Don’t You Forget About Me(30)


When I asked precisely which invertebrates were involved in my wife’s repulsive fritto misto starter I got the answer ‘just the chef, Tony’ which I think we can all agree is highly worrying. My minestrone was obviously from a tin and served with ‘the house style of garlic bread.’ The house really should try a different style, an edible one.

We moved on to a seafood risotto, which had crabsticks in it. When I queried the authenticity of crab sticks I was told by the young gentleman serving that ‘Everyone Italian eats crab sticks’ and when I asked: ‘Where have you seen Italians eating them?’ my waiter said, ‘Walkley.’

By the time we were offered dessert I’d quite frankly had a gutful of their ridiculous carry on but my wife’s heart was set on tiramisu and I didn’t get to my thirtieth anniversary without appreciating the maxim ‘happy wife, happy life’.

Well. If I had to use one word to describe the concoction that greeted her, that word would be ‘monstrosity’. A soggy heap of sponge fingers doused in off brand Captain Morgan and tinned custard, covered in a thick layer of – wait for it – instant coffee granules. INSTANT COFFEE GRANULES. I ask you. My eighty-three-year-old mother-in-law, in her twilight confusion, has served us fizzy prawns and bless her soul I honestly think I’d rather try my luck with her cooking than ever return to this abominable dive.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Hi,

Just wondered if you’d noticed this place has an 88% ‘Terrible’ rating on TripAdvisor? Is it the worst restaurant in the city?

Someone should write it up! I don’t know if your critic has been.

Best,

Another Unsatisfied Customer





13


I remember once asking: ‘Am I in a very very slow motion tailspin?’ to Esther, after my quitting the Kilner jar hipster hellmouth, and her saying: You’re more like a Roomba, Gog – bumping into walls, pinging back and carrying on.

I think she and Mum ceased trying to understand me when I announced that university wasn’t for me, and in my vehemence, made it clear this was not for discussion. They suspected Dad’s death had caused a confidence prolapse, of course, but I built a wall around that conversation and put armed guards on the perimeter.

We went out for a French meal for my thirtieth birthday and the air of concern and disappointment over the rillettes and boeuf bourguignon was tangible. My rootless, directionless twenties were up, and none of us could pretend this wasn’t me any more.

I’m not the greatest at facing things. I’m certainly not the kind of constructive-minded, pragmatic person to think: Oh I’m psychically disintegrating like wet bog roll draped round a tree for a student prank, I should see a counsellor. Let’s investigate what the accredited options are within a two-mile radius and book an appointment. And then turn up for it.

That’s not how I ended up in Fay’s office.

Eight years after what a consultant called my dad’s ‘sudden and terminal cardiac event causing severe neurological insult’ (‘His heart went bang and so his brain cut out?’ ‘Yes, pretty much’), I was telling my then-new friend Rav about him.

The night we met, Rav wore a slim-fit, acid green shirt that looked wonderful against dark espresso brown skin, and had a slender face and beady eyes like a watchful bird. I found Clem’s all-back-to-mine soirees a bit too full of poseurs at the time, but I knew fairly quickly that Rav – they met when he was another dandy-ish customer at Clem’s boutique – was a keeper. He’s flip and humorous and light and then he’ll slide in some articulate, devastating insight that you find yourself turning over when you’re lying in bed trying to sleep at night.

At the time, I was working at a nightclub called Rogues where I got pawed at by drunks and I had painkiller injections in my feet so I could stand for hours in four-inch heels. That might be my worst job to date, and it’s up against stiff competition.

Without intending to, I mentioned in passing how I still dream about my dad every night. (Georgina Horspool in full party mode.)

‘Every night?’ Rav said, hunched forward on the saffron-velvet sofa at Clem’s, effortfully making himself heard over Goldfrapp. ‘Every one?’

I belatedly remembered I was talking to a professional shrink.

‘Well, a lot,’ I said. ‘I don’t keep a notepad by the bed and keep a tally. Dad, dad, dad. Naked, late for a bus, my teeth rotted away. Caught stealing a leg of lamb from Morrisons. While naked. Dad again.’

‘You could benefit from counselling. However, if I hear “naked with my dad” next you move into a much more expensive client category, be warned.’

I laughed. Rav always takes risks like this yet they’re finely calculated. I love this about him. You’d think with his expertise he’d be super-cautious and worthy but it’s the opposite. He goes there. But he packs the right shoes.

I explained the contradiction that although Dad was always in my thoughts (another posthumous platitude that had come to life for me, if that’s not the wrong term), I couldn’t bring myself to visit the grave.

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.

Mhairi McFarlane's Books