Page 62 of Don't You Forget About Me

‘… Length of my search! Mysearch.’

‘Your perfect woman, Rav, is Prince,’ Clem says. ‘If only he weren’t dead and male.’

‘This is true. They are obstacles. But every romance needs them.’

Even Jo is laughing now.

‘And what about you, Gee?’ Rav looks at me beadily. ‘What’s the follow-up to Mr McNee going to be? What have you learnt?’

‘Is that burning?’ I say.

‘Aaaargh the moussaka!’ Jo wails and dashes off to the kitchen. Minutes later we’re all forking up slabs of – I don’t want to be ungrateful – really peculiar tasting Greek food.

‘It’s a low cal version,’ Jo says, ‘With yoghurt. And turkey mince.’

This makes Clem dig in with greater enthusiasm, while Rav and I lock widened eyes.

‘It’s great,’ Rav says, and I dishonestly back him up.

‘Let’s summarise our findings,’ Clem says. ‘Jo’s kicking an obsession with a commitment-phobe. I am a commitment-phobe, but lacking anyone worth being phobic about. Rav’s too picky for his own good. What about you, George? What is your fatal flaw that stands between you and happiness with another person?’

No burning food to save me now. I hem and haw.

‘I don’t know.’

‘More positive way of looking at it,’ Rav says, ‘What are you looking for?’

‘Hmm. I think I’d like someone who cares as much about me as I do about them. That might sound a low bar. But it’s pretty much everything, and I’ve never had that.’

‘Amen to that,’ Jo says, as Beagle nudges my plate out of the way with his head and clambers onto my lap, and I pretend this is an intrusion, but I’ll allow it.

‘Oh, by the way, I’m taking part in a writing competition at the pub! Will you come?’ I say. ‘I’m terrified of being crap and you all bearing witness but on balance I’m even more terrified of there only being a portly dog called Keith for an audience, so you need to come fill some seats.’

‘Brilliant!’ Jo says. ‘What have you written?’

I feel snakes move in my stomach. I loved that half hour spent at the kitchen table, scrawling in my notebook, so much. But I have to read it out? To strangers?

‘I’ve had a go at something about a bad day at work. The format is so loosey goosey I have no idea if it’s what they want or not. I’m right at the end of the running order so I’m going to avoid seeing anyone else’s piece, and work downstairs until they call me.’

‘You’re so brave,’ Clem says.

‘Or mad as a wizard,’ I say.

‘I remember when you used to read me your diary entries out at school,’ Jo says. ‘They were so witty. I’m really pleased you’re doing this. We’ve always known what a star you are. Now other people get to find out.’

‘Oh … thanks! Let’s hope that’s what they find out.’

‘Isn’t your challenge in writing about a bad day at work, mostly going to be in whittling the shortlist down? Start with that,’ Rav says. ‘Like judges do at awards. “In an exceptionally strong field with some stunning candidates, it was hard to choose, but choose I must …”’

‘Hahaha. Yes, true,’ I say. ‘I am queen of the shitty McJob.’

‘Oh, God, G. Remember when you had to dress up as a giant chicken to advertise that rip-off KFC-type place?’ Jo says.

‘I’d repressed that!’

‘I’m not sure I remember this one?’ Rav says. I groan.

‘It was a disaster. The kids they’d invited to the opening had mobbed me like I was The Beatles and I got bundled into a store room while they calmed down. They left me alone for ages and eventually I got bored and had a fag and then the door swung open and the kids saw a disembodied chicken with a woman’s head, smoking, like some really horrifying creature out of Greek mythology. And the company went apeshit that I’d ruined the image of “Captain Cluckee”. They were encouraging the kids to make friends with Captain Cluckee and then eat him, which is quite fucked up. Pointing that out didn’t help me.’

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