Don’t You Forget About Me(11)

‘They were “kimchi loaded cheesy tater tots” and not really, the manager kept groping my arse so I had to leave.’

‘Well … spend a tenner on the wine and I’ll refund you when you get back.’ I make noises of objection, ‘George, Mark is a member of the Wine Society, he’s not going to drink something from Spar.’

Offstage, my brother-in-law Mark makes tutting noises and then something that sounded like a question.

‘Mark wants to talk to you,’ Esther says.

There’s a rustling as she hands the phone over to Mark.

‘Hi, George,’ Mark says. ‘Sorry to hear about the Italian. This might be a bit soon but striking while the iron is hot and all that, I know a landlord who needs someone to work an event tomorrow night, a pub in town? Under new management. Only one night but it’s cash in hand and a decent amount, if I remember right. Shall I give him your details?’

‘Definitely, thanks,’ I say. Good old Mark.

‘Great, I’m sure he’ll be in touch soon. Best of luck and all that.’

More rustling while Esther wrestles the phone back.

‘Thanks, darling. Can you go check on the dinner please?’ A pause, while Mark is dismissed. ‘Mark’s involved himself by recommending you for that job, the man’s a client.’

Here we go.

‘And?’

‘And please, don’t fuck it up.’

‘Thanks!’ I say, stung. ‘What with me being a known fucker upper.’

‘You know what I mean. Please don’t come back with one of your amusing stories where everything is a huge mess but it isn’t your fault. No incidents. I don’t want there to be incidents and excuses.’

‘Jesus Christ, thank you!’

That’s what Esther really thinks – this is what they all think. Oh how, er, ‘unlucky’. Trouble seems to follow her around doesn’t it? How many times is that now? Mmmm. It enrages me and at the same time worries me. I fear they’re right. Whenever anyone criticises me, I always worry they’re right. I overcompensate with extra outrage.

‘You know what I mean,’ Esther says.

‘In that you mean I’m an incompetent liar? Noted.’

‘Oh, don’t be a diva, Gog. All I’m asking is that you’re considerate towards Mark being connected to this.’

The Gog is definitely manipulative. Makes me and my objections to this characterisation sound small and silly.

‘Got it,’ I say tightly. ‘Thanks, Esther. Oh, my bus is here.’

I hang up before she can reply.

I stub out the tail end of my fag. What to do? I know hanging around at night time on my own is a bad idea. I square my shoulders: he’s had time to settle himself now, if he says, ‘why not warn me?’ I called, right? Not my fault.

I rifle in my handbag and find the key. It didn’t come threaded with ribbon, in a box – it has a West Ham fob as it used to be his brother Felix’s. He crashed with Robin when he was benched with an injury from the Cirque Du Soleil. (Seriously. I wonder if the McNee parents thought they were raising lawyers and doctors.)

Robin handed it over after a row where I’d rung the doorbell endlessly after work, and the Rolling Stones was on too loud for him to hear. He eventually answered to find not only a pissed off, knackered girlfriend but also a very angry, severely jet-lagged next-door neighbour wearing an eye mask round his neck who had heard my endless attempts to raise him. (‘Did he not know you were coming round?’ I was embarrassed to admit – especially to someone who’d been awake for thirty-two hours – that he did know.)

‘Sorry you couldn’t get no satisfaction, you can’t always get what you want. Did you want to paint my red door black?’ Robin said when he finally appeared, not reading the room.

‘Pure twat,’ said the neighbour.

When Robin gave the key to me I asked, what occasions is it for? Robin said: ‘Any time you want to open the door. That’s how they work, isn’t it?’

So, he said it.





5


After knocking with no answer, I turn the key with a snap, the door opens and the vista of the glamorous bachelor pad is in front of me, music set to deafening as it always is. (Robin was playing it earlier in the week. ‘The new St Vincent, it’s good. Also not that it should matter but she’s got a bum like two Crème Eggs in a satin glove.’)

Robin is nowhere immediately in sight. I call: ‘Robin? Robin …’

Nothing. The stereo drowned me out, I think. He’ll be unpacking the Birds Eye waffles and Rustler burgers in the kitchen, no doubt.

Further into the room and still no sight of Robin, though the blue bag is abandoned on the sofa, its contents spilling on to the cushions, multiple tubs of Ben & Jerry’s Vermonster. They’re going to melt over the leather. I twitch to put them in the freezer but it seems officious before ‘hello’.

I peer round into the kitchen, not there.

I lean back and crane my neck to look up, towards the bed on the platform above. I’m about to call ‘Robin’ again and then I hear weird strangled sounds, distinct from the official soundtrack.

Ugggggh fuuuu

Nuf-nuf-nuf mmmpppppf

Don’t … don’t … oh my God, yes