Don't You Forget About Me Read online

  ‘Revenge, perhaps a buried desire to be rescued. And embracing a failure that you feel you’re marked for anyway.’

  I’d had a creative idea, after the meal at Rajput, and I’d shelved it because I thought: what do I ever do that ever goes right?

  I should stop living with a deliberate lack of care.

  I’m going to enter that writing competition at the pub, and share my shame. AND, what’s more, I won’t go down without a fight with That’s Amore!

  I’m going to email the event organiser first so I don’t have time to chicken out, then it’s on to Mr Keith, whose address I guess at from Ant’s reply.

  Hello! You don’t know me, exactly, but I’m the waitress who got fired for doing as she was told during your recent meal at That’s Amore! I see the restaurant was in your paper, fighting back against claims it serves really bad food. But you’re the Star’s critic and you said your food was really bad. So I wondered why the piece didn’t benefit from your input?

  Georgina Horspool

  Dear Georgina, firstly, I would describe my dining experience at That’s Amore! as patchy. Secondly, the article to which you refer was in the news section, I work for the features department. I am sure I will review That’s Amore! in due course, at a time when they are not involved in staffing disputes.

  Best, Alexander Keith

  Well Mr Keith, I have an even better idea – why not get a feel for my former job by working a shift in their kitchen for a feature. I am sure it’d be colourful and illuminating.

  I am sensing a vendetta, young lady. Your energies would be better spent looking for gainful employment elsewhere.

  I type: Well as it happens I am entering a writing competition then remember: a column in the Star is the prize. Mr Keith might be one of the judges? And now he knows my name.

  Urrgghhh.

  I remember Esther’s words about messes, and me sitting in the middle of them, saying it’s never my fault, railing against it. Well, beloved: you’re the constant here.

  I could wail at my stupidity, but the constructive thing to do is to be so brilliant he has to give me the column, despite his misgivings. God, it’s pretty much stand-up comedy isn’t it? No pressure …

  20

  I should’ve known something was up from the offer on Sunday afternoon of a moussaka that same night from Jo. Various rogue factors: the shortness of notice. The non-partying day. The fact that moussaka is quite calorific and Jo is very much on a healthy eating jag at the moment. After Friday night’s clusterfuck of an evening with Ragnacock, then the news about Fay, a night in with friends will always be restorative.

  I know something’s definitely up when she additionally asks me to ‘Come alone at half five’ and ‘Don’t mention to Rav and Clem.’ I say, Oh sure, so they’re not invited?

  They are invited but I want to talk to you first, she replies.

  Oh God, is she pregnant? Am I going to be on ‘pretending the lemonade is a G&T’ wing woman duty? I don’t think Phil is solid father material but a lot’s going to have to be forgotten if she’s going ahead with it.

  Jo answers her front door in a 1950s-ish shirt dress with rocket ships firing all over it, and a thin yellow belt, hair a glossy ombré helmet. I’ve tried to copy her winsome cutie pie look before and it’s not worked. I look like a superannuated Veruca Salt. I carefully keep my eyes on hers and don’t study for any signs of a bump. Her giant tabby cat, Beagle, winds protectively round her ankles, and I duck down to pet him. He was a rat-catching farm moggy before he lived with Jo, and is essentially a stripy thug.

  I’m clutching a bottle of Rioja from Tesco Express, wondering if it’s now surplus to requirements. Actually no, sod that, if Jo’s expecting a tiny Shagger Phil then I’ll need a stiffener.

  Jo bought her red brick semi in Walkley when her hair salon took off, and it’s as welcoming to me as being wrapped in a maternal hug. With a bittersweet edge, as I have no idea when I’m ever going to afford the same.

  I too want a row of supermarket basil plants in my window, in varying states of decomposition, a framed kitsch art print saying I Don’t Want To Go To Heaven, None Of My Friends Are There and the comforting hum and rattle of second-hand kitchen appliances donated by parents.

  ‘If you think a tall, dark and handsome man with millions is going to appear out of nowhere, fall madly in love with you and wave his magic wand, you need to think again,’ says my mum, chief financial advisor.

  ‘Mmmm his magic wand,’ I said. There are no magic spells, said my counsellor, and no magic wands, said my mum. I increasingly see the appeal of paying online psychics who tell you they see great fortune in your future.

