Don't You Forget About Me

by Mhairi McFarlane

  I’m so startled by this bare-faced untruth I have no comeback.

  ‘No, I didn’t, I said …?’ I trail off, as repeating our whole conversation seems too much treachery, but am I supposed to stand here and say this is all my fault?

  A pause. Yes. Yes, I am.

  ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Tony continues, entire dining room riveted by this spectacle.

  I open my mouth to reply and no words come out.

  ‘Oh right, you are! Tell you what. You’re fired!’

  ‘What?!’

  I think he must be joking, but Tony points at the door. Across the room, Callum is shocked, mouth hanging open and hands frozen round a giant pepper pot.

  ‘Oh, hang on, this seems excessive …’ says Mr Keith, looking suddenly chastened. This is why Tony’s done it. It’s the only way to get the upper hand again, and hope his write-up doesn’t focus solely on the gusset-flavoured carbonara.

  You could hear a pin drop – apart from Dean Martin crooning about Old Napoli.

  I untie my apron, chuck it on the floor, find my handbag behind the bar with clumsy hands.

  I dart out, without looking back. Incipient tears are stinging my eyeballs, but no way are they seeing me weep.

  When I’m round the corner, fumbling for a tissue as my non-waterproof mascara makes a steady descent, I get a text from Tony.

  Sorry, sexy. Sometimes you need to give them a scalp. We’ll have you back in a fortnight and if critic fuck finds out, tell him your mum died or something so we took pity. Call it a holiday! Unpaid though.

  That’s Amore.

  Then another realisation.

  For fuck’s sake, I forgot my coat!

  3

  First thought: it’s a prisoner of war. They can’t torture it, so leave it behind. Second: damn it, it’s the bubblegum-pink faux fur. It’s armour, it’s my personality in textile form. It’s up there in sentimental value after my ancient tortoise, Jammy. Also, I’m shivering already.

  Wait, wait – I have a man on the inside: Callum. I message him to ask, thinking he’ll surely feel sorry enough for me to do it.

  Insta-ping.

  I will give you your coat if you will go on a date with me

  I blink, twice. You’ve just seen me get sacked in the most public, humiliating way and now you’re holding me to sexual ransom? I consider a blunt response saying, ‘I’m washing my nipple hair that night.’ Or pointing out it was only £50 in the Miss Selfridge sale three years ago so definitely isn’t worth that, concluding with the insult of a cry-with-laughter emoji.

  But the objective is to get my coat back, not a load of middle fingers and a photo of it in the scraps bin.

  Hahaha if I’m not too unemployed and skint to stand my round

  See you at the front door in 1 min?

  I would pay. Is that a yes lol?

  Is there anything less charming than someone trying to push you into something unwillingly and acknowledging they are pushing you into it, and carrying on anyway?

  OK, lying it is.

  Sure

  … LY NOT. And he knows I’ve got a boyfriend. We had a conversation where he said ‘Lol his name is Robin do you ever call him Cock Robin’ and I said no and he said hahaha, wicked bants.

  Outside the door, there’s no sign of Callum. I wait for five minutes which feels like five hours and then text him a question mark. Another three minutes and he appears round the door.

  ‘It’s busy with only me on.’

  I wonder if I am supposed to apologise for this.

  I look down at the material he’s holding. A beige trench coat.

  ‘That’s not mine.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s pink and fluffy.’

  Callum disappears back inside. Minutes pass and I think: there’s no way more than one piece of outerwear the colour of taramosalata in the cloakroom to justify this length of hold up. I bob down and peer under the tea-coloured nets in the window. Callum is taking an order for a table of eight people. He is chatting and joking and obviously in no rush.

  Frustration wins out over shame and I wrench the door open and march back in. I feel multiple pairs of eyes on me as I rifle among the row of pegs on the back of the door behind the bar and claim my property.

  ‘Young lady – young lady?’

  I turn and see Mr Keith is beckoning me over. I glance warily in the direction of the kitchen, but what’s Tony going to do, sack me again?

  I approach. He’s dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened just now. If I’d known the consequences …’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine,’ I say. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘In the future, remember honesty is always the best policy.’

