Page 68 of Don't You Forget About Me

He told me, when we were together:‘I’m not being, like, Justin Bieber, but people tend to fall for me rather than me fall for them, which is useful material, as a writer.’I should’ve said,You sound nice, and got out at my soonest opportunity,but I thought I had things to learn from Robin. As a writer, as a maverick mind. Oh, Horspool, you dick.

I bet becauseIfinished withRobin, it’s a novelty to him, not getting to choose the moment.

I mean, I’d always subconsciously anticipated my own dumping. I wasn’t so stupid or deluded that I hadn’t gleaned what my treatment would be, from his tales of his exes.

‘I’m no use as a man or beast to you during the Edinburgh Fest, it wouldn’t be fair on you, the comedians’ trade fair takes every drop of vigour in me I have. Let’s give each other our freedom for the time being, and see if we reconnect, further down the line.’(Translation, he had his eye on removing the dungarees of some sassy petite American woman, lower down the bill from him at The Pleasance, and three weeks is a long time to go without when you’re paying rent on a place in the New Town. However, should he feel randy and at a loose end on return to Sheffield, it will be fine to call me.She’s cool with it, she’s really cool.)

He’s mistaken the surprise of this inconvenience for heartbreak.

‘I can’t stop looking at you, Georgina,’ Robin says, under his breath, as I give him his change. I drop character for a second in irritation and snap: ‘Yeah, can you not?’

I hadn’t noticed Lucas behind us until this moment, and I can sense him listening. I curse Robin.

‘Everything alright?’ Lucas says to me, and I say ‘Yes, fine,’ with a speed that’s almost a snap.

What makes me mad is that if Robin were a woman, this would be called bunny boiler behaviour. As a man, and an artist no less, it’s noble suffering. This is a whole dark third album, about how she done gone ruined you.

Another customer appears and I say ‘YES, PLEASE?’ pointedly, and step away.

When Robin sits down, I notice the FAC 51 t-shirt man has gone up to him, a friend in tow. Oh, no – selfies? Signing beer mats? Lots of jovial male back and forth and handshaking?

‘They recognise Robin McNee too!’ Kitty excitedly hiss-whispers. ‘Lucas, you know who he is, right?’

‘Can’t say I do,’ Lucas says, and his eyes move to me, revealing he definitely overheard the nature of Robin’s remarks.

Fifteen minutes later, and Robin’s up and swaying for round five, pumped up with this impromptu demonstration of his celebrity, and hoppy ale. As I pull his pint, he leans dramatically on the bar, head in hand.

‘George, George. One drink. Just go for one drink with me, that’s all I ask. That’s all the time I need. If you decide against after that, then I will never bother you again. You have my word.’

Kitty’s Bobbi Brown-lipglossed mouth falls open as she witnesses this exchange. I put the glass down.

‘Can you serve him?’ I say quietly to Kitty. She frowns as I excuse myself to the ladies.

She pounces on me as soon as I’m back.

‘Robin McNee’s asked youout? And you’re saying no?’

‘Yup.’

‘You’re not tempted?’

‘Nup.’

‘He’s not your type?’

On the periphery of my vision, I see Robin moving around, and when I risk a proper look, he’s dragged a chair into the middle of the room and is clambering atop it.

I’m going to kill him. God help me, I’m actually going to commit a murder.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention,’ Robin says, struggling to balance himself, while waving his arms as if flagging a passing motorist for help. I feel a contained rush, a moment when I should be galvanised to Do Something. But what? I glance at Kitty, who’s rapt.

The pub falls instantly silent. ‘Thank you. I want your help with something …’

Lucas appears out of the kitchen, holding his phone, and stops short at the sight of a man doing stand-up on a chair.

I feel sick. I want to run at Robin, shrieking, and force him down. But I can’t afford to become part of the tableau. If I start pushing and shoving with Robin, it’s a rerun of Thor the stripper, without the hammer and the thong.

To have one physical fight with a man in your workplace might be unfortunate, two is careless.

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