Don't You Forget About Me Page 47

‘Georgina, is Georgina here?’ Gareth calls from the stage, sheaf of papers in his hand. My eyes involuntarily move to Mr Keith among the judges. I’m feeling more buoyant about his presence though – surely when news reaches his ears that That’s Amore! was running a petting zoo, he’ll see it my way. (It’d be awful if anyone were to email their news desk.)

I step up to the microphone, noting that having done this before doesn’t make it one bit easier.

‘My Worst Date,’ I clear my throat. ‘Wasn’t a first date. My parents asked to meet my boyfriend of three months. Let’s call him Dave. My mum said she’d throw a “fizz and picky bits evening.” Fizz and picky bits is mumspeak for prosecco and olives, dips and so on, with some breaded things from the oven. Shortly after arriving, my mum offered Dave breadsticks and a pot of hummus. Strike one.’

‘He said: “I’m afraid I’m both a coeliac and a chickpea refusenik, Mrs Horspool.” It would’ve been helpful if he had told me he was coeliac, and it was news to me too, given he’d seen off several Hawaiian deep-pan pizzas in my company. I wasn’t aware Papa John’s catered to gluten intolerants. Later he said, “I’m not a coeliac-coeliac. I just find wheat doesn’t agree with me and people prefer labels don’t they? They’re easier to grasp.” I’d have thought it was easiest to grasp the breadstick.’

Some laughs.

‘I could already sense that he was becoming sillier in the face of stern social pressure, imagining it would jolly things up, when actually it was going to go very badly. Like a pilot recklessly grabbing the controls and pitching into the sea when he should ignore the dinging lights and turbulence, and let the aircraft steady itself at that altitude. Then we had the “and what do you do for a living” chat.

‘Dave was a comedian, sometimes on the television.

‘My stepdad said: “And what might we have seen you on?”

‘“Ketamine?” he quipped. I don’t know if you’re keeping track of the strikes but I count this as strike two.’

I glance up, more laughter. They’re a half cut and eager to be pleased group, but I’m still gratified.

‘“Does it keep the wolf from the door, as it were?” my stepdad said, offering a sour cream Kettle Chip.

‘“More or less,” Dave said. “I have other gigs on the side too. Social media stuff. Twitter.”

‘“That pays?” my stepdad said.

‘Dave said, “It can do. I write tweets for humorous accounts.”

‘My stepdad sniffed. “Other comedians?” he said. “Can’t they write their own?”

‘“No, corporate ones,” Dave said. “The PG Tips monkey, that’s me. Sorry to ruin the illusion.”

‘Dave grinned at their blank faces.

‘“The chimps’ tea party?” my stepdad said.

‘“The knitted one,” Dave said. “With Johnny Vegas. You know: MUNKEH!” He bellowed this, spraying shards of soggy crisp.

‘“Have I got this right,” my stepdad said, reaching sixty-seven-year-old system overload. “People log on to their computers online, to read the remarks of a stuffed toy, which is in fact, you pretending to be a stuffed toy?”

‘“In one,” said Dave.

‘“Good grief,” said my stepdad. “I’m probably not the right customer for that sort of polytechnic talk.”

‘Dave was drinking wine, at a clip, and he was on flu meds, which his doctor had warned him not to mix with alcohol. At some point during glass four, he went full-on stoner philosopher.

‘My mum asked if he wanted marriage and kids. (Thanks, Mum.) He said “It’s a case of whether you choose the red pill or the blue pill isn’t it?”

‘“Viagra?!” said my stepdad Geoffrey.’

A laugh, a proper laugh.

‘Dave went on to explain the plot of popular sci-fi action-adventure The Matrix to them, in relation to his hard-left politics. My mum was surprised to discover she was in a simulation created by capitalism, especially as she’d just had the kitchen done.

‘“I like Fulwood!” my mum said.

‘“It’s a constructed reality,” he said. Then burped. “You should read Noam Chomsky’s Manufacturing Consent.”

‘“Got to grow up some time, sonny Jim,” said my stepdad.