  I stare at him. He’s telling me off again? For fu—

  ‘I was honest. The chef was lying,’ I snap.

  ‘You’re saying he did cook me another meal?’

  Ah.

  ‘No he didn’t but he told me he wouldn’t so I …’

  ‘Lied?’

  ‘To keep my job! He told me to lie!’

  ‘And how’s that working out for you?’

  I open and close my mouth and dumbly repeat: ‘He was the one lying.’

  ‘Anyway. I’ve decided not to write it up, so as not to embarrass you.’

  My jaw drops.

  ‘That’s what he wanted! That’s why he sacked me! So you’d feel bad about saying how shit the food is!’

  I’ve become shrill and everyone’s looking round now.

  ‘Write it up! Tell everyone what it’s like, say I was sacked, I don’t care!’

  ‘That’s not a very collegiate attitude, is it?’

  ‘Or …’ I say, I feel the room hold its breath, ‘I’ll write it up for you. I could write you a great piece about this place. No conflict of interest anymore.’

  Mr Keith clears his throat.

  ‘Well. Employee of the Month.’

  I’m about to mention the time the kitchen’s tub of Stork margarine had what looked like rodent footprints in it, and Tony used an ice cream scoop to take off the top layer and carried on using it. Or, I could get my phone out and show Mr Keith the text I just received. Yes, that’d do it.

  Callum is looking over with an aghast expression. When his line of sight moves to the kitchen door I know what’s coming.

  Tony swaggers out holding another plate of pasta, affecting a casual air of bonhomie. When he spots me, his eyes are pinwheels.

  ‘Can’t stay away when you’re not being paid? Go on, Georgina, on your way. This customer doesn’t want more hassle from you.’

  Tony sets the plate down. It actually looks half decent – he might’ve Googled ‘carbonara’ and cracked an egg.

  ‘I’m not hassling him, he spoke to me. I came back for my coat.’

  Any noises of scraping cutlery in the dining room are yet to resume, so it’s us and volare, woooooaaah oh.

  At that moment, my eyes settle on someone beyond Mr Keith. A little girl with pageboy hair and a disproportionately large forehead, wearing a large paper crown with BIRTHDAY on it, tomato sauce splattered across her cheeks. She’s paused in the middle of eating penne marinara and along with her awestruck family, is listening to every single word in this unseemly stand-off. We’re ruining a kid’s fifth birthday. Given everyone’s poised to see what I’ll do next, I’m ruining it.

  Some of my few good childhood memories are of the excitement of being taken out for dinner, eating chicken nuggets in baskets and hustling for a second Coca Cola.

  ‘Forget it. I only wanted my coat. I’m done,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t let the door hit you etc. etc.,’ Tony mutters. Then louder, to Mr Keith: ‘I hope her drama doesn’t keep you from enjoying your meal.’

  ‘I hope your meal doesn’t keep you from enjoying your meal,’ I say, and Mr Keith shakes his head in dismay.

  I turn and walk out, conscious of the many pairs of eyes on me. I keep my focus at the l
evel of the SPECIALS chalkboard, acknowledging no one. I never thought this job would go especially well, I didn’t think it would end with a dignity ransacking. The door falls shut behind me and I exhale.

  I stride and stride some more and I’m still too het up to fumble for my fags. I don’t want this to turn into a panic attack. I remember what the counsellor said about concentrating on my breathing when I felt anxiety rising like a sea level inside me.

  My phone pings.

  Keep our date a secret yeah, Tony will go well ape if he finds out and sack me too lol

  Tony’s already ‘well ape,’ it seems: another ping.

  DICK MOVE, princess. No job for you here now and anywhere else either once I put the word round. BLACK LISTED enjoy your next job on the pole

  I stab out a reply:

  LOL. Tony, your surname isn’t Soprano. You might know more about Italian food if it was

  I’m not really that flippant about his threat. Sheffield’s mid-priced bistros are quite a small world and I can’t pay next month’s rent now. I’m not used to making enemies, I’m usually a champion smoother-over. Appeasement is my middle name.

