Don’t You Forget About Me(35)

I couldn’t be more pleased at the unscheduled canine intrusion. I am a friend to any animal at the best of times, and this isn’t the best of times.

The dog slaps its paw into my lap, and I lift and shake it.

‘Hello! Very nice to meet you! Who are you?’

It has such a friendly face it honestly looks like it’s grinning at me, and I laugh.

Lucas reappears, with the swish and clink of ice in a metal bucket as he sets it on the bar.

‘Should’ve said there’s a dog. This is Keith. No allergies or anything?’

‘Hello, Keith!’ I cry. ‘Aren’t you lovely? Is he yours?’

‘Yep.’

Petting Keith is a very welcome displacement activity.

‘Keith,’ I say, as Lucas puts my Coke in front of me. ‘Unusual name for a dog. Funny coincidence, the incognito restaurant critic for The Star books tables as Mr Keith.’

I was going to carry on and explain it’s a coincidence because I’d recently met him in my last place of work, but it’s such a stupid conversational gambit, I pause, midway.

Lucas looks at me as if I might be simple and says: ‘Not that funny a coincidence, unless you’re implying anything? I’m fairly certain this Keith isn’t a secret restaurant critic.’

‘Hahah, no, I just meant …’

I trail off, as I didn’t mean anything.

‘Keith’s reviews would give top marks for baked bean juice on a J-cloth. He’s an eager diner but not too discerning.’

I give a strained laugh, unsure if I’m partly the butt of the joke.

These are as many words in a row as I’ve heard Lucas speak so far. He sounds more posh-Irish than Devlin, his accent less broad. The thuddingly obvious thought lands – he’s a total stranger. Just because you kissed someone twelve years ago, that doesn’t mean you know them now. He was a stranger back then, come to think of it.

Lucas leans down and rubs the dog’s head. I’m grateful for the loss of eye contact and sip my drink. Lucas isn’t going to join me, it seems, still standing.

‘Did Dev ask you to come in for any reason in particular?’

Argh. Unbottomed, I sodding knew it.

‘He’s offered me a job?’

‘Oh. Right.’

‘I worked the wake, last week. We met?’

‘Oh, God, sorry, did we? Very busy evening.’

Great. Having to introduce myself to Lucas for the second time. Well, third, overall.

‘I’m Georgina,’ I say, pointing back to pink fluff, chafing at the weirdness of him not knowing this. Or claiming not to.

‘Luke. Or Lucas. Whichever you prefer.’

‘So it’s Luc, spelled L-U-C. Like, er, Jean Luc Godard.’

Oh, shut up, Georgina …

‘… I’m not French.’

The front door swings open and Devlin appears, dragging and half-rolling a barrel inside. I could swear both Lucas and I heave near-audible sighs of relief.

‘You’re here! You two getting to know each other?’ Devlin says.

‘We’ve established I’m not a film director and my dog is not a restaurant critic,’ Lucas says, mild, but bone dry.

‘We’re ready to open now, got the tills working. Still a fan of the place?’ Devlin says, throwing his arms wide, and causing the barrel to wobble, and he quickly rights it.

‘I think, in all sincerity, it’s bloody incredible,’ I say. ‘I remember what it was like before and you’ve worked wonders.’

‘See, Luke!’

Devlin pulls a Bruce Forsyth-style triumphal pose, fist to forehead.

‘Do you not like it?’ I say to Lucas.

‘I like it, I think he overspent,’ Lucas says, with his less excitable demeanour.

‘Pffft.’ Devlin pulls up a chair and says, ‘I’ll take you through things in a sec, Georgina. It’ll be you, me, Luke for the time being. I might have to set more on when the function room gets going.’

‘Is there one?’

‘Yeah, nice size, actually.’ Devlin whisks a piece of paper from the bar and puts it under my nose. ‘Trying to make its events quite varied, you know. Emphasise The Wicker isn’t your spit and sawdust place anymore. Kicking off with this, look … Local paper called, looking for a place to host it for free.’

I read:

SHARE YOUR SHAME

Writing Competition / Open Mike Night Are you a writer who could use a platform?

Read out a short piece on a weekly topic, loosely

based around the theme of shame, embarrassment

and general cringe. A burden shared is a burden

halved, they say. Judges will choose the best of three

events and winner gets a column in The Star.

First theme announced next Friday!

First show the Saturday after Halloween!

‘Open mike,’ Lucas shudders. ‘It’ll be slam poetry and men in black polo necks doing experimental comedy with no jokes. Mental New Agers asking you to try to touch your third eye.’

He’s feistier than I remember.

‘No one’s expecting you to get involved. Do you know any writers?’ Devlin says to me. ‘Are you a writer?’

This is a kind thing to say to a woman in garish faux fur who’s paid to pull pints of Stella, and I want to honour that.