As I spoke, Rav’s forehead became ever more creased until he said: OK I’m not treating you because it’s not ethical and it’d make you feel awkward, but you’re going to see my colleague, Fay, and I’m going to book you in. Rav was obviously very good at his speciality: he’d sussed otherwise I’d take her details and never do anything about it.
‘I’m not sure I want to wank on about myself. What do my problems matter? Plenty of people have lost a parent,’ I said, as Rav keyed my number into his phone.
‘Don’t be so bloody British,’ he said. ‘This country. We’d rather quietly kill ourselves over something than be any bother. Not that I’m suggesting you’re suicidal.’
I went to Fay for a year and she helped a lot. Enough that I lay flowers at Dad’s headstone now on his birthday. I have a quiet chat with him – if there’s no one around in hearing range – and pat the cold curve of the laser-engraved graphite. I gaze at those implacable start and finish dates, that I wish I’d been warned about.
It’d be very useful if everyone in your life could supply those. You could pace yourself.
Death is on my mind still, a week after Danny’s wake. And I have nothing to do until Devlin does or doesn’t call me (yes I could be proactive and start putting irons in fires elsewhere, but then I’d not be a Roomba), plus the aftershock slump of seeing Lucas McCarthy, and Lucas McCarthy not seeing me, has plunged me into a mule-ish funk.
So I buy a bunch of £4.99 gaudy lilies the colour of Turkish Delight from the supermarket (‘To moulder on a plot of land a mile away? You are odd. That’s the price of two pints you’re wasting. Just swipe some from an accident blackspot,’ – Make Believe Dad) and walk to Tinsley Park cemetery. It’s well populated, if that’s the word, and I have to wander quite a way to find Dad.
I like moody old headstones covered in emerald lichen, with dates from the 1800s and families taken by the scurvy. Modern, gleaming ones make me nervous.
When I reach JOHN HORSPOOL, the monument to the fact it actually happened, I feel the puckering of stomach.
I ponder the hypocrisy of the words engraved on his stone: Beloved Husband, Father And Brother. Two out of the three aren’t true.
After the funeral, Uncle Peter couldn’t have returned to Spain any faster if he’d used Floo Powder. I could hear Dad making some sarcastic aside about how he was a man who lit up a room by leaving it.
His put-downs about the dourness of ex-pat Uncle Pete – ‘He’s as welcome as finding cat shit in your house, when you don’t own a cat’ – always made me shake with laughter. Then as soon as the thought occurred, it was followed by the realisation that I’d never hear his voice or his opinion on anything ever again. Make believe was all I had left forever. Pastiche, weak riffs based on nostalgia, a pale imitation. I was so bereft, it nearly made my knees buckle.
I said to Clem, two years after he was gone, it didn’t feel real. I was constantly waiting for it to fully dawn on me, for the other shoe to drop. She lost her dad when she was fourteen. We’d met in a McDonalds at 1 a.m. when she was being hassled by a dubious man and Jo and I had intervened and invited her back in our taxi. We ended up eating quarter pounders at mine and having more drink we definitely didn’t need.
Clem said: ‘I don’t know what to tell you, George. It never feels real or finally sinks in. That moment never arrives. The world continues, but with a bit always missing. And meanwhile you’re getting on with it, until it’s found.’
This makes sense. Everything feels temporary now. Because it always was, I just didn’t know it.
I clear my throat, glance around: ‘Hi, Dad.’
‘That’s us up to date then,’ I mutter, feeling foolish, despite my evident solitude in the flat landscape, headstones like rows of dominoes into the horizon. I look up, as if a drone might be hovering nearby, picking up any of my banalities.
I mentioned, in low tone, meeting Lucas, how he was someone back in the day I’d hoped to introduce to him. And the departure of Robin. I try to picture whether Robin would’ve been received any better by Dad than he was by Esther and Mum. My gut says: Dad would’ve tried harder, seeing what I was aiming for, but come to the conclusion that I’d missed.
My fingers have gone numb, still holding the crush of cellophane from the now-unwrapped flowers, and I shove them alternately in my pockets. Make Believe Dad: Why are you in that thing the colour of dentist’s mouthwash? It looks like you murdered a Muppet.
