Don't You Forget About Me (Page 36)

AHAHHAHHAHA. YEAH. X

I pocket my phone and twitch with low level anxiety. Mum gets on at me plenty, but she’s never gnomic and mysterious.

Across the street, in khaki Barbour, Geoffrey approaches me. Something in his clenched, determined expression is unpromising. He is not doing a saunter, or a cheery amble.

‘Hi! Where’s Mum?’ I say, warily. Hoping for ‘just parking the car’ while knowing Geoffrey would never let a woman drive him.

‘She’s not coming,’ he says, awkwardly.

‘Oh. Is she not well?’

‘Bit under the weather, yes,’ Geoffrey says.

Oh God, have they had a fight? Why didn’t they cancel? My shoulders hunch at what lies before me – a whole social occasion with only Geoffrey. I’d hoped to end my days never experiencing that. I reluctantly follow him into the café, trying to make sure my thought processes aren’t revealed by involuntary grimacing.

He jangles his change in his pocket and makes a show of inspecting the cake display.

‘What’ll it be? Those little tarts with kiwis look enticing. Or perhaps a French Horn.’

‘Uhm …’ I’m not hungry at all – who is, for afternoon tea? – but I feel I should show willing and ask for a bun with my coffee.

‘I’ll just have a cuppa I think,’ Geoffrey says, after. Great. He can’t be arsed with his half of this charade.

He tries to order by rapping knuckles on the glass case of patisserie, until a wrung-out looking waitress looks over and explains it’s table service. Geoffrey has that manner with strangers where he’s not rude, exactly, but always several shades brisker than he needs to be, giving me the adolescent wince of embarrassment. Without doubt, he would crash and burn on the Waiter Test.

We find seats, winding our way past a sixty-something man reading the paper and eating an egg custard tart, and it makes me think of outings with Dad. I crush the thought as soon as it’s formed because with Geoffrey here instead, the universe is warped and will be forever. It’s like ripping the stitches out of a wound that never heals.

I find a table and a waitress follows, setting plates and cups down with our order. I pinch my Elephant’s Foot, take a tiny bite, wipe the chocolate from my hands with a paper napkin and wonder how on earth I’ll find half an hour’s conversation with Geoffrey.

‘Has Mum seen a doctor?’

Geoffrey shakes his head while blowing on his tea.

‘I might pop round,’ I say.

‘No no no, no need for that, she’s sleeping actually. I’m sure she’ll be right as rain by tomorrow.’

I sense from this antsy response that Mum isn’t ill at all. This is a set-up, either between the two of them, or Geoffrey’s fibbing?

‘What are her symptoms?’ I say.

‘Dicky tummy. Bit personal, I don’t think she’d thank me for going into it. Let your mum have a day off being “Mum”, eh?’

Yet more distilled essence of Geoffrey. You could dab it behind your ears and repel insects. Natural concern for my mum, reconfigured as me being demanding.

At least he didn’t say she’s ‘walked into a door’. I ponder briefly if he’d be capable and decide he’s far more of a mental torturer.

‘It gives us a chance for a catch-up,’ he adds, greasily, and I realise I’ve been tricked. Ugh they’ve said: something something two of you bonding. Resentment and apprehensiveness settles over me.

‘How have you been?’ he asks.

‘Fine, thanks, really good,’ I say, emphatically. ‘You?’

‘Oh you know. Trucking along. Still working at that pub?’

He knows I am.

‘Yes.’

‘Going well, is it?’

‘It’s good, it’s great, actually,’ I say. ‘It’s proper Victoriana but with mod cons, my favourite sort of pub. They’ve really turned it around. And they seem very responsible owners. A world away from That’s Amore! And the food’s good too. Soup and sandwiches and so on, but by keeping it basic, they’ve kept it good. No Thai banquet-meets-Venetian-small-plates-fusion sort of over-reach.’

I stop short of suggesting they pop in and try it. I can see Geoffrey’s ‘smelling guff’ face over his Gala Pie.

‘Can working in a pub really be great?’ Geoffrey says, and my ire rises. This is the danger of a one-to-one, there are no restraining influences on either of us.

‘Yes, when it’s a nice place to be, and you like the customers and the bosses.’

