Don’t You Forget About Me(32)

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.

‘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.