Don't You Forget About Me

by Mhairi McFarlane

  ‘I return to my seat to muted cheers from the disgruntled filmgoers around me. I feel manly at having taken action, and protected my partner.

  ‘Afterwards, we go for pizza and I say, over my thin crust American Hot: “I can’t believe he ignored me when I apologised. Why should I apologise anyway? Some people.” My girlfriend says: “I think he was profoundly deaf. If you’ve been deaf from birth, you don’t use language in the same way. I had a customer where I worked who gave me Christmas cards with THE GIRL written on the envelope.”

  ‘I say: “Or he was simple.”

  ‘She says: “But he’s obviously seen the first Blade Runner and understood it.” “Why?” I say. “He knew who was a robot and who wasn’t straight off, and you wouldn’t immediately know that from what was on screen without that context.”

  ‘And, people of The Wicker, I was annoyed at her. I said: “What did you want me to do, leave him there to carry on shouting “RAIN!” and “SCARY GUN”?” She said, “No, I’m not getting at you, I’m only thinking about what his perspective on it was.” I said: “You’d be having a go at me now if I’d done nothing!”

  ‘She looked baffled. “I didn’t expect you to do anything.”

  ‘I spent the next half hour sulking, thinking: where’s the gratitude? Doesn’t she appreciate me? Why doesn’t she care about what I did for her?

  ‘It took me losing this woman I loved, who I still love …’ pause for fakey steadying of himself ‘… a while later, going back over my mistakes, for it to click. I put that pressure on myself because I thought it was a test, where I had to be who she wanted. But I had what she wanted, completely wrong. She didn’t want The Guy Who Got The Other Guy Thrown Out. She wanted The Guy Who Took The Time To Understand The Other Guy. He was the deaf guy, but I was the one who didn’t listen.

  ‘So my worst date is me. I was the worst date. Thank you.’

  Robin slots the microphone back on the stand.

  As I get up to leave, amid the ‘You Are A Genius’ level hullabaloo, he’s thronged by women.

  Game, set, match. This isn’t love, it’s not even adjacent to love. It’s a grotesque imitation of adoration to give Robin an excuse to hound me. He just wants to dominate me and win, and right now, it feels like he has.

  34

  Robin is ejected, my indignant friends and family are safely gifted drink in the snug, Share Your Shame’s Gareth quibbles over the politics of Robin’s involvement in the show with an aggrieved Devlin. Wherever I go, I cause trouble.

  Lucas steers me into the kitchen, and amid the wiped-down stainless steel surfaces and static of dormant machinery says: ‘Georgina, I am so so sorry. This is entirely on us. I forgot to give Dev a visual and he snuck past when I was occupied. There’s no excuse not to have kept a close eye out for him.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘I can’t apologise enough. Two attacks by that guy in your place of work is two too many, and this one should’ve been entirely preventable.’

  I’d have to be a much better person than I am not to get a frisson from Lucas grovelling.

  ‘Robin has more brass neck than C-3P0, hardly your fault. That wasn’t a date I remember having, by the way.’

  ‘Really? I just assumed it was with you.’

  ‘Oh it was, but it was nothing like that. He didn’t complain about the man or get him thrown out, he swore loudly and slow-clapped the staff when they finally did something. He’s a straight up liar. Sorry, artist, using his artistic licence.’

  Lucas folds his arms and hisses and shakes his head.

  ‘You must think less of me for ever entertaining him,’ I blurt. I can’t help it.

  I am gratified that Lucas looks genuinely startled at this.

  ‘Er, no. God, no. I’m not without mistakes myself.’

  I swallow. Not a road I want to set off down with him. An awkward silence.

  ‘“Dave” was Robin though, right?’ Lucas says.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Please don’t tell me any of that wasn’t true because given how much I enjoyed it, it’d be like hearing Father Christmas isn’t real all over again.’

  I laugh loudly. ‘Swear down, every word.’

  Lucas looks at me and I see he was trying to cheer me up, and it worked, and I am so grateful that he even tried.

  The morning after Share Your Shame, I think, it’s time for me to stop agreeing Robin McNee is a problem, and do something about it.

