Don’t You Forget About Me(8)

‘You’re saying he did cook me another meal?’

Ah.

‘No he didn’t but he told me he wouldn’t so I …’

‘Lied?’

‘To keep my job! He told me to lie!’

‘And how’s that working out for you?’

I open and close my mouth and dumbly repeat: ‘He was the one lying.’

‘Anyway. I’ve decided not to write it up, so as not to embarrass you.’

My jaw drops.

‘That’s what he wanted! That’s why he sacked me! So you’d feel bad about saying how shit the food is!’

I’ve become shrill and everyone’s looking round now.

‘Write it up! Tell everyone what it’s like, say I was sacked, I don’t care!’

‘That’s not a very collegiate attitude, is it?’

‘Or …’ I say, I feel the room hold its breath, ‘I’ll write it up for you. I could write you a great piece about this place. No conflict of interest anymore.’

Mr Keith clears his throat.

‘Well. Employee of the Month.’

I’m about to mention the time the kitchen’s tub of Stork margarine had what looked like rodent footprints in it, and Tony used an ice cream scoop to take off the top layer and carried on using it. Or, I could get my phone out and show Mr Keith the text I just received. Yes, that’d do it.

Callum is looking over with an aghast expression. When his line of sight moves to the kitchen door I know what’s coming.

Tony swaggers out holding another plate of pasta, affecting a casual air of bonhomie. When he spots me, his eyes are pinwheels.

‘Can’t stay away when you’re not being paid? Go on, Georgina, on your way. This customer doesn’t want more hassle from you.’

Tony sets the plate down. It actually looks half decent – he might’ve Googled ‘carbonara’ and cracked an egg.

‘I’m not hassling him, he spoke to me. I came back for my coat.’

Any noises of scraping cutlery in the dining room are yet to resume, so it’s us and volare, woooooaaah oh.

At that moment, my eyes settle on someone beyond Mr Keith. A little girl with pageboy hair and a disproportionately large forehead, wearing a large paper crown with BIRTHDAY on it, tomato sauce splattered across her cheeks. She’s paused in the middle of eating penne marinara and along with her awestruck family, is listening to every single word in this unseemly stand-off. We’re ruining a kid’s fifth birthday. Given everyone’s poised to see what I’ll do next, I’m ruining it.

Some of my few good childhood memories are of the excitement of being taken out for dinner, eating chicken nuggets in baskets and hustling for a second Coca Cola.

‘Forget it. I only wanted my coat. I’m done,’ I say.

‘Don’t let the door hit you etc. etc.,’ Tony mutters. Then louder, to Mr Keith: ‘I hope her drama doesn’t keep you from enjoying your meal.’

‘I hope your meal doesn’t keep you from enjoying your meal,’ I say, and Mr Keith shakes his head in dismay.

I turn and walk out, conscious of the many pairs of eyes on me. I keep my focus at the level of the SPECIALS chalkboard, acknowledging no one. I never thought this job would go especially well, I didn’t think it would end with a dignity ransacking. The door falls shut behind me and I exhale.

I stride and stride some more and I’m still too het up to fumble for my fags. I don’t want this to turn into a panic attack. I remember what the counsellor said about concentrating on my breathing when I felt anxiety rising like a sea level inside me.

My phone pings.

Keep our date a secret yeah, Tony will go well ape if he finds out and sack me too lol

Tony’s already ‘well ape,’ it seems: another ping.

DICK MOVE, princess. No job for you here now and anywhere else either once I put the word round. BLACK LISTED enjoy your next job on the pole

I stab out a reply:

LOL. Tony, your surname isn’t Soprano. You might know more about Italian food if it was

I’m not really that flippant about his threat. Sheffield’s mid-priced bistros are quite a small world and I can’t pay next month’s rent now. I’m not used to making enemies, I’m usually a champion smoother-over. Appeasement is my middle name.

Although maybe I’m kidding myself: a third text arrives from my sister, Esther, who I’ve never really succeeded in smoothing over:

Are you bringing Robin on Sunday? Sending Mark to Sainsbury’s in morning so would be good to get numbers, swift response appreciated. Rib of beef. Let me know if any allergies to Yorkshire pudding or whatever too.

That’s how Esther always communicates with me on text, like I am a lazy temp at her accountancy firm. Although the near-sarcastic last line is a particular tilt at Robin.

No he’s out of town! Thanks though x

I’m also a world-class white liar. Robin and my relatives are a bad combination. I tried two family events with my boyfriend and decided to rest the integration project indefinitely.

I turn the corner and psychologically, being out of sight of That’s Amore! helps slightly. This is fine, this is nothing. It’ll be a tapas bar in two years’ time, the sort where they microwave gambas pil pil so the frozen prawns are the same texture as contraceptive sponges.