Don't You Forget About Me (Page 23)

‘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.’