  The house is full of the warm waft of meat cooking at a low heat. Jo opens a pantry cupboard, gets out two wine glasses and sets them down on the vinyl tablecloth.

  Oh. Hurrah?

  ‘I’ve ended it with Phil,’ Jo says, and I say ‘Oh, no,’ but I know my face says something different and Jo does too, as she adds ‘Honestly, George. It’s for good this time. I’ve passed a point.’

  I pull out a chair and we sit down.

  ‘I believe you. Tell me what happened.’

  ‘His sister’s getting married in the spring. He wanted me to go with him.’

  I pause, waiting for the shitty condition that Phil attached. ‘And …?’

  ‘And that was it. At first I got excited, found the Joanie dress I wanted to wear. Then I started thinking …’

  She’s canning the Rioja down so I reach over and splish her wine up two inches, the silent signal of please do go on solidarity.

  ‘… I know you all thought him still being a lad and seeing other people was awful. He’s twenty-eight and women fall at his feet and he needed some time to get his head round the idea of settling down. I was prepared to wait. People say timing is everything. I told myself I’d met Phil a few years before I should have, and I didn’t want to lose him to bad timing.’

  This description of Phil’s allure isn’t just the ‘smitten’ talking. Phil has large, expressive, boy-child eyes, thinning dark hair and a rogue-ish grin. He looks like the personable host of a consumer affairs or DIY television show, and if it existed there would be a Facebook group dedicated to housewives fancying him. He’s nice enough looking, but that’s not where his power lies. What he’s got is the ability to fill a room with his presence, boundless enthusiasm, and a big heart (if you’re not the woman wanting answers). As a social presence, he’s like putting a Mentos in a bottle of Coke; instant froth-over explosion.

  Phil can turn his enemies into friends if you give him half an hour, although the drug wears off once you’re not physically near him. Clem would strenuously deny this, but I’ve even seen her give him grudging smiles.

  ‘… Why does Phil want to go to a wedding with me in front of all his family and friends, but not actually have a relationship?’

  ‘He doesn’t want to be single on his sister’s big day?’ I say.

  ‘No, it isn’t that. You know Phil. He could talk to anyone, he’d barely be left alone. It’s because he does care about me, and he does see me as his “other half” … he wants me to share it, be there for the first dance, and give his nan a hug.’

  I sense why Jo didn’t want Rav and Clem here for this. A mistimed poison dart thrown by either of them – intended target, Phil, but potentially wounding Jo – would make it too hard to be this open.

  ‘And I realised, he doesn’t care if it makes everyone think we’re serious. Your usual man, dodging settling down, he’d run a mile from the spectacle of people saying “You, next!” to us, right? That’s not Phil’s problem. A special occasion is fine, he’s hardly likely to meet a better offer on a day at Whitley Hall Hotel when he’s busy being an usher. The fact is, we work in every way, except for one thing, which is in Phil’s head.’

  Jo draws a shaky breath.

  ‘He can’t do the ordinary day in, day out, because he can’t accept that I’m all there is. Making me his full ti
me, long-term girlfriend, George, he sees it as accepting defeat. He’s got all this potential, girls going Beatlemania, and yet he ends up with Jo, a hairdresser in his home town who’s two years older than him and goes to Weight Watchers and has a mortgage and a cat on thyroid pills. He loves me, but I represent giving up his dreams. He won’t even admit that to himself, which is why he never has an answer for me, when I ask why we’re only ever sort-of “seeing how it goes”.’

  I open my mouth to deny it, say how short-sighted of Phil this is, but stop myself and squeeze Jo’s arm instead. I learned after Dad died that rushing in with denials when someone says: ‘This is a pile of shit, and it hurts,’ however well meant, can be stifling.

  ‘Once I realised that, it was easy to end it, Gee. It killed my feelings, like turning a light out under a pan on the boil. It stopped me lying to myself and romanticising about how he needs time, he’ll come round. I don’t want someone who has to come round. Who has to resign himself to me by age thirty-five, when he’s worn himself out looking for better options.’

  I slide my glass towards hers, chink it, drink.

  ‘Of course, now he can tell I’ve lost interest, he’s bothering me every hour,’ Jo says.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s weird, I lived for his attention and now I’m watching the messages pile up, as if I’m just a bystander, seeing how obvious it is. Pull away, he pulls me back. He has to make me love him as much as I did before and he doesn’t question why, or what it does to me.’

