Page 67 of Don't You Forget About Me

I gather myself, passing the change to Mr FAC 51.

‘Hi.’

‘I’d heard it was good here,’ Robin says, as though I was going to accuse him of stalking.

‘You heard right,’ I say, in android wench tone, making it clear I don’t want personal interaction. ‘What’re you having, gentlemen?’ I continue, now false-bright.

‘Is this how we’re doing it, Georgina?’ Robin says. ‘Strangers. Yet more estranged than strangers, as I don’t get to introduce myself again.’

The man he’s with looks from Robin to me and back again and I grind my teeth at how inappropriate, and inconsiderate, Robin always is.

I pass an empty pint glass from palm to palm and say: ‘Lots of real ales.’

Robin sighs, leans back, arms spread, both palms braced on the bar, as he surveys the pump labels. My back stiffens. Never mind Keith befouling the premises, I feel as if Robin is going to do some territorial crapping of his own. He’s an invader.

‘Think I will try a pint of First Blonde, thank you. It seems fitting. Al?’

Ah, this must be his agent. I sat at Robin’s elbow during enough fraught to and fros over whether his fellow panellists commanded a higher fee, while he held his phone like it was an After Eight mint.

‘Same, thank you,’ Al says, awkward.

I pull the pumps, wait for it to settle, take the money, pass the change, top them up, with Robin’s eyes locked on me the whole time.

They’ll have one drink, maybe two, I tell myself, then go. Breathe. I serve them with a broad smile that I’m determined to keep fixed on my face for the duration of Robin’s visit.

The table with Rav, Clem, Jo and my sister and brother-in-law is at the far side, and they are yet to notice Robin’s presence. I find my phone in my bag, text Jo: ‘Robin’s here. Tell everyone to act indifferent, like I’ve barely said a word about him since we broke upxx’

And to think I thought this shift would be stressful for an entirely different reason.

Yet the speed with which Robin sinks his beer, and is soon up at the bar holding foam-streaked glasses for refills, is not promising. He was always a lightweight who got bladdered easily.

Kitty hisses: ‘Georgina, Georgina, that’s Robin McNee! He was on that show on Dave last year,’ to me, after she serves him, and he sits back down, with more meaningful eyeballing at me. He glowered at me the whole time Kitty got his drinks, while I pretended to concentrate on rinsing the nozzles on the glass cordial bottles.

Yuck, I hate how he’s trying to act as if we had this deep connection, now cruelly severed.

‘Yeah I know,’ I say. ‘How do you know who he is?’

‘Idiot Soup! Ta ta ta tum tum tum,IDIOTSOUP,’ she trills the theme tune to the dire panel show on Dave, on which Robin is a regular fixture. ‘My ex loved it. Six cans, doner kebab from Chubby’s,Idiot Soup, perfect night in, he said.’

‘Not surprised he’s your ex,’ I say with a smile, and Kitty says: ‘How did you recognise him if you don’t watch it?’

‘Another regretted ex,’ I say, which I congratulate myself on being both a niftily misleading and yet entirely accurate answer.

My feeling of self-congratulation is short lived.

Robin’s table is littered with empty packets folded into foam-streaked glasses which I’m avoiding collecting, his voice is loud enough to carry in its inebriated ebullience. Robin’s always been a half pint warrior in terms of tolerance, the signs here are not good.

By my count, Robin’s had three pints now, with two sidecar shots of Spud potato vodka – damn it, The Wicker, do you have to stock interesting spirits with artistic bottles that catch your eye, and provide playful excuses for excessive imbibing? And now he’s back up for pint four. It’s obvious he’s not letting Al get a round so that he doesn’t miss a chance to harass me.

‘Six pounds forty-two pence, please.’ I set what I dearly hope will be his last drinks on the beer towel.

‘How are you able to turn your feelings off, and pull the shutters down?’ Robin says.

I ignore this and turn back to the till.

The answer of course is that there weren’t many feelings to turn off, and what I’m thinking is ‘get lost’. But this is a trap – if I say that, Robin will act even more like a wounded animal.

And it is an act, whether he thinks it is or not – he’s enjoying trying on the new role of spurned lover.

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