‘See you when you don’t turn sixty-five, I guess. I’ve discussed it with Esther and we’re going to bring Milo to that one. So no blue language or downing Rusty Nails.’ His Christmas tipple. Another sharp blade in the stomach. I lurch forward to prop the flowers against his stone, wave with one hand and give a weak smile.
Mum won’t visit the grave. Esther and I have our theories about her reluctance.
I’m stumping towards the exit when, unbidden, a thought rears up and confronts me.
It’s like Oscar the Grouch hidden in the garbage can, flopping two tufted green paws over the edge and shooting up, beetling browed and googly eyed: It’s been a week, you can stop waiting for Devlin to ring you now. You IDIOT.
I pause, stare across the field of gravestones as if they literally contain this unwelcome truth in their earthy depths, then slam onwards.
Rejection on this occasion was always going to cause existential feelings. Yet something makes me sad, aside from the fact that Lucas McCarthy didn’t remember me and/or intervened to block my path, and suggested I was best fitted to serve sticky ribs and wings while wearing a vest and orange shorts.
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.
&
nbsp; ‘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.’
What total shite!
‘What we do here is serve good honest homely fresh-cooked fare from scratch, no fuss or showing off, and our regulars love it. These are old recipes from our owner’s mother. So if they don’t like our classics or say they’re not authentic, argue with his Nonna – she lives in Turin!’
‘She lives in fucking Bridlington!’ I snort.
The piece swerves into a generalised discussion of the benefits and drawbacks of TripAdvisor as guidance service, so no one’s given the chance to answer Tony back. ‘Greg Withers’ would’ve been a very chatty respondent, if he could’ve used email (or if I’d persuaded Rav to moonlight).
Oh man, this is so unfair. Has it not occurred to the reporter that That’s Amore! might have terrible feedback because it’s terrible? Has he heard of Occam’s Razor? Has he tried any of its food? This is basically a big free advertisement for That’s Amore! That I prompted. There’s no doubt about this, the byline is an ‘Ant Haddon.’
That’s Amore!, 1, Georgina, 0.
‘Good honest fresh-cooked fare’, my arse. I’ve seen Tony up-end a box of Quality Street, take the wrappers off, have a go at bevelling them with a cheese paring knife, pile them in a pyramid on a saucer, stick a dusting of drinking chocolate powder over
the top, and tell me to tell the customer they’re our in-house handmade chocolates. Fawlty Towers ‘Gourmet Night’ without the slick presentation.
I ring Rav.
‘Why do the bad guys always win, Rav? Always?!’
I’m half joking-exasperated, half genuinely upset. ‘I mean, they do, don’t they? That’s Amore! survive anything! Even the critic visiting, thanks to sacking me. What do they have to do? Put polonium in the Pollo alla Cacciatore?’
‘Haaaah. It’s a bit much, right?’ Rav hoots. ‘I liked the part where he says everyone thinks they’re shit because they’re expecting L’Enclume and sea urchin sashimi. That, without a doubt, is what’s going wrong. People mincing up from Mayfair and not understanding what two mains for a tenner and half a carafe of rough red might entail.’
I start laughing. ‘A That’s Amore! tasting menu. Can’t imagine what would be in a Tony foam.’
‘I can.’
I wheeze helplessly.
‘My efforts have filled That’s Amore!’s tables for the next month. I mean, even if anyone goes there because of this and ends up agreeing with me, they’ve still had their money once. There is no God,’ I say.
‘Yeah, but we knew that. Listen, that’s not actually why I was originally going to call you. We all feel a bit bad for ragging on Robin the other night.’
I cackle. ‘Oh, Rav, I love you, but if Clem feels bad about that, I am Mr Greg Withers from Stockport.’
‘Alright, admittedly, Jo and I told Clem she should feel bad about ragging on Robin.’
‘And did she agree?’
‘She said: “Why are you defending that conceited jeb-end court jester who treated George like dirt?” which I think you’ll agree has a strong subtext of wishing her repentance to be known.’
I laugh some more.
‘Look, either way, Jo and I will be getting her to split the bill three ways with us when we take you out – you free tonight?’
‘Ooh, where? I have something to do at six-thirty but I don’t think it’ll be long.’
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