to get him to sit next to her.
‘Phyllis, let go of the poor chap,’ chastises Gramps sternly.
Caught in the act, Phyllis tuts loudly. ‘What? I’m not doing anything,’ she protests innocently.
Breaking free to join us, Fergus smiles gratefully. ‘Thanks for that,’ he says under his breath as he extends his hand.
‘You be careful there my son,’ grins Gramps, shaking it vigorously. ‘She’ll be trying to steal you from under Tess’s nose.’
‘Oh no, Fergus isn’t my boyfriend,’ I begin explaining hastily, but I’m interrupted by Phyllis.
‘Did I hear the word “boyfriend”?’ she says loudly, rounding on me.
I feel my face go bright red and can’t look at Fergus. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ replies Fergus, before I’ve got a chance to answer.
What the … ? I round sharply on him to see a big grin plastered all over his face.
‘You can’t let me get hit on all night by Phyllis,’ he hisses through gritted teeth like a ventriloquist.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Phyllis poised on the edge of her chair, her beady eyes magnified beneath her glasses. She might be nudging eighty, but she’s a man-eater.
‘Um, yes,’ I nod, playing along. ‘This is my boyfriend.’
I feel a bit guilty pretending to Gramps, but I’ll just have to explain later.
‘Splendid! Splendid!’ he cheers, looking thrilled. Throwing his arms around Fergus he gives him a fatherly embrace. ‘At last!’
Er, all right, Gramps, you don’t have to go that far, I muse, catching Fergus’s look of amusement. ‘OK, so shall we start?’ I say briskly. ‘Everyone’s waiting.’
‘Yes, yes, indeed,’ he nod
s, and there’s a ripple of agreement as everyone starts shuffling up to make room for me and Fergus.
We sit down at the table on which is a deck of cards and a bottle of Blackstock & White whisky. And is that …
‘Gramps, are you burning incense?’ I ask, suddenly noticing the small smouldering cone in the middle of the table.
‘Nag Champa,’ he corrects with amazing clarity, considering his memory is failing. ‘That nice nurse Melanie gave it to me. Said it would help with the pipe,’ he winks, sticking it in the corner of his mouth and lighting a match.
‘But Gramps, the rules,’ I protest anxiously, but I’m silenced by Fergus who pours me a large tot of whisky. I give up and take a grateful glug.
‘Now then, people …’ As Gramps calls for everyone’s attention, the chattering falls silent around the table. Puffing merrily away on his pipe, he reaches for the deck of cards. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’ And, with a flourish, he starts dealing.
Two hours, a bottle of whisky and a serious amount of gambling later, I’ve lost all my money, along with most of the other players. Gramps, however, is on a winning streak. Despite only betting with coins, he’s up over fifty pounds and is winning every hand. Now it’s down to just him and Fergus.
‘Well that’s me out,’ he announces, laying down his hand. ‘I’m no match for you.’
‘Nonsense!’ refutes Gramps, but his chest swells up with pride.
‘Your granddad should be doing this professionally,’ says Fergus, winking at me.
‘Hey, don’t you be giving him any ideas,’ I protest.
Gramps chuckles delightedly and puffs on his pipe. ‘Oh come along, one more game,’ he cajoles.
But Fergus shakes his head. ‘That would be grand, but I’m afraid I have to get home. I’ve got an audition tomorrow.’
‘Ooh, are you an actor?’ pipes up Phyllis, who was out a long time ago and has been nodding off on the sofa for the past hour.
‘For my sins,’ he grins.
‘I once courted an actor, you know. He trod the boards at the Variety Hall, handsome chap he was.’
‘Right, yes, Phyllis,’ says Gramps sternly, before turning to me and muttering, ‘Who hasn’t she courted?’
I try not to laugh and elbow him to stop it.
‘Are you leaving too?’ he asks.
‘I promised I’d help Fergus learn his lines,’ I smile ruefully, expecting him to grumble, but instead he looks pleased. ‘Good girl,’ he nods approvingly, giving my knee a little pat.
‘I’ll just get our coats,’ says Fergus, walking over to the stool next to the sewing machine where they’ve been piled. Reaching for them, he pauses. ‘Is this one of your projects, Mr Connelly?’ he asks. ‘Tess told me you worked as a tailor.’
Glancing over, I realise he’s holding up the bag I’m making. My chest tightens. It’s as if he’s uncovered my secret.
‘A tailor?’
But I’m distracted by the blank expression on Granddad’s face. For a split second he looks as if he can’t remember.
‘On Savile Row, Gramps,’ I prompt. ‘He worked there for fifty years,’ I continue, for his benefit as much as Fergus’s.
‘Ah yes, I did,’ he nods, suddenly registering, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t take the credit. That’s one of Tess’s designs that we’ve been working on together. Isn’t she talented? I keep telling her she’s got the gift but she doesn’t listen—’
‘It’s just a little project,’ I cut in, cringing with embarrassment and silencing Granddad with a hug. ‘Bye, I’ll be back soon.’
‘Bye my dear.’
‘Have fun,’ waves Phyllis from the sofa, ‘and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ she winks.
By the sounds of it I’m not sure there is anything Phyllis wouldn’t do, I conclude, catching Fergus’s eye and reddening. Honestly, this is so embarrassing. When I said I wanted the first time Gramps met my boyfriend to be different this time, I meant the evening to be different, not the actual boyfriend. At the first opportunity, I’m going to have to explain there’s been a big misunderstanding. Fergus is just a friend, that’s all.
