Page 61 of Don't You Forget About Me

I slide my glass towards hers, chink it, drink.

‘Of course, now he can tell I’ve lost interest, he’s bothering me every hour,’ Jo says.

‘Of course.’

‘It’s weird, I lived for his attention and now I’m watching the messages pile up, as if I’m just a bystander, seeing how obvious it is. Pull away, he pulls me back. He has to make me love him as much as I did before and he doesn’t question why, or what it does to me.’

‘I’ve had exactly that sensation with Robin. I’m only interesting when I’m a challenge.’ I pause. ‘Phil is a lot less of a git than Robin though, don’t want you to think I’m equating them.’

Jo meets my eyes.

‘Phil isn’t a shagger, you know. He’s worse than that. It’s not about sex. He wants to win people’s love all the time. But once he has it he doesn’t know what to do with it. So he moves on to the next land to conquer.’

She’s criticised him before, but this is the most pitilessly incisive I’ve ever heard Jo be on the Phil topic. It makes me think this truly is the end.

She sighs.

‘Trouble is, I have to try to forget how good it felt, when it was good. I might never feel like that with anyone again. But that’s the risk I have to take, right? When I know it’s over and we shouldn’t be together. I think I can manage not being in love with Phil anymore – but not being in love with what itfelt like, that’s the hard bit.’

I agree, and wish I could tell her just how much I understand what she means. My words are never eloquent enough. Sorry for your loss.

Jo didn’t need to worry about the remaining pair of our foursome not sensing how raw she’s feeling. After they clatter in, they’re both a great balm to the soul.

Neither of them are scornful about Shagger Phil. It makes me realise how much they reviled Robin, that Phil gets a considerably more respectful send off. It’s practically a Viking funeral, compared to Robin’s ‘tramp the dirt down’ farewell.

‘Yearning and pining for more, or what the kids call FOMO, fear of missing out, is the curse of the modern age,’ Rav nods, when Jo repeats her diagnosis of why Phil can’t reconcile himself to being her partner. ‘I tell clients, contentment is a wonderful thing, but a state of discontentment sells more goods and services.’

‘Yeah, when you think back when you got married to someone in the next village and had a mangle and rickets and everything, you didn’t do any of the “compare and despair” thing. Or if you did, it was with your four toothless neighbours,’ Clem says. ‘Now Instagram makes me stressed that everyone in the world is doing life better than me. I’m sure everyone never made their own door wreaths or did these painted Easter eggs until they could put the Valencia filter on it and shove it in my face.’

‘It’s Clem Ted Talk time!’ Rav says. ‘You just need the Madonna headset and the tumbler of water to sip from.’

‘I would watch that,’ I say, and Jo agrees.

‘I know we took a lot of piss, but I did understand why you liked Phil,’ Clem says to Jo. ‘The time he told the story about doing a hangover puke in his aunt’s house and lighting the pain au raisin flavour Yankee Candle? He was a “God tier” storyteller.’

‘Funny is the killer,’ I say, supportively. I’m aware we have to walk a line here in sisterly condolence that doesn’t tip over into making Jo thinking she should take him back. ‘I am powerless in the face of funny.’

‘Why did you go out with Robin McNee then!’ says Rav, nose to finger and the other hand pointing, and everyone cackles.

‘Something I’ve never said,’ Clem says, unwinding canary yellow hosiery-clad legs and rearranging them, ‘I don’t go around keeping everything to hook-ups because I am, you know “incapable of falling in love”,’ she does inverted comma finger and grimaces. ‘I do it because I am all too capable and I know it’d end me. It’s like my mum and cleaning the house …’

We look quizzical. Clem’s mum is known to be fastidious to the point of us suspecting a disorder.

‘Here’s a truth that will blow your mind: my mum says she’s actually really lazy about cleaning.’

We now look sceptical.

‘It’s true! You should see her in a hotel room! Total midden in minutes. I don’t know how she does it. She cleans loads at home, everything has to be in its place, because if she relaxed and did as much as she felt like doing, she’d destroy worlds. Her kids would’ve been taken in by social services. She is in mortal unending combat with her own true nature. Well, that’s me and men. I’m actually a weak sap who would do anything for the right man. So I am careful not to meet the fucker. Or if I do, I get my defence in first: I’ve dumped him before he’s even thought about it.’

Rav rubs his chin thoughtfully, rearranges his scarf. Rav is the only person I know who wears a scarf indoors, as a decorative item.

‘Couldn’t that mean you miss out on someone you’d be happy with?’ Jo asks.

‘Yeah but equally I don’t think Mr Right For Me exists. I’ll worry about that when it looks like he might have turned up.’

‘Hmm not a foolproof plan, but then I can’t say I’m doing any better on Bumble,’ Rav says. ‘Internet dating is a slingshot at the moon.’ He sighs. ‘All I want is a well-travelled, artistic woman who can confidently wear a red trilby, with a mind like a steel trap and fluency in several languages. That shouldn’t be impossible, given the length of my—’

Clem bellows ‘Please God, no!’

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