  Here’s the thing, I decide, having slept on it. Robin isn’t a physical threat, he’s a psychological terrorist. Intimidating him with muscle, despite what Clem said – and how much it appeals on a base level – it doesn’t make sense to me. To catch a thief and all that.

  So what is his vulnerability? On panels, he’s very much the away-with-the-fairies surrealist amid the bloke-ish badinage. I’m not surprised he’s the one that Kitty considers the star turn. He’s clearly used to this boyish manner meaning he can easily consort with women ten or fifteen years younger than him too, me being a case in point. A whiff of ‘grotty, manipulative old letch’ following him around would do him no good.

  I have an idea.

  Robin was disorganised enough to use my phone from time to time when his was out of juice. I wouldn’t have suspected him playing around with other women because his phone was habitually unlocked, or notifications appearing with full text of the message on screen: where technology was concerned, he was an open book. I know now of course it didn’t mean he had nothing to hide, he just didn’t give much of a shit.

  He called Al his agent enough times from my mobile that I was fed up of getting mis-sent messages from a string of unknown numbers, and so Al is there in my phone book.

  I might’ve felt guilty at dragging Al into this, but for the fact he turned up at my workplace and turned amateur documentary maker.

  I’m not stupid though. If I’ve stored Al’s number, he might’ve stored mine. And if CLIENT’S EX WHO YOU MIGHT’VE INFURIATED WHEN DRUNK flashes on his phone, I can very easily see him drop-calling me.

  I sit on my laptop, doing my due diligence – Al is on Twitter, and active on Twitter at that, which is useful. I fire off a direct message.

  Hi Al – this is Georgina, Robin McNee’s girlfriend

  Ugh, it says something I find those words hard to type. I’ve restored myself to full privileges as I’m sure Al will simply assume we’ve made up in the meanwhile, and ‘ex’ would signal I might be hostile.

  Sorry to bother I’m just a tiny bit concerned about him ATM and wonder if I could run some things past you? Between us? Gx

  The main part of getting one over on someone, I have learned down the years, is not rat-like cunning, but the benefit of surprise. Ask any cold call scammer. If Al sat and thought about this, he might shout Robin first and check what was what. More likely, he will simply want to know what’s up. Hence this is a carefully gauged approach, me being both non-confrontational and intriguing, which will see Al unthinkingly take the bait. All I need is for him to answer his phone.

  It works.

  Hi Georgina! Of course. Chat now?

  Yes! Thanks. I’ve got your number, I’ll give you a bell in ten minutes x

  NP x

  I call. He picks up. I’ll never know if he’d have picked up without the preamble, but I feel vindicated in my manoeuvrings all the same.

  ‘Hi Al, so. You saw what Robin did in the pub the other day? Getting on the chair?’

  ‘Oh … yes …? Hah. I was quite tanked that night, I forget how strong that craft beer is!’

  ‘Right. I’ve split up with Robin as I found him having sex with Lou, as you know. When you came to where I work, I thought it was a coincidence. I’ve since found out he’s talked to my parents behind my back, told them a pack of lies and extracted that information. Then used it, as you saw.’

  ‘OK …’ Al says, guardedly, realising he’s been tricked. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Sure, I’m not suggesting you did.
Then yesterday, he did the same thing again. Got into where I worked, made a speech about me to a busy room.’

  ‘Eeesh.’

  ‘The thing is, Al, I have a problem and I want your advice. Since we finished, Robin’s come to my house at night, thrown stones at the window and scared my housemate. He’s turned up at my workplace and caused a scene, twice. After which, I only kept my job by the skin of my teeth …’ – might as well make this a three-egg cake – ‘I made it abundantly clear, when I caught Robin red-handed, having sex with another woman, that we were over. He hasn’t been given the slightest signal that there’s any hope I’ll take him back and I don’t answer his messages. This is a one-sided game. This is what we call harassment.’

  I draw breath into silence, hoping Al’s still on the line.

  ‘It’s starting to worry me, to be honest. If he doesn’t back off soon, I’m going to have to explore my options.’

