Page 58 of Don't You Forget About Me

‘Liking yourself is a radical act,’ Clem had instructed Jo and myself. ‘Never more so than when you’ve had a crap time from a man.’

So when you get turned down for a second date, when you find out you were one of seven options, when your texts have the Read receipt, when the WhatsApp shows two blue ticks and your Facebook messages say SEEN – Clem says do the opposite of wallowing.

She prescribes: spend an entire day treating yourself as you’d wish to be treated. Take yourself for margaritas, see a film you fancy, have a long walk. Buy something frivolous which brings you joy, order a takeaway. Get sheets with high thread count and lie like a starfish on them, naked.

‘It’s likeaggressive hygge. Celebrate how great you are and what a nice time you have by yourself. Refuse to partake in the self-loathing we’re virtually commanded to, in this sick society.’

I don’t have tons of funds, but I can put my dumb blonde hair in the big rollers, do a face mask, get a gel manicure at the salon two roads over, walk into town and purchase myself a Magnum Salted Caramel and a beautiful Penguin Classic edition ofWuthering Heights, which I’m going to re-read. See if it lands differently, now.

So I do.

I get Jammy some yellow bell pepper that he’s mad for, and go for a hot chocolate, sitting in a window so I can see the smoky-darkness of a winter evening fall, the street lamps switch on.

And, I decide, while spooning up the last of the foam, I’m going to revisit Fay. I need to tell her about seeing Lucas again. I want her to tell me that despite the fact it feels like my chest is being crushed in a vice, it is some sort of catharsis.You want to talk to her because you won’t tell anyone else. And why is that, exactly?

I wonder how counsellors feel when former clients reappear with their lives in as much a mess as ever. Is it like cutting someone’s unflattering ’do for years, getting them to grow out layers and stop harsh treatments, and then seeing them strutting round town with a backcombed, white straw pompadour, like a French Regency wig? Dispiriting?

I’ll have to ask Rav.

‘Can I speak to Fay Wycherley?’ I say, mobile to ear in the quiet kitchen when I get in, having ascertained Karen’s definitely out. Studying my glossy nails, the colour of blood. Aggressive hygge. Glamorous defiance.

‘I’m sorry, she doesn’t work here anymore.’

‘Oh … Do you know where she went?’

‘She went on to a practice in Hull, I think.’

‘Oh. Right. Thank you. Do you have the name? I’ll try her there.’

I won’t, because I can’t see myself travelling to Hull, but it seems a courteous farewell.

‘Hang on, do you mind waiting for a moment?’

The receptionist puts me on hold to Flautist Moods: Vol 7. Then there’s the noise of a phone being crashed back out of its cradle.

‘Hi. Are you a former client of Fay?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m very sorry to tell you this but Fay passed away in 2015.’

I pause. ‘She’s dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘… How?’

‘A traffic accident, I believe.’

‘Oh. That’s so sad … Thank you for letting me know.’

I say bye and sit and stare at the washing up in the plastic rack. Poor Fay. She’d be what – mid-fifties? I call up images of her and try to process the fact she’s not here anymore. She was so reassuring. She kept my secrets, and she listened. And she’s gone. I wonder if she had children, and if they miss her the way I miss Dad.

I remember a Fay remark that was long lost in memory, until now: ‘No one else is going to fix you. The only person who can fix you, is you.’

So Coldplay lied.

Rav the counsellor you sorted me out with, Fay, she died?

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