Don't You Forget About Me

by Mhairi McFarlane

  So much for my grandly telling Jo that good fodder for anecdotes is distributed democratically in life, you only needed the ability to notice them.

  ‘I haven’t been on any dates that are truly bad enough to qualify, that “he turned out to be wearing an electronic tagging bracelet under the tuxedo” sort of thing,’ I say to Kitty. Lucas hovers nearby, pretending not to listen.

  ‘Closest I can get is that when I was twenty-four, my then-boyfriend Mike took me to New York on a surprise trip. First day we go to the Empire State Building and he proposes. I said no. We still had three days of the holiday left and neither of us could afford to change the flights.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Kitty says.

  ‘Yup. It wasn’t even an “I’m not ready” refusal either. I was so horrified, I blurted out that we were best off breaking up. We’d only been seeing each other three months! Then Japanese tourists saw the ring and got the wrong end of the stick and tried to take our picture. But even though Mike’s happily married now I don’t think he deserves me reliving that with an audience to win a column in The Star.’

  ‘This is getting a bit like Laurence Olivier’s “have you ever tried acting, dear boy”,’ Lucas says, as he slots a bottle back on the shelf and tells Kitty to take her break.

  Even when he’s being mildly combative towards me, I get a kick out of it. I can feel myself falling again. I have to stop myself.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, just make it up? It’s a writing competition, not an interesting life competition. I’m sure they’re partly looking for that initiative.’

  ‘Guess so.’

  ‘And how are they going to check it’s true anyway? Produce receipts from Bella Pasta, circa 2010?’

  I laugh and chew my lip. ‘Actually, I do have one funny-awful date story. But it’s about Robin. Is that morally OK? Or wise?’

  Lucas shrugs. ‘He talked about your …’ He stops and restarts, so he doesn’t have to say the words ‘sex life’, and a little voice in my head starts shouting, Is this significant? You definitely get prudish around your crush, rule of courtship. Shut up, voice. ‘… Talked about personal things in public. I don’t see it’s that wrong, after that. At worst it’s levelling up.’

  I nod. ‘I suppose. And if he doesn’t get to hear of it …’

  Lucas spots a regular, acknowledges him, swings a pint glass under the relevant pump.

  ‘Just leave his name out of it. If he’s not actually in the room, it’s quite a stretch it’ll ever reach him.’

  Lucas is right. And if Robin said ‘How dare you!’ he wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. I mull over the date story, redrafting key passages in my head. Sadly, due to its specific and identifying nature, I’ll have to leave out the part where Robin suggested to my parents that if we were a portmanteaued celebrity couple we’d be ‘Robgina’ or ‘Hornee’.

  A young man in a Superdry sweatshirt walks in. He looks vaguely familiar.

  ‘Georgina! I heard you were working here!’

  It’s Callum, erstwhile That’s Amore! waiter and its junior sex pest: I didn’t recognise him out of the grubby off-white frilled shirt and without his giant pepper pot.

  ‘Hi, Callum,’ I say. ‘As you can see, you heard right.’

  ‘You said if I did what you wanted, you’d go on a date with me. Then you totally ghosted me! Cold.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. If you want to get technical, you were meant to get my coat and you didn’t, so no deal done.’

  Oh great, out of context this still makes me sound terrible.

  ‘Yeah, well, now we’ve been shut down. Health and safety. They found a dead rat by the scraps bin. Tony said, “It’s dead, we dealt with it” and the man was like, “Nah, mate. Not how it works.”’

  I try to keep a straight face so I get to hear more.

  ‘Yeah that would be … not how it works.’

  ‘I think it made it worse that there was only half a dead rat because they reckoned there was a live one somewhere that had nibbled on it. They couldn’t find that one, though, so, no proof.’

  He does a shoulder-dropping shrug with hands up, as if the complex, controversial case of That’s Amore! vs Hygiene Standards is one for great legal minds to battle out.

  ‘Anyway, Tony’s left and we’re going to reopen with a new name once Beaky gets the licence going again. I’m going to be manager! Want in?’

  I’m about to politely decline when Lucas says:

  ‘Er, mate, she’s working here. Maybe recruit on LinkedIn, not in front of me?’

  ‘What’s it to you? Free country,’ Callum says, fists now thrust in sweatshirt pockets, showing the quick wittedness that made him so skilful in service at That’s Amore!

