Don't You Forget About Me (Page 19)

When I examine my disappointment, I discover it’s that I really, genuinely liked Devlin, and hopefully vice versa. It’s not often that happens these days, I realise. And not calling someone when you’ve told them you will call them is shabby. Let me down, but do it in a way that lets me still like you.

He could at least send a cursory text pretending he and his brother had crossed wires; hired two people and the other was a one-legged war hero, or something. You know, spare my blushes. If nothing else, this sort of white lying makes it loads easier if you see each other round town. Take it from someone who’s had and left a thousand casual jobs round these parts.

Unless he was so lashed he forgot entirely? No. In the unlikely event of that scenario, Lucas would’ve raised it.

He didn’t know I was from his past, and he didn’t want to know me in the present. Or, he did know it was me, and feigned not knowing me, and then got rid.

I turn back onto the road and think about Lucas. A night in the park when dusk had fallen and I was upset for being chewed out about something or other at home. He said, with a hand on my face: ‘I love you, you know. You have me.’ I think it was easier to say it when I was a vulnerable mess. In a moment, it went from a hideous day, to my best ever.

I remember saying, ‘I love you too’, for the first time, and: ‘You have me.’ He truly did. I was consumed by him. He was everything: the greatest secret, lust object, soulmate and ally. That cliché about how there’s no potency like the first one, that’s true isn’t it?

Did I have him, even fleetingly? Only my diary stands as proof, yet I can’t bear to look at it. It lives at the bottom of my bra drawer, always close and yet forever untouched.

Then, as the first drops of rain start to mizzle downwards, my phone rings with an unknown number. My heart stutters.

‘Hello, is that Georgina? This is Devlin. I’m the short-arsed bog trotter you got legless last week.’

I’m silent for a second in delight and surprise, before recovering:

‘Hello, yes it is! You didn’t need much help doing that, to be fair. I robbed you, if that’s what I was paid for.’

Devlin chortles.

I add: ‘And thanks for the extra too, very kind.’

‘Not at all, you earned it, it felt like you were one of the guests, which to me is the ultimate in service.’

Devlin can’t see it, but I’m beaming.

‘I was wondering if you’re still available for the full-time job we discussed? Sorry for the delay getting back to you. I had to, uh, bottom some things first.’

I take that to mean wrestling his brother into submission. I’m hugely grateful. And also utterly terrified. Congratulations: your prize is, being a subordinate to a hostile Lucas McCarthy.

I’m delighted he didn’t object sufficiently to stop this though. Tiny victories.

‘Feel free to say no at this notice, but would you be free to pop in later tonight? Say six-thirty p.m.? I’ll show you around the tills and you can get your bearings so it’s not brand new to you if you get a rush on the first day.’

I look at my watch. An hour and a half’s time. Best make myself halfway presentable.

‘No problem.’

‘You’re a gem. Sorry, you know how it is. My diary’s suddenly gone fuckin’ attention deficit disorder crazy and there’s a million things to do.’

‘Honestly, I wasn’t busy. See you then.’

‘If no one answers when you knock we might be out the back, let yourself in, the door’s unlocked.’

We. This is happening. He is back in my life.

As I’m about to leave the house, I pause: should I wear my pink fur? My hackles rise: why not? Because Lucas McCarthy suggested I was a bimbo? My coat, my choice. My bravado is a veneer. I’m as much a combination of outward bolshieness and inward terror of inadequacy as I was when I was an adolescent.

As I skip home, my phone starts buzzing again in my bag and I flip the flap on it and fumble around, pulling out a mascara in the process, which means it peals for ages. I’m frantic by the time I finally unearth it: what if it’s Dev calling back to rescind his offer?

I see onscreen: Rav.

‘Hi!’

‘Ey up. You busy?’

‘Not as such.’

‘Just wondering, did you contact the paper about the Italian place you worked? The TripAdvisor flamings thing? You said you were going to but you were pished at the time.’

I’d told them that? I didn’t know I’d told myself that. My memory blackouts from grog are getting worse. It’s like there’s a whole deleted scenes reel these days.

