Don't You Forget About Me Page 12

  I realise with hindsight that even before Mum weighed in, there was a melancholy to the Glossop Road expedition. We were both nervous, Dad and I, about the day I would leave home, looming on horizon. We were pre-sad.

  Not only as we’d miss each other; but because he was going to be alone with Mum. It was mine and my sister’s responsibility to act as buffer zones and brake pads, and simply to be someone living in their house that they liked. And we were both abandoning our posts. Both Esther and I had wondered how they’d function. They’d each recruited an ally in their children – without us, it was endless civil war.

  Then, as it turned out, in a surprise twist, due to three blocked arteries, it was Dad who left home.

  Here’s what life has taught me so far: don’t worry about that thing you’re worrying about. Chances are, it’ll be obliterated by something you didn’t anticipate that’s a million times worse.

  Anyway, the point is, I love curry.

  Cauliflower cheese, I can take or leave.

  I wait until the waiter has delivered four pints of Kingfisher, condensation sliding down the glasses, and we’ve lifted, clinked cheers and sipped, to say:

  ‘Can I check, is my treat tonight invalid if I’ve got back with Robin?’

  Rav does a comedy choke-spit on his lager, Jo sucks in a shocked breath and Clem says: ‘Your sanity is invalid if you’ve forgiven that rancid hound!’

  I lower my eyes, Princess Diana style, and say: ‘He’s promised me he can change. He says he only slept with Lou because he was frightened by how much he felt for me. It was like a boobytrap in himself, a tripwire. He denies himself happiness with acts of … of … desecration.’

  ‘Is this real, because if so I’m going to be sick,’ Clem says flatly.

  ‘I want to help him be a better person,’ I conclude, looking round a trio of nauseated faces.

  ‘Why would you do that?’ Clem says. ‘Why not pick an achievable goal?’

  ‘I believe he truly wants to change,’ I say. I am enjoying the gag, though I didn’t think I could convince them I’d be that stupid. Victory: pyrrhic.

  ‘Yeah well. R Kelly believed he could fly.’

  There’s a pause, while they all eye me uneasily.

  ‘Nice try, George,’ Rav says. ‘But you love curry way too much to risk ruining appetites in this way at the start of the meal.’

  ‘Balls, you got me.’

  I start gurgling with laughter and everyone tuts and scolds.

  We’re at Rajput in Crookes, which along with the Lescar, is undoubtedly a soother to my soul.

  ‘Are we having poppadoms?’ Rav asks and I say, ‘YES definitely it’s essential, I want all the bits,’ and Clem pouts and says, ‘They make you too full,’ and we say, ‘Er don’t eat them then?’ and she says, ‘Well I’m going to have to if they’re there, aren’t I?’

  Clem, tonight in white go-go boots and a minuscule pinafore dress from her boutique, is rigidly controlling of what she eats, to maintain rationing era measurements. To the point where she saw an advert about the signs of cancer that said ‘Unexplained Weight Loss’ and she said Ooh I’d love me some of that and we shouted at her.

  Whenever anyone says to her: But you don’t need to be on a diet, she replies, with the steely fanaticism of the truly devout, ‘I don’t need to be on a diet because I diet.’

  I only wish Clem’s neuroses weren’t played out in front of Jo, who is a buxom 14–16, and loathes her figure. She wages war on her metabolism with awful dieters’ dinners that look like something from Woman’s Own in the Seventies – tinned beetroot with blobs of cottage cheese and pepper matchsticks. She has a body blueprint that will never be redrawn by cottage cheese, and the futile self-torture makes me sad. Needless to say, we all suspect her on-off obsession, Shagger Phil, has contributed to a sense of Not Being Enough. Or, being too much.

  During our starters, Rav entertains us all with his latest tales of harrowing online dates.

  ‘She said her tarot reader had told her a dark, stormy spirit would come into her life, then disappear, but soon return.’

  ‘Her tarot reader?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah she was a real “Luna Lovegood” type. I said I thought it sounded a lot more like she was going to vomit spiced rum, and made my excuses.’

  As the mains arrive, Rav and I update Clem and Jo on That’s Amore! and I read Greg Withers’ comment in full.

  ‘You’re so good at things like this,’ Jo says, as the laughter subsides.