Geoffrey stirs his tea and looks round the room in an infuriating silence, designed to express doubt or indifference.

My God, every time I’m in his company, I remember I’m right to dislike him. It’s a fact-based position. I vaguely worried I’d chosen a flamboyant aversion because it was loyal to Dad, and made me the smart one – contrasting stylishly with Esther’s policy of appeasement. Luxuriating in what Esther calls my Little Sister Freedoms. (I.e. she’ll be sensible so I don’t have to be.)

But I’m not imagining this: Geoffrey’s mixture of pompous disregard and unconcealed contempt is borderline obnoxious. When I say he’s not rude, what I really mean is he’s male and moneyed and got to that age where we allow him his chosen degree of rude as some sort of social entitlement, along with his bus pass.

‘It’s not exactly bristling with prospects, though, is it?’

‘Well … I could end up running it. The owners are from Irela—’

Geoffrey isn’t listening.

‘I’ve been thinking. How about I get you a job at my old company? Secretarial stuff. You might have to do a typing speed course first but I feel certain I’ve got the clout to swing it. Another ex-company partner Kenneth’s got two of his daughters in there and one of them is a complete fright. Piercings all over her and hideous tattoos. I can’t see how they can say no to you, if you smarten your act up a bit. What do you say?’

I open my mouth but Geoffrey continues:

‘Your mother thinks it’s a fabulous idea. She says to tell you if you accept, she’ll take you shopping. Get you some new threads,’ he prods a finger towards my pink fluffy coat, hung over the back of my chair. ‘Something more befitting a woman who’s chalked up the Big Three Oh.’

And … here it is. Geoffrey’s been sent on a mission to sort me out. What part of this plan didn’t strike Mum as utterly abysmal?

‘It could be like that bit in Pretty Woman,’ I say, smiling sweetly, confident now I’ve got his number. ‘I too would be grateful to be rescued from my life as a call girl by a wealthy businessman.’

Geoffrey startles and then manages to return my smile, a twitch of the mouth. I bet he thinks it’s possible I’ll end up turning tricks.

‘And you might want to tone down your, er, anarchic funnies on the shop floor. Not everyone will get it.’

I swallow, and effortfully set aside the usual barrage of insults which Geoffrey wrapped this offer in.

‘That’s very nice of you and I’ll definitely think about it.’

‘Ah, the polite brush-off. Come on, Georgina, I may be quite a lot older than you but I’m not some dotty old relic you can condescend towards.’

Wow. I swallow hard. I don’t want a fight but Geoffrey’s not leaving me much choice. I push my Elephant’s Foot away an inch, because clearly the ‘faking it’ part of this is over.

‘What do you expect me to say? “Yes, thanks, can I start Monday and never mind The Wicker, I’ll text them my resignation right now”? I have commitments, I have a job.’

‘Oh for goodness’ sake, your indispensability to some grotty boozer! Yes, I am sure they’ll be scouring Yorkshire trying to find another person with opposable thumbs, capable of placing a glass on a counter top and counting coins. It’ll be like that hunt for a pop star programme. Soda Pop Idol hahaha.’

My blood was warm, and now it’s hot. How fucking dare he.

‘I’ve got an idea, Geoffrey. Why don’t you treat me as an intelligent adult, with some respect, I’ll do the same for you, and we’ll see how it goes?’

‘The trouble with that is, dear girl, you’re not treating yourself with any respect. Thirty years of age, no qualifications, not a pot to piss in, roaring around town like a teenager, bringing unsuitable fellas home to meet your parents. You really worry your mother, you know. It’s selfish.’

‘Do I,’ I spit. ‘That’s a shame. She worries me too.’

‘Then there’s this bolshie attitude. Why won’t you listen to people who want to help you? You’re still young enough you could turn things around, but you need to look lively.’

I stand up and begin to gather my things, including the offensively cheap pink coat.

‘Geoffrey, thank you for your time, but I’m not listening to you because you’re being incredibly presumptuous and unpleasant and acting like you have the right to tell me my life is a disaster.’

‘… Isn’t it?’

‘Oh, seriously, up yours.’

Geoffrey changes colour, to a deep magenta.

I detect from the movement of eyes around us that every table in proximity has been listening in.