  ‘I’ve had exactly that sensation with Robin. I’m only interesting when I’m a challenge.’ I pause. ‘Phil is a lot less of a git than Robin though, don’t want you to think I’m equating them.’

  Jo meets my eyes.

  ‘Phil isn’t a shagger, you know. He’s worse than that. It’s not about sex. He wants to win people’s love all the time. But once he has it he doesn’t know what to do with it. So he moves on to the next land to conquer.’

  She’s criticised him before, but this is the most pitilessly incisive I’ve ever heard Jo be on the Phil topic. It makes me think this truly is the end.

  She sighs.

  ‘Trouble is, I have to try to forget how good it felt, when it was good. I might never feel like that with anyone again. But that’s the risk I have to take, right? When I know it’s over and we shouldn’t be together. I think I can manage not being in love with Phil anymore – but not being in love with what it felt like, that’s the hard bit.’

  I agree, and wish I could tell her just how much I understand what she means. My words are never eloquent enough. Sorry for your loss.

  Jo didn’t need to worry about the remaining pair of our foursome not sensing how raw she’s feeling. After they clatter in, they’re both a great balm to the soul.

  Neither of them are scornful about Shagger Phil. It makes me realise how much they reviled Robin, that Phil gets a considerably more respectful send off. It’s practically a Viking funeral, compared to Robin’s ‘tramp the dirt down’ farewell.

  ‘Yearning and pining for more, or what the kids call FOMO, fear of missing out, is the curse of the modern age,’ Rav nods, when Jo repeats her diagnosis of why Phil can’t reconcile himself to being her partner. ‘I tell clients, contentment is a wonderful thing, but a state of discontentment sells more goods and services.’

  ‘Yeah, when you think back when you got married to someone in the next village and had a mangle and rickets and everything, you didn’t do any of the “compare and despair” thing. Or if you did, it was with your four toothless neighbours,’ Clem says. ‘Now Instagram makes me stressed that everyone in the world is doing life better than me. I’m sure everyone never made their own door wreaths or did these painted Easter eggs until they could put the Valencia filter on it and shove it in my face.’

  ‘It’s Clem Ted Talk time!’ Rav says. ‘You just need the Madonna headset and the tumbler of water to sip from.’

  ‘I would watch that,’ I say, and Jo agrees.

  ‘I know we took a lot of piss, but I did understand why you liked Phil,’ Clem says to Jo. ‘The time he told the story about doing a hangover puke in his aunt’s house and lighting the pain au raisin flavour Yankee Candle? He was a “God tier” storyteller.’

  ‘Funny is the killer,’ I say, supportively. I’m aware we have to walk a line here in sisterly condolence that doesn’t tip over into making Jo thinking she should take him back. ‘I am powerless in the face of funny.’

  ‘Why did you go out with Robin McNee then!’ says Rav, nose to finger and the other hand pointing, and everyone cackles.

  ‘Something I’ve never said,’ Clem says, unwinding canary yellow hosiery-clad legs and rearranging them, ‘I don’t go around keeping everything to hook-ups because I am, you know “incapable of falling in love”,’ she does inverted comma finger and grimaces. ‘I do it because I am all too capable and I know it’d end me. It’s like my mum and cleaning the house …’

  We look quizzical. Clem’s mum is known to be fastidious to the point of us suspecting a disorder.

  ‘Here’s a truth that will blow your mind: my mum says she’s actually really lazy about cleaning.’

  We now look sceptical.

  ‘It’s true! You should see her in a hotel room! Total midden in minutes. I don’t know how she does it. She cleans loads at home, everything has to be in its place, because if she relaxed and did as much as she felt like doing, she’d destroy worlds. Her kids would’ve been taken in by social services. She is in mortal unending combat with her own true nature. Well, that’s me and men. I’m actually a weak sap who would do anything for the right man. So I am careful not to meet the fucker. Or if I do, I get my defence in first: I’ve dumped him before he’s even thought about it.’

  Rav rubs his chin thoughtfully, rearranges his scarf. Rav is the only person I know who wears a scarf indoors, as a decorative item.

  ‘Couldn’t that mean you miss out on someone you’d be happy with?’ Jo asks.

