Page 20 of Don't You Forget About Me
‘What about my ego being a pissed driver?’
I shrugged.
‘You can’t do it without ego. There’s no way Richard Pryor or … Lenny Bruce didn’t have ego. It’s right up there with demons. Ego and demons. It’s to making art what eggs and bacon are to making breakfast.’
Robin stared.
‘Wow.Yes.And you are?’
Introductions were made, champagne was ordered on someone’s tab and the night was properly underway.
‘You’re a writer?’ Robin said, with one arm slung round the velvet banquette, in a way that meant it was sort of slung round me.
‘Hah! No. Who told you that?’
‘Your advice to me sounded like one writer to another …?’
I glowed. This was one of the best things I’d ever heard.
‘… That said, you’re a bit too healthy for it. You don’t have the black coffee and fags face. You look like you leave the house and get fresh air.’
I knew I was being hit upon, but my blood alcohol level and the bass-line in a Prince song were in harmony, and I was happy to be flattered.
‘I’m a waitress.’
‘Ah! That’s cute.’ (There it was, that tone. Clem was right.)
I’d nearly said:I’d like to be a writerbut I knew the next question would be, what have you written? and the answer is a big old nothing, bar a diary that I was once quite proud of, so I didn’t.
‘I have a research question, you can help me with my act,’ Robin said. ‘What’s it like being beautiful?’
Over his shoulder, I could see Rav making a ‘gun to temple and firing’ gesture.
Maybe in other circumstances I’d have groaned, but it felt like Robin was being refreshing and surprising. And you know, it’s never the worst thing to hear.
‘I’m not beautiful.’
I resisted the urge to fuss at my hair, but held my stomach in.
‘You clearly are.’
‘Well, thank you.’
‘So what it’s like being beautiful, is thinking you’re not beautiful?’
I laughed. ‘Erm. If you insist.’
‘That’s a let-down. I’d thought it’d be like being a Disney heroine where you can make the pots and pans clean themselves and the broom dance.’
Rav leaned over minutes later and whispered: ‘I betyoucan make his broom dance, if you follow.’
I laughed and realised I was interested in someone for the first time in ages.
I did something that night I never do: as Robin reappeared and slid back in next to me, refilling my glass: I thought, I’m having you. I’m taking you home.
After whisperedI like you / I like you toosand kissing by the taxi rank we ended up having very mediocre intercourse in a room at The Mercure, as Robin couldn’t even be bothered to travel back to his flat. My big first-night-sex adventure ended with me bouncing around on top of a very drunk, semi-comatose comedian who kept groaning: ‘Talk dirty to me, Georgina the waitress, talk dirty! Be filthy and nasty!’
Nasty?