  ‘I’m the boss,’ Lucas says.

  Callum gives a slack-jawed smile. ‘Lol. Yeah well we’re going to pay time and a half so maybe you’re going to have to work extra shifts, tell your boss.’

  Lucas blinks.

  ‘I’m not her manager, I’m the boss, it’s my name above the door. Piss off, you chippy little herbert.’

  I have the decency to wait until the door’s swung shut behind Callum to collapse laughing.

  ‘“I’ll date you if you fetch my coat,” alright, Lady Penelope,’ Lucas says, with a grin.

  ‘I didn’t say that …! Oh my God, I’d been sacked, they threw me off the premises, he tried to hold my coat hostage in return for a date. Oh my God!’ I splutter, while Lucas laughs heartily. ‘For the record I did not offer to go on a date with him.’

  ‘Given your current predicament with the writing competition, that might’ve been a mistake. Speaking of which,’ he looks up at the clock, ‘I think it’s about to start.’

  ‘Then she said, “I’m sorry, that’s actually my Mooncup.” I can’t drink ruby port to this day. The End.’

  The thin man in the flat cap takes a small bow amid much laughter and applause and I feel a ripple of fear that I’m going to end the night with a damp squib. The date story I’ve decided on is more of a slowly unfolding disaster than bam-bam-bam jokes.

  Once again, I’m last in the running order at Share Your Shame and unlike last time, I’ve decide to watch the other acts first. My shift downstairs is also over and I arranged to finish early so I could concentrate on my craft and get drunk after.

  Kitty is working the function room bar this time and the brothers are downstairs.

  I sip a white wine with my friends, sister and brother-in-law and wait to be called up. I was touched when Esther went out of her way to inquire when the next event was.

  When I say so, she said: We honestly loved it! I admit I was doubtful beforehand but I was very proud of my witty little sister. I told Mum and she says you can say anything you like about her as long as you make it clear her house is always clean and tidy.

  That’s handy as I did want to direct some satire her way with my date story. Omelettes and eggs.

  The other contributors are an uneven bunch, some jittering, some speaking for ages, some barely speaking at all. A couple are really good: a date with a sensitive man on Guardian Soulmates, who it turned out was only working with disadvantaged kids because of his community service, and the girl who ended up going home with the date’s divorced dad. The latter was very likely invention, but it was hilarious – you were right again, Lucas McCarthy.

  ‘Georgina, is Georgina here?’ Gareth calls from the stage, sheaf of papers in his hand. My eyes involuntarily move to Mr Keith among the judges. I’m feeling more buoyant about his presence though – surely when news reaches his ears that That’s Amore! was running a petting zoo, he’ll see it my way. (It’d be awful if anyone were to email their news desk.)

  I step up to the microphone, noting that having done this before doesn’t make it one bit easier.

  ‘My Worst Date,’ I clear my throat. ‘Wasn’t a first date. My parents asked to meet my boyfriend of three months. Let’s call him Dave. My mum said she’d throw a “fizz and picky bits eve
ning.” Fizz and picky bits is mumspeak for prosecco and olives, dips and so on, with some breaded things from the oven. Shortly after arriving, my mum offered Dave breadsticks and a pot of hummus. Strike one.’

  ‘He said: “I’m afraid I’m both a coeliac and a chickpea refusenik, Mrs Horspool.” It would’ve been helpful if he had told me he was coeliac, and it was news to me too, given he’d seen off several Hawaiian deep-pan pizzas in my company. I wasn’t aware Papa John’s catered to gluten intolerants. Later he said, “I’m not a coeliac-coeliac. I just find wheat doesn’t agree with me and people prefer labels don’t they? They’re easier to grasp.” I’d have thought it was easiest to grasp the breadstick.’

  Some laughs.

  ‘I could already sense that he was becoming sillier in the face of stern social pressure, imagining it would jolly things up, when actually it was going to go very badly. Like a pilot recklessly grabbing the controls and pitching into the sea when he should ignore the dinging lights and turbulence, and let the aircraft steady itself at that altitude. Then we had the “and what do you do for a living” chat.

  ‘Dave was a comedian, sometimes on the television.

  ‘My stepdad said: “And what might we have seen you on?”

  ‘“Ketamine?” he quipped. I don’t know if you’re keeping track of the strikes but I count this as strike two.’