  I turn my phone off again and throw it into my bag. ‘Thanks. Sadly you can’t spend “thank you” clicks on TripAdvisor reviews. Greg’s scored quite a few.’

  ‘You say that,’ Rav says, dipping a piece of roti in his dahl, ‘but you’re a funny writer, you’ve got a way with words, you’re good at telling stories. And you’ve got lots of experience in the service industry. Maybe you could put the two together somehow.’

  Wait … sharing shame?

  ‘I suppose I’m quite good at telling other people’s stories,’ I rattle on, but my mind is whirring. ‘Robin once said I had “comic impulses but lacked the discipline”.’

  ‘You see, what the hell does that mean?’ Clem says, hoovering her lamb pasanda with impressive efficiency. She will carbon offset it tomorrow by living off Heinz cream of tomato, Diet Coke and menthol cigarettes. ‘What discipline does he show?’

  ‘He said I said I wanted to write, and talked like a writer, but never wrote. He had a point,’ I said.

  Nearby, a young couple beckon the waiter over. I sense the man, who can’t be more than twenty-five, is trying to impress the date he’s with, who has a huge mane of backcombed hair and a very tiny Lycra dress.

  ‘We didn’t ask for this? … Why bring it then? Make sure it’s not on the bill, please.’

  The waiter is being apologetic while the lad bristles with righteous indignation. Ugh. I know the sort. Talking to you like a sultan with a serf.

  ‘He’s failing the Waiter Rule,’ I say, under my breath.

  ‘What’s that?’ says Jo.

  ‘It’s the theory that you should never trust anyone who’s rude to the waiter,’ I say. ‘Or waitress.’

  ‘The Waiter Rule,’ Rav says. ‘That’s sound. I could’ve saved time using that test.’

  ‘Had you not heard of it?’ Three shaking heads.

  ‘It’s one of the great fundamental underpinning truths of life. It’s like never dating anyone who’s mean with money and dodges the tip or pulls the “oh no I’ve forgotten my wallet!” move. It’s scientifically impossible for them to be a good person. You know all you need to know.’

  ‘They could have forgotten their wallet?’ says Jo, who is fair of mind and kind of heart. ‘It happens sometimes.’

  ‘They could. And if you’d forgotten your wallet, you’d make sure you paid the person back once you’d found it again, wouldn’t you?’ I say.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Wallet forgetters, funnily enough, never, ever, do this.’

  It occurs to me that despite the initial cringe of: ‘But I’ve led too boring a life,’ I really might have something here for the Share Your Shame writing competition.

  ‘It’s interesting when I’m counselling someone who’s a terrible person,’ Rav says. ‘Or behaves terribly, I should say. Their rationale, when they acknowledge they’re terrible, is generally that other people shouldn’t let them get away with it. Almost like a child, you know, and other people, morally, are the responsible adults. “If they will leave the cookie jar with the lid off, and they know I’m a cookie liker, what’s going to happen? Of course I ate the cookies.” Very little ability to take responsibility.’

  ‘What if you eat the cookie, and do take responsibility for it?’ I say, tentatively. ‘Are you a terrible person then?’

  ‘Noooo …’ Rav says. ‘Though I suppose it depends on the size and nature of the cookie. And whether your cookie eating is habitual. And of course, who you want to absolve you for it.’
/>
  ‘I’m lost,’ Clem says and I say, Tell me about it.

  An hour later, the warming combination of curry-house-induced coma and foamy lager in my veins, gives me the confidence to take a risk when telling them about my new job at The Wicker.

  ‘Hey, Jo. Kind of weird. One of the brothers who own it was someone we went to school with. Lucas McCarthy?’

  Even saying the forbidden words gives me a shiver of transgression, makes me feel the very inflections I’ve used has given it away. It’s as if those two words weigh more in the mouth.

  Jo screws her face up.

  ‘Lucas McCarthy?’

  ‘Yeah, you know.’ I break eye contact to dab at an imaginary spot of jalfrezi sauce in my lap with my napkin. ‘In our English A-level classes?’

  ‘Lucas, McCarthy …’ Jo repeats. ‘It’s not ringing any bells.’

  ‘Dark hair. Irish. I had to sit with him once. Mrs Pemberton made us swap places for a Wuthering Heights project and I was landed with him.’ I’ve pushed every gambling chip I’m prepared to bet into the centre of the table now. Jo’s on her own if these clues aren’t enough.

