Don’t You Forget About Me(68)

‘Yeah,’ Clem says.

I bury my face in my drink.

‘My view is no, definitely not. How’s that? Too nihilistic?’

‘My kind of boy,’ Clem says, and I widen my eyes at her.

‘And why do you think that?’ Rav says.

‘In my experience, whatever you call “change” is finding more out about someone’s nature. But it was always there.’

My exposed skin prickles.

‘Having a real laugh for your birthday, then?’ Lucas adds, and Rav guffaws.

‘How much is that?’ I say hurriedly to Lucas, pointing at the drinks.

‘I’ll stick it on a tab, make it right tomorrow.’

I have a premonition that this tab won’t materialise, and Lucas is looking after me. ‘Enjoy. Oh, and happy birthday,’ he says to a gratified Rav.

‘Good lord,’ Clem hisses as he retreats, and Jo says: ‘Wow, he is so good looking it’s quite nonsensical.’

‘Telling me. I think my cervix just dilated,’ Clem says, and I hiss: ‘SSHHHHHH SHUT UP OH MY GOD.’

Why didn’t I consider this could happen? They’d not noticed Lucas on the Share Your Shame night, so I’d forgotten, become complacent.

I have to find a way to say: I am not interested in this man and yet he is completely off limits to you forever, no questions allowed.

‘Oh my God, why did you never mention him?’ Clem says, as her eyes track him back round the bar.

‘Actually, I did,’ I say, in a low voice. ‘Guy from school?’

‘Waaaait. He was in our English class?’ Jo says. ‘How do I not remember him?’

‘This is the one who can’t remember you?’ Rav asks.

I nod.

‘He doesn’t strike me as the forgetful type.’

‘Well,’ I draw breath, gird my loins, and say, in a ‘subject closed’ sort of airy tone: ‘What possible reason could he have for pretending to forget me?’

As I know from the discussion in Rajput’s, the view is he could have plenty reason, but I take a leaf from Lucas’s playbook and sound decisively certain.

Incredibly, combined with the free shots that Kitty suddenly materialises with, it works.





27


‘I don’t wish to be melancholy, but at thirty-one, I wonder how many more years I have left until the pursuit becomes undignified,’ Rav shouts in my ear, as we suck on our drinks and survey the dancefloor.

‘Don’t be downhearted. It was always undignified.’

Four has become two: Clem’s being chatted up by a Jarvis Cocker lookalike. Jo’s gone outside to field a lengthy phone call from Phil. We suspect a reunion pends.

‘He’s Bobby to her Whitney,’ Clem had said, ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t get her into smoking crack.’

We’ve briefly talked to a friend of a colleague from Rav’s work called Julia who I can tell likes Rav, but when I mention this he says:

‘Nothing in common.’

‘Nothing in common’ is Rav’s catchphrase dismissal.

‘You know you say you want to meet this super bright woman who can wear a red trilby and wants to do the Inca trail and so on?’

‘Yes?’

‘You are super bright. You look good in a red trilby, and can go to Peru any time you like. Why not accept a woman who isn’t these things, and be these things yourself? Let her bring other things.’

‘Are you saying I should be the woman I want to date in the world?’

‘Exactly this.’

‘Hmm. I mean, I suppose … I see your point.’

Fifteen minutes later, Rav is in a circle of acolytes on the dancefloor, Night Fever-ing away, Julia circling him.

‘Your hair is priddy,’ says a man nearby, in an American accent. ‘Kinda like – prom hair?’

I turn to see a heavy-set, bearded, thirty-ish man in a pink shirt, with a friendly, open face.

‘Ed,’ he says, proffering his hand.

‘Hi, Ed. Georgina.’

Ed has moved from Minnesota to lecture on American literature at the university. We talk animatedly about writing, about Sheffield, I tell him about Share Your Shame, half-shouting behind cupped hand.

For the next twenty minutes, he tells me about Minnesota. Aaaaand for the next twenty minutes after that, too. My part is over.

All of a sudden, in American Ed, I see the ghosts of relationships past. It’s not often, in your life, you step outside a pattern you create, and see the pattern.

It’s not Ed’s fault, but this is how every fling in my twenties began: with some nice enough lad liking me, and me feeling duty bound to reward that. Give him a chance.

I already know how the first date for pizza goes, and the second in a wine bar, and the sex after that. Me astride his sturdy form, like I’m in a canoe, doing fake moans to hurry it along while he mashes my breasts together as if he’s building sandcastles.

Trying desperately to convince myself we complement each other and I’m falling in love and maybe This Is It and you know, as Mum says, if you want kids. By month four, when he’s discussing what package holiday we should book next summer and it sounds as appealing being held on remand in HMP Barlinnie, accepting it’s time to pull the plug before I really hurt him. Realising that you don’t become a writer by dating one. Or a comedian, or anything else for that matter.