  ‘I hear you, but what do you want me to do? I’m his agent, not his minder. I’m 200 miles away again.’

  ‘Sure. But you’ve been there merrily filming Robin, cheering him on. I thought we could put our heads together.’

  ‘I didn’t know this background – yes, sorry, leave it there, Charlie – or I wouldn’t have. The clip got deleted.’

  He’s speaking from his office and going to pull a Sorry Must Dash any second, I have to make my point quickly.

  ‘Yes. But here’s my problem, Al, your client is hounding me and if I can’t find anyone to call him off, informally, then I’m going to have to go to the police and get a restraining order. How’s that’s going to look, if the local paper turn up at the magistrates court?’

  I have absolutely no idea how restraining orders, magistrates, or local press coverage on such matters work, but then Al didn’t know how filming on private property worked, either. Just sound certain.

  ‘Wow! I had no idea things were bad enough to go the police! Don’t you think that’s a sledgehammer with a nut?’

  He’s finally snapped to attention, sensed danger. I have him.

  ‘“Nut” being the operative word here, Al. You tell me what I should do. I don’t want to. But when “please leave me and mine alone” hasn’t worked, many times over, what else do I do?’

  ‘Oh, this is … let me shut the door …’ I hear shuffling and slamming noises. ‘Look, this is getting out of hand. I’ll speak to Robin and make it clear you’re upset and he needs to calm down. I’m speaking in strictest, strictest confidence here you understand, but have you ever thought Robin might be a little … bipolar?’

  ‘Er … no …?’

  ‘His mood swings are all over the shop. He goes from periods of sitting indoors getting fried to being incredibly hyperactive. It could be flights of the artist’s fancy but I do wonder if there’s something diagnosable there. I don’t know if the whole overdoing it, love bombing you, comes from that.’

  ‘Ah. I don’t know either.’

  I consider: I could take the high road or the low road here. But I want a fast, no fuss result. Low road it is.

  ‘Would he plead mental instability in court?’ I say, sweetly.

  ‘I’ll speak to him,’ Al says, swiftly. ‘He won’t turn up at your pub again.’

  ‘Thank you very much, I appreciate your help.’

  Hah. Your move, Robin McNee. Well, don’t make one please, but in rhetorical terms. Your move.

  Al clearly was spooked, as fifteen minutes later I get a text from Robin.

  Hi! OK you win. Message received. Can I speak to you about something else? Important. No requests for drinks, promise. About work. Rx

  Nope, not biting.

  35

  ‘You absolutely said no way to getting back with Robin McNee then?’ Kitty says, sucking on a thin straw in a bottle of Diet Coke.

  ‘Hell to the yeah,’ I say, while I wipe out a drawer underneath the bar, with a vigorous scouring motion. I haven’t heard from him since yesterday’s message so I’m feeling quite satisfied that my scheming has worked. Also, I don’t know if Lucas is round the corner but I can guess which way this line of questioning from Kitty will go, and am planning on answering as if he can hear, for safety. It’s coming up to 9 p.m. and the bar is quiet for once.

  ‘Yer not seeing anyone then?’ she says.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Don’t you want to meet someone? Get married, have kids and that?’

  ‘Those are three different questions,’ I smile up at her. ‘I’d like to meet someone but I’m not in any rush. I don’t know if I want the other two until I’m with someone.’

  ‘You should get on Tinder.’

  I straighten up, rinse the cloth, wring it out, check the time. A slow shift and not much of it left.

  ‘I’m more looking for love than bunk-ups, to be honest. Proper romance. I’m re-reading Wuthering Heights at the moment. It has the best line: “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”’

  Kitty looks dumbstruck and I briefly flatter myself I might get the queen of social media into classic literature.

  ‘Whatever ARSEHOLES are made of they have the same arsehole??!’ she shrieks, and Lucas sticks his head round the corner and says: ‘Shhhh!’

  ‘Our souls! Souls!’ I say, shaking with laughter.

  A woman with a severe ponytail approaches the bar and something in the set of her face, and the speed of her movement, strikes me as off, somehow.