  ‘Yeah but equally I don’t think Mr Right For Me exists. I’ll worry about that when it looks like he might have turned up.’

  ‘Hmm not a foolproof plan, but then I can’t say I’m doing any better on Bumble,’ Rav says. ‘Internet dating is a slingshot at the moon.’ He sighs. ‘All I want is a well-travelled, artistic woman who can confidently wear a red trilby, with a mind like a steel trap and fluency in several languages. That shouldn’t be impossible, given the length of my—’

  Clem bellows ‘Please God, no!’

  ‘… Length of my search! My search.’

  ‘Your perfect woman, Rav, is Prince,’ Clem says. ‘If only he weren’t dead and male.’

  ‘This is true. They are obstacles. But every romance needs them.’

  Even Jo is laughing now.

  ‘And what about you, Gee?’ Rav looks at me beadily. ‘What’s the follow-up to Mr McNee going to be? What have you learnt?’

  ‘Is that burning?’ I say.

  ‘Aaaargh the moussaka!’ Jo wails and dashes off to the kitchen. Minutes later we’re all forking up slabs of – I don’t want to be ungrateful – really peculiar tasting Greek food.

  ‘It’s a low cal version,’ Jo says, ‘With yoghurt. And turkey mince.’

  This makes Clem dig in with greater enthusiasm, while Rav and I lock widened eyes.

  ‘It’s great,’ Rav says, and I dishonestly back him up.

  ‘Let’s summarise our findings,’ Clem says. ‘Jo’s kicking an obsession with a commitment-phobe. I am a commitment-phobe, but lacking anyone worth being phobic about. Rav’s too picky for his own good. What about you, George? What is your fatal flaw that stands between you and happiness with another person?’

  No burning food to save me now. I hem and haw.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘More positive way of looking at it,’ Rav says, ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Hmm. I think I’d like someone who cares as much about me as I do about them. That might sound a l
ow bar. But it’s pretty much everything, and I’ve never had that.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Jo says, as Beagle nudges my plate out of the way with his head and clambers onto my lap, and I pretend this is an intrusion, but I’ll allow it.

  ‘Oh, by the way, I’m taking part in a writing competition at the pub! Will you come?’ I say. ‘I’m terrified of being crap and you all bearing witness but on balance I’m even more terrified of there only being a portly dog called Keith for an audience, so you need to come fill some seats.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ Jo says. ‘What have you written?’

  I feel snakes move in my stomach. I loved that half hour spent at the kitchen table, scrawling in my notebook, so much. But I have to read it out? To strangers?

  ‘I’ve had a go at something about a bad day at work. The format is so loosey goosey I have no idea if it’s what they want or not. I’m right at the end of the running order so I’m going to avoid seeing anyone else’s piece, and work downstairs until they call me.’

  ‘You’re so brave,’ Clem says.

  ‘Or mad as a wizard,’ I say.

  ‘I remember when you used to read me your diary entries out at school,’ Jo says. ‘They were so witty. I’m really pleased you’re doing this. We’ve always known what a star you are. Now other people get to find out.’

  ‘Oh … thanks! Let’s hope that’s what they find out.’

  ‘Isn’t your challenge in writing about a bad day at work, mostly going to be in whittling the shortlist down? Start with that,’ Rav says. ‘Like judges do at awards. “In an exceptionally strong field with some stunning candidates, it was hard to choose, but choose I must …”’

  ‘Hahaha. Yes, true,’ I say. ‘I am queen of the shitty McJob.’

  ‘Oh, God, G. Remember when you had to dress up as a giant chicken to advertise that rip-off KFC-type place?’ Jo says.

  ‘I’d repressed that!’

  ‘I’m not sure I remember this one?’ Rav says. I groan.

  ‘It was a disaster. The kids they’d invited to the opening had mobbed me like I was The Beatles and I got bundled into a store room while they calmed down. They left me alone for ages and eventually I got bored and had a fag and then the door swung open and the kids saw a disembodied chicken with a woman’s head, smoking, like some really horrifying creature out of Greek mythology. And the company went apeshit that I’d ruined the image of “Captain Cluckee”. They were encouraging the kids to make friends with Captain Cluckee and then eat him, which is quite fucked up. Pointing that out didn’t help me.’