‘“Have you?” my boyfriend slurred. “Have you? Numbers, man. Who cares. You’re seventy,” he said to my stepdad, who said, “I’m sixty-seven, thank you very much!” My boyfriend looked at my mum and thankfully decided not to risk it. “She’s thirty …” he pointed at me. “And this house is what? A hundred years old? Right! Numbers. All meaningless.”

‘“Not if you want children, they’re not,” my mum said, and at that point I decided I was trapped in a simulation designed by Satan. She continued, “Georgina’s fertility is going to fall off a cliff at thirty-five, I sent her a clipping from the Telegraph about it only the other day.”

‘“Thanks for that, Mum,” I said. “I don’t really see what Kate Middleton has to do with me, to be honest.”

‘“Ugh, the Royals?!” Dave’s face twisted into a mask of contempt. “In my revolution, Kate Middleton would be in a dungeon.”

‘“With three beautifully dressed children as a comfort to her though,” my mum said to me, as if it was a scold, at which point I collapsed in hysterics at DaveWorld meeting MumWorld and trying in vain to make sense of each other.

‘“In those velvet and bibs! Those posh kids are dressed like ghosts that died in a fire!” Dave bellowed.

‘Ten minutes later, my boyfriend nodded off during my stepdad discussing his allotment, and did a sleep-fart.’

I look up.

‘My boyfriend Dave and I are no longer together.’

I fold my notes and feel it’s gone well. Everyone is clapping and whooping and someone’s even whistling. I’m awash with pleasure and relief.

Until I see that the person whistling is Robin McNee.

33

Before I have time to react, I’m being herded from the stage by an excitable Gareth.

‘I have a treat for you tonight, guys. There’s a special guest here who has asked to be added to our line-up, as a one-off guest appearance. We’re honoured to have him. Put your hands together for Robin McNee!’

Shaking, I trace my way back to my seat and share ‘WTF’ looks with my table mates. How the hell did he get up here without one of the McCarthy brothers spotting him and chucking him straight back out?

Robin is raking his hand through his hair, doing his ‘aw shucks’ sort of moves: little dip of the head, bashful expression. He detaches the microphone from the stand.

‘Good evening, drinkers of The Wicker and fans of sharing shame. And congratulations, ‘Georgina …?’ he feigns uncertainly picking me out, ‘I loved that.’

No really, how the hell has he got in here? I feel rage well up and even as it does, I know I’m being unfair. Barring someone, unless you have a bouncer, isn’t foolproof, and it looks like Robin had help, a man on the inside. What the fuck is he going to do?! After the havoc and misery he wreaked last time, I am vibrating with the potential malignancy.

I catch a movement by the door and, unnoticed by everyone but me, see Lucas, his brow knitted, taking in Robin and scanning for my face. I don’t know how long he’s been there.

When his eyes meet mine, Lucas makes a neck slashing gesture at me and I do a subtle head shaking, ‘leave it,’ two handed, palms down wave. Dragging him off stage now would end up being a scene. A bigger scene than the one Robin has in store? I don’t know.

‘Have you heard the phrase “teachable moment”? It used to be one for education wonks, now it’s something that comes up in Ted Talks, and political long reads,’ Robin says. ‘The idea is that it’s a window of opportunity, an unplanned event or experience which provides the chance for growth. But for the moment to teach you, you have to be open to its lesson. You have to recognise that it is one.’

Robin unscrews the cap on a bottle of water, handed to him by Gareth, who thinks he’s booked Ricky Gervais here. He isn’t using notes.

Why did I talk about Robin, WHY? I’ve left myself so compromised by it. In the middle of a mess, saying it’s not my fault, making excuses. This is me. There’s no longer any denying it. God, the idea that Robin fucking McNee gets to bring me to this point of utterly deflated self-awareness. Just when I thought I might be turning things around.

‘It made me wonder: what have been the teachable moments in my life, which I missed?’ He sets the bottle down. ‘I was dating a girl who came up to me after a show, and told me she liked my work. She was smart, interesting. A cynical under-achiever who has seen my act and is still prepared to sleep with me, just my type. Aaaaand she was way out of my league. I hate that phrase, makes you sound like you believe in eugenics, doesn’t it? Use your own shorthand here for: “People would think I won her in a competition.”’

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