Don’t You Forget About Me Read Online Free PDF Page B

bottle in the recycling, I nose around in the cupboards for something that doesn’t require milk. There’s a bunch of Fiona’s herbal teas, but they’re not actually for drinking, they’re just for appearances. She gets them out whenever she’s got ‘guests’, and makes a little virtuous display with them, along with her Diptyque candle and speciality jams, which she got from a Fortnum & Mason’s gift hamper about four Christmases ago. And which I once mistakenly nearly opened when we ran out of our usual Tesco’s strawberry.
    I’ll never forget it. She literally leapt across the kitchen in her silk kimono dressing gown, like something from Crouching Tiger , and with a howl snatched the cognac and elderflower marmalade from my hands before I could get the knife under the seal. I’m not kidding, it was actually pretty scary.
    Oh hang on, what’s that? Behind the nettle and burdock root infusion, I spot a bottle of something that looks like—
    My emergency bottle of tequila.
    I eye it triumphantly. I’d forgotten all about that. Sir Richard gave it to me last year for my birthday and I’d stashed it away in the cupboard. Not that I don’t drink tequila, but usually when I’m at home and I fancy a drink, I’ll share a bottle of wine with Fiona, not start doing slammers on the kitchen counter.
    I eye the bottle.
    I said usually when I’m at home. But tonight’s different. There’s nothing usual about it. It’s New Year’s Eve. I’m heartbroken. Home alone. And I’m wearing a sexy kitten costume.
    Sod the herbal tea. It’s going to take something a lot stronger than that tonight.
    OK, to do this properly I need salt and a lime. That much I do know. I glance at our pathetic excuse for a fruit bowl. With Fiona being a health and beauty writer, you’d think it would be overflowing with exotic fruits. Instead we’ve got two blackened bananas and a Granny Smith that’s so shrivelled it should be on display in the British Museum. And I can’t find the salt. Or a clean glass.
    Oh well, never mind, I muse, grabbing my Keep Calm and Carry On mug from the mug tree, and pouring myself a shot. Actually, it’s probably more like about four shots, I realise, looking at the amount of tequila in the bottom of the mug before slugging it back. I slam my mug down on the kitchen counter and wince. The tequila is like liquid fire, burning a path to my stomach. Whoah. Talk about strong. This stuff really blows your head off. A few more shots like that and I’ll be so completely blotto I won’t know what day it is.
    Perfect .
    Pouring another large mugful, I head into my bedroom. This used to be the living room, but because Fiona’s flat is really only a one-bedroom, she converted it into another bedroom when I moved in. Which works fine as the kitchen is one of those big eat-in kitchens, and I’ve got my own little portable TV that I like to watch lying on my bed, plus I’ve got the original Victorian fireplace in my room, and it works.
    In fact, I think I’ll light it now, I decide. A real fire always cheers me up. Throwing on some firewood, I busy myself with twisting up bits of newspaper, a trick my granddad taught me as a little girl, and in no time at all I’ve got a decent fire going. On a roll, I turn my attention to my candles, only my favourite scented one is finished.
    Damn. Chucking it in the bin a thought strikes me, but immediately I dismiss it. No, I can’t. Fiona will kill me.
    She’ll never find out , whispers a drunken, rebellious voice in my head. You can put it back before she comes home. You’re only borrowing it .
    Now normally in my sane, rational mind I would never entertain such an idea. Borrowing ‘The Diptyque’, as Fiona reverently calls it, is a bit like borrowing the Crown Jewels. In other words, you just don’t. It’s meant to be displayed on the little corner table in the hallway, along with the white orchid in a pot, and Fiona’s Smythson address book which she got as a gift