Page 38 of Don't You Forget About Me

His put-downs about the dourness of ex-pat Uncle Pete – ‘He’s as welcome as finding cat shit in your house, when you don’t own a cat’ – always made me shake with laughter. Then as soon as the thought occurred, it was followed by the realisation that I’d never hear his voice or his opinion on anything ever again. Make believe was all I had left forever. Pastiche, weak riffs based on nostalgia, a pale imitation. I was so bereft, it nearly made my knees buckle.

I said to Clem, two years after he was gone, it didn’t feel real. I was constantly waiting for it to fully dawn on me, for the other shoe to drop. She lost her dad when she was fourteen. We’d met in a McDonalds at 1 a.m. when she was being hassled by a dubious man and Jo and I had intervened and invited her back in our taxi. We ended up eating quarter pounders at mine and having more drink we definitely didn’t need.

Clem said: ‘I don’t know what to tell you, George. It never feels real or finally sinks in. That moment never arrives. The world continues, but with a bit always missing. And meanwhile you’re getting on with it, until it’s found.’

This makes sense. Everything feels temporary now. Because it always was, I just didn’t know it.

I clear my throat, glance around: ‘Hi, Dad.’

‘That’s us up to date then,’ I mutter, feeling foolish, despite my evident solitude in the flat landscape, headstones like rows of dominoes into the horizon. I look up, as if a drone might be hovering nearby, picking up any of my banalities.

I mentioned, in low tone, meeting Lucas, how he was someone back in the day I’d hoped to introduce to him. And the departure of Robin. I try to picture whether Robin would’ve been received any better by Dad than he was by Esther and Mum. My gut says: Dad would’ve tried harder, seeing what I was aiming for, but come to the conclusion that I’d missed.

My fingers have gone numb, still holding the crush of cellophane from the now-unwrapped flowers, and I shove them alternately in my pockets. Make Believe Dad:Why are you in that thing the colour of dentist’s mouthwash? It looks like you murdered a Muppet.

‘See you when you don’t turn sixty-five, I guess. I’ve discussed it with Esther and we’re going to bring Milo to that one. So no blue language or downing Rusty Nails.’ His Christmas tipple. Another sharp blade in the stomach. I lurch forward to prop the flowers against his stone, wave with one hand and give a weak smile.

Mum won’t visit the grave. Esther and I have our theories about her reluctance.

I’m stumping towards the exit when, unbidden, a thought rears up and confronts me.

It’s like Oscar the Grouch hidden in the garbage can, flopping two tufted green paws over the edge and shooting up, beetling browed and googly eyed:It’s been a week, you can stop waiting for Devlin to ring you now. You IDIOT.

I pause, stare across the field of gravestones as if they literally contain this unwelcome truth in their earthy depths, then slam onwards.

Rejection on this occasion was always going to cause existential feelings. Yet something makes me sad, aside from the fact that Lucas McCarthy didn’t remember me and/or intervened to block my path, and suggested I was best fitted to serve sticky ribs and wings while wearing a vest and orange shorts.

When I examine my disappointment, I discover it’s that I really, genuinely liked Devlin, and hopefully vice versa. It’s not often that happens these days, I realise. And not calling someone when you’ve told them you will call them is shabby. Let me down, but do it in a way that lets me still like you.

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.’

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