Liz Tipping - Don't You Forget About Me

“I miss talking about them. I miss talking about the little moments of magic. The bits that make you go ‘ahh’ or the surprising bits, the twists that no one saw coming and the happy endings that everyone did see coming, but still loved them anyway.”

“People still talk about them. I’m talking about what I’m watching now.” Liv turned her laptop round to show me she was two-screening with her box set and Twitter.

“It’s not the same, Liv. When I first worked here people were so excited to come and get the latest releases, it was like handing them little parcels of magic.”

“You’ll have to look for another job, then.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I will. Again.”

I folded my arms. I hadn’t planned to stay in Boring Hampton as long as this anyway. It was just a little breathing space while I gathered my thoughts.

When I left here, I decided I would never come back and live in this town, which no one noticed and where no one noticed me. My distinctly average school grades meant I couldn’t go to university, so I took a job as an assistant in events management at a hotel chain in Cardiff, but realised that I was about as good at managing events as I was at managing myself.

I imagined I would be organising glitzy events like weddings and proms where magical things would happen like at the end of a John Hughes movie. I’d be creating little magical moments for others, moments so spectacular, the guests would be astounded by it all. Instead I found myself organising corporate events and product launches. It was all PowerPoint presentations in beige boardrooms and ordering croissants for breakfast meetings whilst making sure the urns of tea were hot.

When I did get an opportunity to plan a wedding or special event, I was so stressed by wanting to create the perfect occasion that I crumbled. The pressure got to me and I couldn’t stand being the centre of attention with everyone looking to me to make decisions. When the hotel chain was bought out, they brought in new staff, leaving me without a job at all.

“You could work in another video shop,” said Liv. It wasn’t exactly my career plan of choice.

“I don’t think there are any, Liv.”

I could tell by the look Anthony Michael Hall was giving me that I was right. He was The Brain after all.

Liv went back to her Netflix and the battered sausage was the only truly memorable moment of the day.

We only had one customer and he wasn’t really a customer at all; it was sneery Derek from the bookshop who made a visit now and again to show us how clever he was.

“Ladies,” he said, doffing an imaginary cap. He really shouldn’t have done that because it drew attention to his strange woman’s haircut. He looked at the display of covers on show, pinched the brow of his nose, rubbed his forehead and muttered the words “dumbing down” a lot.

Occasionally he would ask for some film no one had ever heard of, but usually he just ranted about Hollywood and how it was making us all stupid. He behaved like an old man even though he was only in his thirties. He could have been good-looking if he wasn’t always pulling a face because popular culture offended him so much. Everything seemed to make him so cross. Liv said it was because he was so brainy and read so many books that there was no room left in his head for fun. Most of the time, he was fine, I suppose, but a lot of the time I wanted to throw a brick at his head. Like just then when he picked up the cover of Dirty Dancing and said, “Vacuous, my dear. It is all so…vacuous.”

“It’s better than Free Willy ,” I muttered under my breath, which raised a giggle from Olivia.

“No wonder you have no customers with this dross,” he said as he left. He flicked his university scarf over his shoulder. I could tell Molly Ringwald did not like Derek at all. I didn’t go into his dusty old shop telling him all his books were boring.

Liv folded her arms and scowled at him as he left. “What was he on about this time?”

“Dumbing down,” I said.

“Again? You’d think he’d give it a rest.” Liv launched into an impression of him and started doing a funny voice, repeating all the things he normally said.

“Liv,” I said. “Do you reckon Derek put the battered sausage in the returns box?”

“Why would he do that?” she said.

“Because he’s a weirdo?”

“Yeah, maybe. I wonder if we’ll get another one tomorrow?”

“That would be exciting,” I said and I meant it.

Just before home time, the pirate DVD lady stuck her head round the door, shouting, “Blu-ray, new release.”

“We’re fine, thanks,” I said, waving her away.

“You sure? All the latest films?” She grinned and shook her carrier bag at us.

“Quite sure,” I said and she left.

I picked up three John Hughes films and I called my friend Verity to say I was too knackered to go for a drink in the social club with her. I rang up my film rentals in the till and paid for them, so it looked at least like we’d had one paying customer that day, and then I had a revelation. The battered sausage had been the only interesting thing that had happened in the shop in months. It was certainly the most exciting thing that had happened in my life that day – possibly all week – and if this was the most exciting thing that had happened in my life all week, I was going to have to do something about it. I’d had a battered sausage revelation.

Chapter Two

The one thing this job had going for it was that it didn’t come with a commute. I took the short walk past our row of shops and round the back to the entrance to the flats. Verity insisted on coming over anyway even though I didn’t want to go out. She said she didn’t want to waste her babysitter. She arrived shouting about how she wasn’t going to let David Cameron oppress her because she was a single mum so she’d been shopping at Marks and Spencer’s because, she said, that would be the last thing he wanted. She’d bought us an M&S Dine in for Two. She also said she wanted to eat grown-up food for a change instead of “sodding fish fingers and chicken nuggets.”

“Talking of meat in batter,” I said.

“Yes?” said Verity.

“I had a battered sausage revelation today.”

“A revelation, eh? Okay. Tell me more.”

I told Verity about the special delivery and how exciting I thought it was and she agreed that I was demented and sad and needed to get a life.

Verity was the very best thing about coming home again. She pressed play on the remote control and for the next hour and a half or so we watched Pretty in Pink completely absorbed, mouthing all the words like we used to when we were at school.

“You know what the problem with this film is, don’t you, Cara?” asked Verity, as we watched the final scenes. She was pointing at different parts of the television with her cutlery, waving her knife around while she delivered her lecture.

“Yes.” I did know what she thought the problem with this film was, because every time we watched it, she said exactly the same thing. I shovelled a mouthful of mushroom tagliatelle in because I knew I wouldn’t be required to talk for a while.

“Not only does she ruin one, she ruins two, two perfectly good vintage dresses and turns them into that monstrosity…” She paused briefly to jab at the screen with her fork before continuing. “And instead of leaving with Duckie, she gets off with someone called Blane, who, quite frankly, has behaved like a complete arse. But apart from that, do you know what else gets me about these films?”

I nodded and polished off the rest of dinner. She was part way through her list when I tuned back in. I’d missed the bit about how come if they were the kids from the wrong side of the tracks they managed to own and run cars, and her thoughts on why on earth they simply did not ignore peer pressure and go out with whoever they liked.