‘Yeah I did …?’

‘Well, they used it.’

‘They did? Great!’

‘Well, there’s good news and there’s bad news. Alright, more honestly: it’s bad from here on in.’

‘They didn’t mention me?’

‘No? Why would they do that, did you name yourself to them?’

‘Oh. No,’ I say, feeling daft. ‘Only as I sent the tip.’

Someone – not Mr Keith, but Ant Something – at the Star replied to my email about That’s Amore! with a dashed off, ‘typed with one hand while the other was clamped round half a Pret egg and cress baguette’ effort: thanks will look into it.

I thought it was curt not to address me by my name and then remembered I was only Gogpool. I didn’t imagine anything would come of it as there was no further question about who I was, why I was Another Unsatisfied Customer. Ah, well, I’d thought. Worth a punt.

‘… You know they say that revenge is a dish best served cold? The Star has served it like That’s Amore! Nothing like what you ordered,’ Rav says.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Where are you now?’

‘At the … nearly home.’ I turn into my road.

‘Go buy a copy. It’s not online yet. I only saw it because someone at work was talking about it. Guess what, she knew someone who reckoned they’d had salmonella from there.’

‘You’re freaking me out here with the tension and the mystery.’

‘Ah no sorry I don’t mean to, it’s funny really. Get a cuppa and relax into it, it’s proper satire.’

I do as I’m told, buy a copy of The Star from the newsagents on the corner then home. I’m at a loss to imagine how they’ve fumbled the scoop of That’s Amore! being the worst dining experience since Sweeney Todd started an artisan pop up to rival Pork Farms.

I lay out the paper and flip through the pages until I find it: they keep sticking together in an agonising way, and now I’m agog. Gog is agog. What on earth did Rav mean?!

Here it is – a double spread. Tony is posing, and beaming, outside the frontage, plates of pasta with puddles of sauce balanced on either hand. He appears to have acquired a puffy white chef’s hat from a fancy dress shop, or Dolmio advert.

That’s Amore! – Sheffield’s worst restaurant according to TripAdvisor – says to the haters …

SHADDAP YOU FACE!

Wait, what? They’re painting the act of serving seriously below par cuisine as an act of sticking it to The Man?!

I read on, and yes, yes they are. That’s Amore! – as the number of obliging portraits of Tony stirring pans while making a finger and thumb pressed together sign, or Callum grinning over his shoulder while writing the specials on the chalkboard, attest – has played PR ball. They’ve successfully spun this into a ‘plucky little engine that could’ type of tale, full of self-deprecating humour.

Fuck’s, and also sake.

Down the right-hand side of the page, there’s a precis of the TripAdvisor lowlights, but they’re heavily edited to take the laughs out. Greg Withers makes an appearance – hurray! – but they’ve cut it to a couple of sentences that a quick skim could bring you to believe he simply wanted more bells and whistles for a special occasion.

Goddammit.

I grind my teeth as I read:

Once upon a time, restaurant complaints were limited to asking to see the manager. In the online era, you’re only a click away from broadcasting your displeasure to the world. TripAdvisor is a well-known forum for diners to rate the good, bad and the ugly in our culinary scene – and the users don’t hold back about their experiences in the comments.

That’s Amore! knows what it feels like to withstand the punters wrath: the Broomhill bistro has been given a savaging by amateur critics who scorned its ‘inauthentic’ dishes and ‘shoddy’ service, leaving it with a 88% ‘terrible’ rating – the worst in the city.

Nevertheless, business is booming, with the sixty-cover eatery booked out every weekend.

That’s Amore! insist despite the poor score, they are fighting fit and more popular than ever – throwing into doubt how much influence sites like TripAdvisor really have on our eating out habits.

‘At the end of the day, trolls on the internet will have their opinions,’ That’s Amore! head chef Tony Staines says. ‘Being perfectly honest with you I think if you look at the locations on these moaners having a pop, they are all London types or out of towners who want fine dining, fancy frills and amuse bouches. Locally we’re a big hit.’