Page 60 of Don't You Forget About Me

I know something’sdefinitelyup when she additionally asks me to ‘Come alone at half five’ and ‘Don’t mention to Rav and Clem.’ I say,Oh sure, so they’re not invited?

They are invited but I want to talk to you first, she replies.

Oh God, is she pregnant? Am I going to be on ‘pretending the lemonade is a G&T’ wing woman duty? I don’t think Phil is solid father material but a lot’s going to have to be forgotten if she’s going ahead with it.

Jo answers her front door in a 1950s-ish shirt dress with rocket ships firing all over it, and a thin yellow belt, hair a glossy ombré helmet. I’ve tried to copy her winsome cutie pie look before and it’s not worked. I look like a superannuated Veruca Salt. I carefully keep my eyes on hers and don’t study for any signs of a bump. Her giant tabby cat, Beagle, winds protectively round her ankles, and I duck down to pet him. He was a rat-catching farm moggy before he lived with Jo, and is essentially a stripy thug.

I’m clutching a bottle of Rioja from Tesco Express, wondering if it’s now surplus to requirements. Actually no, sod that, if Jo’s expecting a tiny Shagger Phil then I’ll need a stiffener.

Jo bought her red brick semi in Walkley when her hair salon took off, and it’s as welcoming to me as being wrapped in a maternal hug. With a bittersweet edge, as I have no idea when I’m ever going to afford the same.

I too want a row of supermarket basil plants in my window, in varying states of decomposition, a framed kitsch art print sayingI Don’t Want To Go To Heaven, None Of My Friends Are Thereand the comforting hum and rattle of second-hand kitchen appliances donated by parents.

‘If you think a tall, dark and handsome man with millions is going to appear out of nowhere, fall madly in love with you and wave his magic wand, you need to think again,’ says my mum, chief financial advisor.

‘Mmmm his magic wand,’ I said. There are no magic spells, said my counsellor, and no magic wands, said my mum. I increasingly see the appeal of paying online psychics who tell you they see great fortune in your future.

The house is full of the warm waft of meat cooking at a low heat. Jo opens a pantry cupboard, gets out two wine glasses and sets them down on the vinyl tablecloth.

Oh. Hurrah?

‘I’ve ended it with Phil,’ Jo says, and I say ‘Oh, no,’ but I know my face says something different and Jo does too, as she adds ‘Honestly, George. It’s for good this time. I’ve passed a point.’

I pull out a chair and we sit down.

‘I believe you. Tell me what happened.’

‘His sister’s getting married in the spring. He wanted me to go with him.’

I pause, waiting for the shitty condition that Phil attached. ‘And …?’

‘And that was it. At first I got excited, found the Joanie dress I wanted to wear. Then I started thinking …’

She’s canning the Rioja down so I reach over and splish her wine up two inches, the silent signal ofplease do go onsolidarity.

‘… I know you all thought him still being a lad and seeing other people was awful. He’s twenty-eight and women fall at his feet and he needed some time to get his head round the idea of settling down. I was prepared to wait. People say timing is everything. I told myself I’d met Phil a few years before I should have, and I didn’t want to lose him to bad timing.’

This description of Phil’s allure isn’t just the ‘smitten’ talking. Phil has large, expressive, boy-child eyes, thinning dark hair and a rogue-ish grin. He looks like the personable host of a consumer affairs or DIY television show, and if it existed there would be a Facebook group dedicated to housewives fancying him. He’s nice enough looking, but that’s not where his power lies. What he’s got is the ability to fill a room with his presence, boundless enthusiasm, and a big heart (if you’re not the woman wanting answers). As a social presence, he’s like putting a Mentos in a bottle of Coke; instant froth-over explosion.

Phil can turn his enemies into friends if you give him half an hour, although the drug wears off once you’re not physically near him. Clem would strenuously deny this, but I’ve even seen her give him grudging smiles.

‘… Why does Phil want to go to a wedding with me in front of all his family and friends, but not actually have a relationship?’

‘He doesn’t want to be single on his sister’s big day?’ I say.

‘No, it isn’t that. You know Phil. He could talk to anyone, he’d barely be left alone. It’s because he does care about me, and he does see me as his “other half” … he wants me to share it, be there for the first dance, and give his nan a hug.’

I sense why Jo didn’t want Rav and Clem here for this. A mistimed poison dart thrown by either of them – intended target, Phil, but potentially wounding Jo – would make it too hard to be this open.

‘And I realised, he doesn’t care if it makes everyone think we’re serious. Your usual man, dodging settling down, he’d run a mile from the spectacle of people saying “You, next!” to us, right? That’s not Phil’s problem. A special occasion is fine, he’s hardly likely to meet a better offer on a day at Whitley Hall Hotel when he’s busy being an usher. The fact is, we work in every way, except for one thing, which is in Phil’s head.’

Jo draws a shaky breath.

‘He can’t do the ordinary day in, day out, because he can’t accept that I’m all there is. Making me his full time, long-term girlfriend, George, he sees it as accepting defeat. He’s got all this potential, girls going Beatlemania, and yet he ends up with Jo, a hairdresser in his home town who’s two years older than him and goes to Weight Watchers and has a mortgage and a cat on thyroid pills. He loves me, but I represent giving up his dreams. He won’t even admit that to himself, which is why he never has an answer for me, when I ask why we’re only ever sort-of “seeing how it goes”.’

I open my mouth to deny it, say how short-sighted of Phil this is, but stop myself and squeeze Jo’s arm instead. I learned after Dad died that rushing in with denials when someone says: ‘This is a pile of shit, and it hurts,’ however well meant, can be stifling.

‘Once I realised that, it was easy to end it, Gee. It killed my feelings, like turning a light out under a pan on the boil. It stopped me lying to myself and romanticising about how he needs time, he’ll come round. I don’twantsomeone who has to come round. Who has to resign himself to me by age thirty-five, when he’s worn himself out looking for better options.’

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