  ‘Oh I remember that!’ Jo cries. ‘I had to have that spoddy Sean sitting next to me.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I wait, hopefully.

  Jo shakes her head. ‘Don’t remember a Lucas though. Did he remember you?’

  I’m pleased to have an intro now. I don’t want to stop talking about him. Lord help me, I’m back on my bullshit. ‘It’s a strange one, actually.’

  I explain the ups and downs of Lucas not recognising me from school at the wake, then not recognising me from the wake when I was at the pub.

  ‘… I’ve done two introductions now, when I could remember him from back in the day, all along. I must be exceptionally forgettable.’

  I gabble and come to a sudden full stop, sure I’ve given myself away with the girlish tremble to my voice and heat in my face.

  ‘You’re not forgettable, you’re like a darling cherub,’ Jo says, stoutly and affectionately, and with that anachronistic turn of phrase she has. Jo’s going to make someone the loveliest mother ever one day, but for now she can be my best friend.

  Rav says, draining the last of his second lager: ‘That can’t be right, can it?’

  My head snaps up. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘If he argued against you being hired on the night of the wake, like you say, how did he then not know who you were, days later? That’d definitely land someone in your mind even if he didn’t know you from school.’

  ‘Uh. He’d objected … then forgot he’d objected?’

  ‘Even if he’d forgotten, the sight of you would trigger the memory. He wasn’t pissed at the wake?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no. He seemed fine. He accused his brother of being drunk, but he seemed in full possession of his senses.’

  ‘A bit of styling things out and acting cool going on, with this lad, I think.’

  Lucas was feigning not to know me? Twice? He’s a magnificent actor, if so. I don’t think this is right, at all, but it pleases me so much I play along to hear more.

  ‘Why would Lucas pretend not to know me, though?’ I ask.

  ‘Duh, to impress you. To maintain the upper hand by acting indifferent. And why didn’t he want you hired?’

  ‘He said I was an unknown quantity and it wasn’t Hooters and hiring blondes that caught his brother’s eye.’

  ‘Haaah, he thinks his brother might bang you,’ Clem cackles.

  ‘Oh no, Devlin’s married and clearly devoted. I’m not just saying that. Dev’s not got a hint of that about him and he was over with his wife every chance he got at the wake.’

  ‘If he’s complaining about you as temptation then, he must mean for himself,’ Rav says.

  My heart beats faster. This is all misbegotten and total fantasy, but so glorious to hear.

  ‘I don’t think he was saying I was tempting. More … superficial.’

  ‘Well something had fired him up,’ Clem says. ‘You hardly put people through three interviews and a PowerPoint to get a bar job. His reasons were bull. Is Lucas hot?’

  ‘Mmmhmmm?’ I say, noncommittally, nodding and wrinkling my nose to indicate both yes and no and maybe.

  ‘You’re a sweet and innocent soul around the opposite sex, really, George. Jo, are you leaving that bit of chicken …? Good-oh, heft it over.’ Rav shakes his head at Clem and Jo and adds: ‘This is how she ended up dating Robin McNee.’

  I guffaw at this. ‘Oh, come on. He was a mistake but my judgement about men’s wiles is not that bad. Is it?’

  ‘I didn’t mean your judgement so much as you’re modest. Not to be shallow, George, but it was obvious to bystanders that Robin was punching,’ Rav says.

  ‘Really?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah. Together, you looked like Cinderella and an enchanted rat coachman.’

  16

  In the early hours of Sunday morning, I wake up with a startle from a nightmare. I’m in a brutish medieval village and the members of a baying crowd are taking it in turns to fire arrows at me.

  The missiles pepper the board I’ve been tied to, zooming past my face with a thwiiiiiiiick, planting their pointed ends perilously close to my flesh. The anticipation of being skewered any second makes me cry out.

  As I come round, I realise the arrows were a figment but the noise is not. I raise myself on my elbows, waiting for it again. DWACK. It’s something hitting my window. I struggle out of the bed covers and vault across the room. Opening the window and leaning out as far as I can go, I see a mop-headed man across the street, shading his eyes as if looking up at the sky in direct sun. Hang on, is that …?

  ‘Robin?’ I call.