And, giving Gramps a hug, I wave goodbye. The sooner I clear that up the better.
Chapter 27
‘I’ve got a confession to make: I’m totally in love with you.’
‘You are?’ I look deep into Fergus’s eyes.
‘Yes,’ he nods, fixing me with a loving gaze. ‘Ever since that first moment when I was performing emergency open-heart surgery and you passed me the scalpel.’
‘Doctor Lawrence …’ I swoon.
‘Nurse Kathy …’ he replies huskily.
Back at Fergus’s flat in Shepherd’s Bush, we’re practising his lines for his audition tomorrow. He lives in a tiny studio, high under the eaves of a large Victorian terraced house, with sloping ceilings that mean he’s forever having to duck down so he doesn’t bang his head as he paces up and down, script in hand.
‘It’s Nurse Kelly,’ I correct.
‘Crikey, so it is!’ he curses, scraping his fingers through his scalp and tugging at his hair. ‘I keep getting that wrong.’
‘It’s fine, don’t worry,’ I try to soothe. ‘Kathy, Kelly, what’s the difference?’
‘Probably whether I get the part or not,’ he replies gloomily, a deep frown etched down the middle of his forehead.
Chucking his script onto a tea chest, he flops himself down on an old velvet chaise longue. Forget modern minimalism, Fergus’s flat is a bit like Aladdin’s cave. It’s decorated with an eclectic mix of vintage maps, a large Indian wall hanging, piles of leather books – the type with gold lettering on the spines – and old-fashioned tasselled lamps over which are hung silk scarves to emit a soft, rosy glow.
Everything, I learn, has a story attached, and none of them has anything to do with a trip to IKEA. Instead Fergus found most things either on his travels or outside on the street.
‘People throw away all this wonderful stuff. I found this chaise longue chucked in a skip,’ he told me proudly when I first walked in. ‘I showed it to a friend who works in an antique shop and he told me it was turn of the century, can you believe it? It just needed re-covering …’ and then pointing to his lamps, ‘They were left out with the recycling; they only needed shades and they were as good as new …’ I listened, fascinated. For someone with a charity shop habit, this was even better. This stuff was free!
‘So anyway, thanks for letting Gramps win,’ I smile gratefully, plopping down next to him on the chaise longue and trying to distract him from his pre-audition nerves. ‘We’re all a bit worried about him; we think he’s starting with Alzheimer’s.’ Hearing myself say those words, I realise it’s the first time I’ve admitted it out loud, either to myself or someone else.
‘My gran had that,’ he says quietly, ‘it can get pretty tough. On them and the rest of the family.’
‘I know,’ I nod, my insides twisting up as I think about Gramps. I can barely think about the future, about what’s going to happen. I’m too scared to think of losing him.
‘But by the way, I didn’t,’ he continues.
I break off from my thoughts and look up, confused.
‘I didn’t let him win,’ explains Fergus with a smile. ‘He’s a great player.’
I know he’s fibbing. At one point I snuck a glance over his shoulder and saw he had a royal flush, but he quickly switched out his cards to deliberately lose.
‘And I’m sure he’ll be a great player for a while yet,’ he reassures me.
I know it’s his way of trying to comfort me. ‘Thanks,’ I smile appreciatively, ‘and thanks for coming.’
‘Thanks for inviting me, I had a lot of fun,’ he smiles, ‘but all that gambling’s worked up an appetite. You hungry?’
‘Starving,’ I nod. I’ve barely eaten anything today and I’m ravenous.
Unfolding his frame, Fergus gets up and walks across to the tiny kitchenette, where there follows the sound of lots
of rummaging around and opening and closing of cupboards.
‘Well, I’m afraid it looks like I’m out of the fresh lobster,’ he says after a few moments, his head reappearing from behind a cupboard door, ‘but I can offer you baked beans on toast.’
‘That’s lucky,’ I reply with a straight face. ‘I don’t like fresh lobster.’
He laughs and starts busying himself with popping bread in the toaster, beans in a pan, and within a few minutes he’s serving up two steaming plates of beans on toast.
‘Mmm, this is delicious,’ I rave, through a mouthful of hot buttery toast. ‘Compliments to the chef.’
‘It’s one of my favourite recipes,’ nods Fergus with mock seriousness. ‘I find the flavours are really brought out by a full-bodied can of Guinness.’
I laugh as he opens a can and pours the black, foamy liquid into two glasses, then passes me one. He’s cleared a little space and we’re sitting cross-legged on cushions on the floor, balancing our plates on the old tea chest, which is doubling as a makeshift table. For a moment my mind flashes back to the meal with Seb at Mala, with its exotic dishes and expensive prices, and I can’t help thinking how much more I’m enjoying this one.
But of course that’s only because I don’t like spicy food, I remind myself quickly, and not for any other reason.
For a few moments we eat in comfortable silence until, scooping a forkful of beans, Fergus pauses and asks, ‘So I thought you told me you didn’t have a dream?’
I look at him, not understanding.
‘That bag I saw back there,’ he prompts.
Comprehending, my face floods with self-consciousness. I was hoping he wasn’t going to mention that. Apart from to Granddad, I’ve never admitted it to anyone, never been brave enough to lay myself wide open to ridicule, but now my secret’s out. ‘Oh, that?’ I give a nonchalant shrug. I’ll just brush it off, dismiss it jokingly as nothing important.
But there’s something about Fergus’s steadying gaze that makes my dream seem suddenly possible. I don’t want to deny it. I want to talk about it.
Don't You Forget About Me Page 24
