Page 48 of Don't You Forget About Me

‘The Waiter Rule,’ Rav says. ‘That’s sound. I could’ve saved time using that test.’

‘Had you not heard of it?’ Three shaking heads.

‘It’s one of the great fundamental underpinning truths of life. It’s like never dating anyone who’s mean with money and dodges the tip or pulls the “oh no I’ve forgotten my wallet!” move. It’s scientifically impossible for them to be a good person. You know all you need to know.’

‘They could have forgotten their wallet?’ says Jo, who is fair of mind and kind of heart. ‘It happens sometimes.’

‘They could. And if you’d forgotten your wallet, you’d make sure you paid the person back once you’d found it again, wouldn’t you?’ I say.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Wallet forgetters, funnily enough, never, ever, do this.’

It occurs to me that despite the initial cringe of: ‘But I’ve led too boring a life,’ I reallymighthave something here for the Share Your Shame writing competition.

‘It’s interesting when I’m counselling someone who’s a terrible person,’ Rav says. ‘Or behaves terribly, I should say. Their rationale, when they acknowledge they’re terrible, is generally that other people shouldn’t let them get away with it. Almost like a child, you know, and other people, morally, are the responsible adults. “If they will leave the cookie jar with the lid off, and they know I’m a cookie liker, what’s going to happen? Of course I ate the cookies.” Very little ability to take responsibility.’

‘What if you eat the cookie, and do take responsibility for it?’ I say, tentatively. ‘Are you a terrible person then?’

‘Noooo …’ Rav says. ‘Though I suppose it depends on the size and nature of the cookie. And whether your cookie eating is habitual. And of course, who you want to absolve you for it.’

‘I’m lost,’ Clem says and I say,Tell me about it.

An hour later, the warming combination of curry-house-induced coma and foamy lager in my veins, gives me the confidence to take a risk when telling them about my new job at The Wicker.

‘Hey, Jo. Kind of weird. One of the brothers who own it was someone we went to school with. Lucas McCarthy?’

Even saying the forbidden words gives me a shiver of transgression, makes me feel the very inflections I’ve used has given it away. It’s as if those two words weigh more in the mouth.

Jo screws her face up.

‘Lucas McCarthy?’

‘Yeah, you know.’ I break eye contact to dab at an imaginary spot of jalfrezi sauce in my lap with my napkin. ‘In our English A-level classes?’

‘Lucas, McCarthy …’ Jo repeats. ‘It’s not ringing any bells.’

‘Dark hair. Irish. I had to sit with him once. Mrs Pemberton made us swap places for aWuthering Heightsproject and I was landed with him.’ I’ve pushed every gambling chip I’m prepared to bet into the centre of the table now. Jo’s on her own if these clues aren’t enough.

‘Oh I remember that!’ Jo cries. ‘I had to have that spoddy Sean sitting next to me.’

‘Yeah.’ I wait, hopefully.

Jo shakes her head. ‘Don’t remember a Lucas though. Did he remember you?’

I’m pleased to have an intro now. I don’t want to stop talking about him.Lord help me, I’m back on my bullshit.‘It’s a strange one, actually.’

I explain the ups and downs of Lucas not recognising me from school at the wake, then not recognising me from the wake when I was at the pub.

‘… I’ve donetwointroductions now, when I could remember him from back in the day, all along. I must be exceptionally forgettable.’

I gabble and come to a sudden full stop, sure I’ve given myself away with the girlish tremble to my voice and heat in my face.

‘You’re not forgettable, you’re like a darling cherub,’ Jo says, stoutly and affectionately, and with that anachronistic turn of phrase she has. Jo’s going to make someone the loveliest mother ever one day, but for now she can be my best friend.

Rav says, draining the last of his second lager: ‘That can’t be right, can it?’

My head snaps up. ‘How do you mean?’

---