  He looks up at me, his face pale in the darkness.

  A female voice:

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you hooligan shitbag?’

  Oh, no. That’s Karen. Her bedroom is directly below mine and her window must be open.

  ‘Two Rapunzels for the price of one!’ Robin says, grinning, then lets go of a short scream and starts dancing around, pelted repeatedly with small objects which are being launched from Karen.

  ‘What the fuck was that?! Ow! Ow … stop … what are you doing?!’

  ‘Don’t like it when the boot is on the other foot, eh? Piss off before I call the police.’

  ‘I just want to talk to Georgina!’

  ‘Georgina—’ Karen’s disembodied voice rings out below me, ‘You know this fucking joker? He’s nearly broken my window.’

  ‘Er yeah. Wish I didn’t.’

  ‘Five minutes of your time,’ Robin says, hand on chest, ‘Five, I promise. Or I’ll start singing. What should I serenade you with? The Smiths? Georgina, it was, really nothing … OW! That seriously fucking hurts you know?’ Robin glares up indignantly at Karen, as if he is in a position to complain. Robin and his innate entitlement all over.

  ‘Plenty more where they came from, shit stain. I’ve got whole tins of Cadbury’s Mis Shapes, I don’t pay for them. No skin off my nose.’

  ‘It’s taking literal skin off my nose, Bewilderingly Angry Lady Who Lives Underneath Georgina.’

  ‘I’ll come down, five minutes and that’s your lot,’ I bellow. I don’t wait for any further Karen contribution, close the window and hammer down two flights of stairs to let Robin in the back door.

  He seems to take unnecessary time to appear down the ginnel, making me think he and Karen are still picking over differences of opinion.

  Great, it’ll be me who gets the Karen blowback from this stunt.

  Robin eventually rounds the corner, brushing atomised milk chocolate from his navy Harrington jacket with the tartan lining.

  He smells of the wind chill outside, and a pub. I can tell from the swagger as he enters the kitchen that he’s very pleased with this performance, and that he’s thinking it might even make something for a routine. To think I was hitherto impressed by this am-dram bollocks.

  ‘
What do you want?’ I say, folding my arms, suddenly conscious I’m braless in my pyjamas and resenting this intrusion.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you and you won’t answer the phone to me, which I’m finding quite hurtful, to be honest.’

  This man is priceless.

  ‘And you decided the obvious next step was lobbing stones at my window at gone one in the morning, and waking up my housemate too?’

  ‘Oof,’ Robin makes a face. ‘Jesus wouldn’t want her for a sunbeam, eh. Has the look of Angela Merkel.’

  I shush him while making a furious scowl.

  ‘I was doing something romantic and unexpected, as a gesture. The kind of thing you want in a man. To show you I’m that man.’

  I’ve never told Robin this, so I assume he’s either being sexist or he thinks ‘not sleeping with other people’ is some near-unattainable Mills & Boon ideal.

  ‘What do you want?’ I ask bluntly, to shake us out of this infuriating semi-ironic, artificial tone he’s trying to set. I would be amazed if this isn’t the first draft of something he’s working on.

  ‘I want a second chance.’

  ‘You’re not getting one. Why would you even want it? What happened to the whole “monogamy isn’t my bag, man” thing?’

  ‘Exactly!’ Robin says, eagerly, and I hiss ‘SHUT UP!’ as we are seconds away from another Karen explosion.

  ‘That’s what I mean. That’s not been me, it’s never been me and I thought you knew it wasn’t me …’ I grimace. ‘And then I thought: why isn’t it me? You’re an incredible girl. You’re fit, you’re smart. You make me laugh. Look at our repartee! And you know. I’m forty soon, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Wow, how inspiring. You’re running out of energy for dirty food play.’

  Robin looks at me, with what I think he thinks is an intense, earnest longing.

  ‘Let’s try this. Let’s do it your way. I’m all yours.’

  Jesus. He thinks I’m winning the jackpot – the chance to tame Robin McNee. I’m struggling to disguise how revolting I find it.

  ‘Robin, I found you having sex with someone else. I can’t get past it. I’m sorry if that’s brutal finality for you, but there we are. Shagging other people does tend to scare off boring normies like me, in a “forever” sort of way. I’m back off to bed now, so get out of my house.’