  ‘Yes?’ I say, composing myself, which isn’t the usual greeting, but somehow I know something’s up.

  ‘Are you Georgina?’ she says.

  ‘Yeee-es?’

  ‘This is from Bob.’

  I open my mouth to say I don’t know a Bob when she raises a Tupperware container she’s been holding with one hand, behind her back, and throws the contents directly into my face. It’s cold and acrid and stings my eyes, making me cry out, temporarily blinding me.

  I hear voices shouting, men and women, and feel myself bundled along the bar and into the kitchen.

  There’s the sound of the door slamming shut behind me and I hear Lucas’s voice say: ‘This is going to be cold,’ before my face is pushed under a tap and water flows over my face. It goes up my nose and I start squeaking in shock and struggling, as if I’m being waterboarded.

  ‘Georgina, you have to do this, stop pushing!’

  I go limp, trying to catch a breath through the running water and hear Lucas saying fuck fuck fuck rapidly and I wonder why he sounds so scared and why I am being held down in a sink instead of towelled off, and why I can feel him pulling at my clothes, sleeves being yanked over my hands, then I’m pulled upright and my t-shirt goes all the way over my head.

  Before I can blink the water away or catch my breath, my head goes back under the tap. This time I can feel it flowing over my neck and spattering my chest, the shiver of bare flesh in direct contact with the air. What on earth, why make me even wetter? It runs down me in rivers and into the top of my jeans and I scream: ‘Stop, it’s cold!’ like a child.

  I’m jerked out of the sink and upright again like a rag doll and I feel warm hands on either side of my head and Lucas’s voice saying: ‘Can you open your eyes?’

  I tentatively unstick the lids. The kitchen comes blurrily into view, through a lot of H2O, tinted grey by displaced mascara. I blink. Water trickles warmly out of my nose.

  ‘Blurgh, what happened?’

  ‘Can you …’ Lucas trails off. ‘Can you see me?’

  I focus on him and say: ‘Yeah, course?’

  He pushes gently at my temples, face an inch from mine, as he moves my head left and then right. He holds me at a slight distance, looking down, running the fingertips of one hand along my collarbone, watching me to see my reaction. I gulp and mentally save the sensation to remember later, and look down too.

  Like an anxiety dream made real, I’m only wearing my bra on my upper half. The Fair Isle cardigan I was wearing is lying discarded nearby on the kitchen tiles with my t-shirt
dropped soppily on top. Thank God this bra is an opaque black balcony, if there were actual nipples in the room I’d have to kill myself. I didn’t dress this morning expecting Lucas McCarthy and I to be jointly inspecting my cleavage today.

  ‘Er. Why am I not wearing my top?’ I say. Thinking: this is an enterprising move, Lucas. I got something thrown in my face, didn’t I?

  ‘Are you alright? You feel alright?’

  I blink more water out of my eyes and smile and say: ‘Yeah? Apart from being half naked and very damp and completely freaked out.’

  I sniff and cough and wonder whether to cross my arms and decide styling it out and not acting embarrassed is better, while discreetly holding my stomach in. I pick up my wet t-shirt from the floor and hold it against myself.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Lucas stands back and slumps against the microwave. ‘God, that was … Let me get my breathing back.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I say.

  ‘I thought it was acid!’

  ‘Oh!’ I exhale and Lucas’s eyes widen.

  ‘You mean you didn’t think that?!’

  ‘No. Does that make me stupid?’

  Suddenly everything in Lucas’s response makes sense and I feel a heady combination of immense naiveté and wild relief that it didn’t occur to me.

  ‘It’s a blessing, I guess. Lucky you. I’ve just had forty or so seconds of my life I never care to relive.’

  ‘Classic man! I’m the drowned rat here, in my bra.’

  ‘Hah! Oh God, sorry. I thought your skin possibly peeling away with a corrosive fluid was more important than modesty.’

  Lucas reflexively glances down at my chest, and away again swiftly, and I cross my arms and then both of us want the ground to swallow us.

  ‘Oh I’m so relieved, Georgina, I can’t tell you. I thought we were straight to A&E …’

  ‘You were quick with the water. Impressive.’