  I glance up, more laughter. They’re a half cut and eager to be pleased group, but I’m still gratified.

  ‘“Does it keep the wolf from the door, as it were?” my stepdad said, offering a sour cream Kettle Chip.

  ‘“More or less,” Dave said. “I have other gigs on the side too. Social media stuff. Twitter.”

  ‘“That pays?” my stepdad said.

  ‘Dave said, “It can do. I write tweets for humorous accounts.”

  ‘My stepdad sniffed. “Other comedians?” he said. “Can’t they write their own?”

  ‘“No, corporate ones,” Dave said. “The PG Tips monkey, that’s me. Sorry to ruin the illusion.”

  ‘Dave grinned at their blank faces.

  ‘“The chimps’ tea party?” my stepdad said.

  ‘“The knitted one,” Dave said. “With Johnny Vegas. You know: MUNKEH!” He bellowed this, spraying shards of soggy crisp.

  ‘“Have I got this right,” my stepdad said, reaching sixty-seven-year-old system overload. “People log on to their computers online, to read the remarks of a stuffed toy, which is in fact, you pretending to be a stuffed toy?”

  ‘“In one,” said Dave.

  ‘“Good grief,” said my stepdad. “I’m probably not the right customer for that sort of polytechnic talk.”

  ‘Dave was drinking wine, at a clip, and he was on flu meds, which his doctor had warned him not to mix with alcohol. At some point during glass four, he went full-on stoner philosopher.

  ‘My mum asked if he wanted marriage and kids. (Thanks, Mum.) He said “It’s a case of whether you choose the red pill or the blue pill isn’t it?”

  ‘“Viagra?!” said my stepdad Geoffrey.’

  A laugh, a proper laugh.

  ‘Dave went on to explain the plot of popular sci-fi action-adventure The Matrix to them, in relation to his hard-left politics. My mum was surprised to discover she was in a simulation created by capitalism, especially as she’d just had the kitchen done.

  ‘“I like Fulwood!” my mum said.

  ‘“It’s a constructed reality,” he said. Then burped. “You should read Noam Chomsky’s Manufacturing Consent.”

  ‘“Got to grow up some time, sonny Jim,” said my stepdad.

  ‘“Have you?” my boyfriend slurred. “Have you? Numbers, man. Who cares. You’re seventy,” he said to my stepdad, who said, “I’m sixty-seven, thank you very much!” My boyfriend looked at my mum and thankfully decided not to risk it. “She’s thirty …” he pointed at me. “And this house is what? A hundred years old? Right! Numbers. All meaningless.”

  ‘“Not if you want children, they’re not,” my mum said, and at that point I decided I was trapped in a simulation designed by Satan. She continued, “Georgina’s fertility is going to fall off a cliff at thirty-five, I sent her a clipping from the Telegraph about it only the other day.”

  ‘“Thanks for that, Mum,” I said. “I don’t really see what Kate Middleton has to do with me, to be honest.”

  ‘“Ugh, the Royals?!” Dave’s face twisted into a mask of contempt. “In my revolution, Kate Middleton would be in a dungeon.”

  ‘“With three beautifully dressed children as a comfort to her though,” my mum said to me, as if it was a scold, at which point I collapsed in hysterics at DaveWorld meeting MumWorld and trying in vain to make sense of each other.

  ‘“In those velvet and bibs! Those posh kids are dressed like ghosts that died in a fire!” Dave bellowed.

  ‘Ten minutes later, my boyfriend nodded off during my stepdad discussing his allotment, and did a sleep-fart.’

  I look up.

  ‘My boyfriend Dave and I are no longer together.’

  I fold my notes and feel it’s gone well. Everyone is clapping and whooping and someone’s even whistling. I’m awash with pleasure and relief.

  Until I see that the person whistling is Robin McNee.

  33

  Before I have time to react, I’m being herded from the stage by an excitable Gareth.

  ‘I have a treat for you tonight, guys. There’s a special guest here who has asked to be added to our line-up, as a one-off guest appearance. We’re honoured to have him. Put your hands together for Robin McNee!’

  Shaking, I trace my way back to my seat and share ‘WTF’ looks with my table mates. How the hell did he get up here without one of the McCarthy brothers spotting him and chucking him straight back out?