  Although maybe I’m kidding myself: a third text arrives from my sister, Esther, who I’ve never really succeeded in smoothing over:

  Are you bringing Robin on Sunday? Sending Mark to Sainsbury’s in morning so would be good to get numbers, swift response appreciated. Rib of beef. Let me know if any allergies to Yorkshire pudding or whatever too.

  That’s how Esther always communicates with me on text, like I am a lazy temp at her accountancy firm. Although the near-sarcastic last line is a particular tilt at Robin.

  No he’s out of town! Thanks though x

  I’m also a world-class white liar. Robin and my relatives are a bad combination. I tried two family events with my boyfriend and decided to rest the integration project indefinitely.

  I turn the corner and psychologically, being out of sight of That’s Amore! helps slightly. This is fine, this is nothing. It’ll be a tapas bar in two years’ time, the sort where they microwave gambas pil pil so the frozen prawns are the same texture as contraceptive sponges.

  Plus, Robin’s going to love the material from my firing this evening.

  I can hear myself drafting and redrafting the key passages already, anticipating the points where I expect to get a laugh. At school, everyone used to clamour for my stories, I was good at them. If I went on a terrible summer holiday, I spun it into gold in term time. George, tell the one about …

  Jo once said, admiringly: ‘Mad things always happen to you, how are you a magnet for mad!’ (that could sound like she was doubting me, but Jo is never ever snide. She only ever says exactly what she means) and I explained: I notice things. Appreciating the absurd was a useful skill in my childhood.

  A snap snap snap with my pleasingly heavy silver lighter, in trembling hands, and the tip of my Marlboro Light glows. I suck in a big whoosh of nicotine and I feel better already. It’s not tenable to give up in current circumstances.

  It’s an early winter evening, the sort of cold where the air in the middle distance looks smoky, and you can sense a weekend evening getting going. The swell of people in Broomhill, the scent of aftershave mingling with perfume and burble of chatter that comes with being two drinks to the good.

  I can see my reflection in the window of Betfred and shift from foot to foot. As much as I argue back with Mum when she says things to me like: ‘scruffy is charming in youth but doesn’t age well, Georgina,’ I am starting to wonder if my playful taste in short dresses and liquid eyeliner is going a bit Last Exit to Brooklyn.

  ‘Be careful with that heavy make-up as a blonde. One minute you’re punk like Daryl Hannah in Blade Runner, the next you’re Julie Goodyear.’

  Boy, how I’ll miss Tony’s beauty tips.

  I open a message to Robin, then think again and press backspace to swallow the you’ll-never-guess-what-these-twats-have-done-now rant about the termination of my employment. I have a Friday evening free all of a sudden – this shouldn’t be thrown away on a prosaic text.

  I want to be stylish about it.

  On one of our first dates – I say dates, actually it was being invited round to Robin’s flat to drink red wine, until he eventually flapped a takeaway leaflet at me around 9 p.m. and said: ‘Have you eaten?’ – Robin said: live your life like this song.

  The song playing was Elvis’ ‘Suspicious Minds’ so I asked: what, suspiciously?

  He has a stack Hi Fi with a turntable at the top, which is now old enough to be a fashion statement, with volume lights that ripple.

  ‘The way it fades back in at the end. It’s already brilliant, but that is genius because it’s unexpected. That’s the moment that turns good into true greatness.’

  Robin hunched over, rolling his joint.

  ‘… Everyone thinks you have to do everything a certain way. Monogamy, marriage, mortgage. Two point four kids, because what will you do with the second half of your life otherwise. Washing the car and the roast chicken in the oven every Sunday. William Blake called them “mind forg’d manacles”. People don’t want to get rid of the rule book, it scares them. We’re all living in captivity.’

  I thought I could really fancy some roast chicken. I knew this was an implicit warning to me, as much as Robin sharing his world view.

  (‘If he was going to settle down, he’d have done it by now, Georgina.’ Ta, Mum.) I was determined to appear unfazed.

  ‘Constructed reality. Like The Matrix,’ I say, picking up a menu for Shanghai Garden.

  ‘Yeah! So much of “can’t” and “not allowed” is an illusion.’

  ‘Tell that to my probation officer,’ I said.

  Robin laughed, pushing the window open on its latch, before he lit his spliff. ‘Good one.’

