Page 65 of Don't You Forget About Me

In the long walk up to the function room, holding the prosecco aloft, I think about what my dad said, about me being a show-off who hates attention. As I reach the doorway, I see a painter’s easel, set up with the topic – Share Your Shame: MY WORST DAY AT WORK! And a running order. They’ve spelled my name ‘Georgina Hawspool’.

I’ve been in here when it was empty, full of packing boxes, and now it’s rammed with people, mostly sitting, but some clustered around the small bar at the far end, which Devlin is manning. Thank God it wasn’t Lucas.

Strings of Edison lightbulbs have been strung up against the green paint and the place still smells spicily musty, you can tell it’s had dust sheets thrown off it mere weeks ago.

A shallow stage at the far side of the room has a microphone on a stand. It’s real now. What on earth was I thinking?

The compere is a twenty-something feature writer fromThe Starcalled Gareth who introduced himself to me earlier. He’s clearly been killing dead air, as he sights me with relief and says: ‘Georgina? Georgina! A round of applause for Georgina, please, who is doing our last reading.’

I take to the stage, unfold my two sheets of paper and survey the room, people shuffling in their seats, muttering.

Oh, there are the judges, sat like three wise owls, a woman and two men. And yes, Mr Keith IS one of them. Well, that’s that then. Less to lose.

I open my mouth, cough and feel the weight of expectation.

‘Hello, so. Wow,’ the microphone gives out a squawk of feedback and Gareth calls: ‘Stand back a little, that’s it.’

I already feel like a tit.

‘Sorry … I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of the Waiter Test. It’s the idea that you can assess a person’s character through how they treat service staff. If you go on a date with someone, don’t just judge them by how they treat you. Having been a waitress, a barmaid, a cocktail waitress, and for a very brief and unhappy time, a nightclub hostess – that isn’t quite as dubious as it sounds, though it almost was – I know how true this is.’

I glance up at the room. I can practically feel those people who know me willing me to succeed, and everyone else watching me in detached curiosity.

‘A couple of years ago I was working at this charming café with chandeliers, gold wisteria wallpaper and pink Smeg fridges that served Kir Royales, chopped chicken salads and giant lumps of gateau that meant you might as well as not have had the salad. It did a roaring trade in afternoon tea.

‘That Christmas, a dozen or so women come in from a nearby office. Everyone is lovely, except for this one character with a sharp bob, very hard eyeliner and the look of an evil weather girl.

‘She summons me over and says: “I’m a vegan who can’t have wheat or sugar, so what can you do for me?”’ Bearing in mind here she’s looking at a menu full of sponge, cream, jam and sandwiches. She’s not warned us in advance. And she’s actually asking me to come up with suggestions. We both agree we have no idea what she might eat. “I’ll ask the chef,” I say.

‘I head to the kitchen with a flutter in my heart rate and lead in my boots. The café is in full whirling festive meltdown mode with 3,847 walk-ins on top of the large group bookings and you know when you appear with a dipshit customer query, they’re going to be only too pleased to take the stress out on you. I repeat her request and they laugh and say “She can pick the cucumber out of the cuke and tuna mayo baguette” and I say meekly: Definitely, nothing else? Cos I don’t think she will like this.

‘And the head chef screams: “EVEN IF I HAD THE TIME TO COOK WHATEVER THE FUCK SHE’S ASKING US TO MAKE I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT SHE’S ASKING US TO MAKE SO THIS FAILS AT BOTH THE LITERAL AND CONCEPTUAL LEVEL, YOU GET ME?”’

I pause reading and I think, through the pounding of blood in my ears, am I dreaming it, or did that get a laugh? I plough on, with a notch more confidence:

‘… I mean, fair enough and nicely put, but not much help to me. I head back out and explain in my most conciliatory tone that without prior warning, there’s not much we can do for her, we’re so sososorry. Evil Weathergirl starts spitting blood about how this is unacceptable. “You work in catering and you can’t think up a recipe? So I have to go hungry on my work’s Christmas do?!” Like I’m Jamie Oliver and she’s Oliver Twist. And then, she points to italics on the end of the menu saying:If you don’t see what you like here, please tell us & we’ll try our best to accommodate your wishes!

‘At that moment, I could stick corn cob forks in whichever innocent-minded simpleton thought it was a good idea to shove that on a menu because it sounded nice, without realising it’s a green light to every crank and moaner, and comes with heavy caveats in these times of clean eating neurotic intolerants.

‘I said, “It’s a busy time and your options are very restricted”, doing the grit-smile because I KNOW this lady’s not for turning.

‘“Oh so this is MY FAULT,” she says, and now the whole room’s listening.

‘I wait for her to calm down while knowing she’s not going to calm down.

‘“What am I supposed to eat?” she says.

‘“If you haven’t given us any warning there’s a limit to what we can do.”

‘“There isn’t a ‘limit’, you can’t do anything at all! For a vegan! In this day and age! I want to speak to your manager please.”

‘There was no manager because she was off sick. I told her this.’

I look up at the room. As luck would have it, my eyes fall on Rav, who is grinning from ear to ear. He gives me the thumbs up.

‘At this point the rest of the table is kicking off at me because they can’t order until it’s resolved and I can’t whip up spelt risotto made with coconut milk, seasoned with orphan’s tears, out of mid-air.

‘In sheer panic, I ask: “What about a cucumber salad?”

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