  Robin is raking his hand through his hair, doing his ‘aw shucks’ sort of moves: little dip of the head, bashful expression. He detaches the microphone from the stand.

  ‘Good evening, drinkers of The Wicker and fans of sharing shame. And congratulations, ‘Georgina …?’ he feigns uncertainly picking me out, ‘I loved that.’

  No really, how the hell has he got in here? I feel rage well up and even as it does, I know I’m being unfair. Barring someone, unless you have a bouncer, isn’t foolproof, and it looks like Robin had help, a man on the inside. What the fuck is he going to do?! After the havoc and misery he wreaked last time, I am vibrating with the potential malignancy.

  I catch a movement by the door and, unnoticed by everyone but me, see Lucas, his brow knitted, taking in Robin and scanning for my face. I don’t know how long he’s been there.

  When his eyes meet mine, Lucas makes a neck slashing gesture at me and I do a subtle head shaking, ‘leave it,’ two handed, palms down wave. Dragging him off stage now would end up being a scene. A bigger scene than the one Robin has in store? I don’t know.

  ‘Have you heard the phrase “teachable moment”? It used to be one for education wonks, now it’s something that comes up in Ted Talks, and political long reads,’ Robin says. ‘The idea is that it’s a window of opportunity, an unplanned event or experience which provides the chance for growth. But for the moment to teach you, you have to be open to its lesson. You have to recognise that it is one.’

  Robin unscrews the cap on a bottle of water, handed to him by Gareth, who thinks he’s booked Ricky Gervais here. He isn’t using notes.

  Why did I talk about Robin, WHY? I’ve left myself so compromised by it. In the middle of a mess, saying it’s not my fault, making excuses. This is me. There’s no longer any denying it. God, the idea that Robin fucking McNee gets to bring me to this point of utterly deflated self-awareness. Just when I thought I might be turning things around.

  ‘It made me wonder: what have been the teachable moments in my life, which I missed?’ He sets the bottle down. ‘I was dating a girl who came up to me after a show, and told me she liked my work. She was smart, interesting. A cynical under-achiever who has seen my act and is sti
ll prepared to sleep with me, just my type. Aaaaand she was way out of my league. I hate that phrase, makes you sound like you believe in eugenics, doesn’t it? Use your own shorthand here for: “People would think I won her in a competition.”’

  Everyone laughs, in a gentle, beguiled way. Like they’re squirrels and he’s feeding them nuts. ‘Cynical under-achiever’, you shit. Look at how he slipped the knife under the rib cage there, with a flick of the wrist so small and fast that it goes unnoticed by everyone but its intended target.

  ‘We went on an early date to see the new Blade Runner. We settle down to watch it and will inevitably discuss how sequels are always inferior, afterwards. Five minutes into the film, we hear a man, somewhere behind us, say “HE’S A ROBOT!” We glance at each other, ignore it. Again, someone is on screen, he trills: “ROOOOOW-BOT!” like it’s a spoiler. Followed by giggling. We glance again. Uh oh. Is this a ringtone irritant, a sodcaster, a chattering millennial who thinks he’s in front of Netflix at home? Or is he someone with mental impairments? The doubt is landing your woke lefty with a conscience here in a tricky spot. So I do what all middle-aged, middle class men do in such situations, I silently panic and hope a proper adult comes along and deals with it.’

  Laughter.

  ‘Unfortunately, the man doesn’t let up. Whatever and whoever comes on screen, there’s a comment. Now his voice sounds mocking, sarcastic. “SEXY GIRL.” “NICE CAR.” All I can think of is a joke about how I don’t think much to the director’s commentary edition.’ He twinkles at the admiring crowd. ‘Never come to a comedian in a crisis. My girlfriend whispers she needs the loo and stands up. At which point the gentleman disturbing us all says “OOH AND HELLO LADY!”

  ‘I snap. We’ve missed the first half hour almost in its entirety to the psychodrama of Mr Robot and now he’s harassing my girlfriend? Enough. I tell her to sit down, wait, and I leave my seat. I find a member of staff outside, explain the situation. He enters with a torch, and the man is ejected. Like a handwringing liberal, I say to him as he passes me: “Look I’m sorry but you were ruining it for the rest of us.” The man stares at me and pushes past, no reply, and I feel vindicated. No remorse, and how rude. I tut, loudly.’