  I felt the satisfaction of being a Cool Girl.

  ‘… Would you share the illusion of a Kung Po rice with me?’

  4

  I toy with the prospect of a taxi to Kelham Island, then consider that now I’m on the dole again, the bus is more appropriate. These sort of internal negotiations are alien to Robin.

  It’s weird to say, but Robin is sort-of famous. ‘Famous’ is overselling it really, but ‘well known’ is positively misleading. He’s a face and a name you might know if you’re in a very specific age demographic in Britain, watch the obscurer TV channels, follow fringe comedy and are probably a stoner.

  When I saw his modern penthouse flat with its lipstick-red leather sofas, white rugs and mezzanine bedroom in a converted factory, I thought wow, challenging offbeat authored comedy pays well.

  In the six months we’ve been seeing each other, I’ve witnessed Robin turn down various offers he thought ‘weren’t simpatico with what I’m trying to build’ and toss bills into the bin unopened, yet the lights stayed on and the hot water flowed. Eventually I twigged that income was coming from elsewhere.

  Apparently Robin’s dad was some major wheel in the civil service, his parents now retired to the Cornish coast. Robin owned his property outright and ‘I get the rental income from the last place.’ I didn’t inquire any more in case I looked like I was gold digging, eyeing up the portfolio.

  ‘Are they fans of what you do?’ I asked, tentatively, as code for woah they set you up nicely.

  Robin ran a hand through his wild hair. ‘I think “fans” might be overstating it. They want me to fulfil my potential, in whatever I see as my potential.’

  Our disparity is never an issue except on the occasions I arrive exhausted from a shift. He’ll shrug and say: ah, sod it off then, as someone who has never understood how it feels to be dangling off the monkey bars with no financial crash mat. His whole inspirational ‘life is what you make it’ schtick grates a bit, as a result.

  Though it has to be said, he’s never complained about our differences as a couple, monetarily or otherwise: as the most sinewy, wiry man I’ve ever slept with, he’s very keen on my waterbed belly and ma
rshmallowy arse, and he positively enthuses about staying in my attic room in my terraced house in Crookes.

  ‘Look at it this way, if you ever want to be a writer, you’ve already got the garret.’

  ‘Glad you’re enjoying your poverty safari,’ I said, and he said ah poverty safari I like that I’ll use that. He says that quite a lot.

  I stub out my fag as the bus arrives and push a Mentos into my mouth. Instead of serving dog food ragu to dismayed punters I have a night off, and the night is young. Chin up.

  When I get off at the destination and walk the two minutes to Robin’s, in the dark and cold, I start to question the wisdom of the fabulous surprise concept. I probably should’ve told him …? This is the trouble with being unconventional. You never know when you’re simply being annoying.

  As I approach his building, I see Robin near the door: he has a cheap thin blue plastic bag, handles lengthened with the weight of what must be purchases from the corner shop.

  This is my moment! I’ll call him and say something like: I hope you have some wine for me in there. I’ll be like Jason Bourne! ‘Get some rest, Pam,’ while Robin jerks his head to see where I’m standing.

  I scroll down, hit Robin’s number in my contacts and press the handset to my ear.

  Ahead of me, I see Robin pull his iPhone out of his jacket pocket. A moment where he stares at the caller ID, then my line goes blip-blip-blip = call ended. Has he turned it off by mistake? His phone is back in his pocket and he continues towards the flat.

  Baffled, and stung, I hit redial. Same process: momentary check, and again, declines it. He’s pressing it fast enough that even if I couldn’t see him, I think I’d know from the desultory length of time it rang that I’d been drop called.

  Stubbornly, knowing I’m being uncool, I try for a third time. He’s almost at the door now. If his phone is buzzing, he doesn’t react.

  I hear: The phone you have called may be switched off.

  What on earth? He’s turned it off? I’m his girlfriend and I got the treatment of an unknown Manchester landline phishing for PPI. Is he angry with me about something? I search my recent memory and nothing occurs. Also, despite his hatred of stand-up comedy critics, Robin doesn’t do fits of temper: either due to his disposition or the quantity of marijuana he inhales, or both.