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‘Which one? The roulade?’
‘Which one’s that?’ he says.
‘Round, in slices, had raspberries in it last time.’
‘Oh no, not interested in fruit. The one with the brownie bits on top.’
‘Ultimate death-by-brownie cheesecake bake?’
‘Yep.’
‘You didn’t think it was too sweet?’
‘No, it was good. Death by brownie. Good way to die. Better than car crash or drowning.’
‘Happy Monday to you too.’
Monday morning means updating The Status Report:
w/c 5th March
‘Project F’ – client briefing – venue TBC
Brief creative team
I live my life in w/cs. Week commencings.
For example, I know that w/c 23rd April we will be shooting our new TV ad for ‘Project F’ whether I like it or not. And I do not.
Devron from Fletchers is briefing me tomorrow. We haven’t even started the project yet, but according to the timing plan we’re already two months late. Devron keeps changing his mind about the brief. It’s probably going to end in disaster, but hey – ‘Tight deadlines are what keep this business fun!’ That’s according to my boss, Berenice: a woman whose idea of fun is Excel. Excel the spreadsheet, not ExCel the conference centre, though she is a woman who loves an industry conference. Networking is one of her middle names: Berenice Robot-Psychopath Networking Davis.
Which reminds me, w/c 4 June I’m being roped in to The Tasty Snacking Show, again. Last year Fletchers forced me into fancy dress to publicise their new ‘Pizza Spagnola!’ range. Words can’t describe the humiliation of getting stuck in the ticket barrier at Earl’s Court tube dressed as a Spanish sausage. Take my word for it, there’s no obvious place to stick an Oyster card when you’re a chorizo.
W/c 16 July – a week in Centre Parcs Cumbria to brainstorm Christmas 2015.
W/c 3 September, birthday week – I shall be on holiday, somewhere hot, preferably with a man but more than likely with Dalia. (That’s if I can persuade her to be parted from her on-off-off boyfriend for long enough to board a plane.)
W/c 17 December – get my bonus, pay off my debts and finally get promoted to the board, thus proving to my parents that I am not a failure and I am not a quitter. Then quit. Work out my three-month notice period in a state of sheer unadulterated bliss, every day a rainbow. Release myself into the free world just in time for spring and start doing what I was put on this earth to do. (I’ll have worked out what that is by then. Definitely.)
My whole life spent, living in the future.
The one good thing about Mondays? They go fast.
The hours are eaten up by a sequence of pointless, infuriating, navel-gazing meetings:
Team Meeting, Floor Meeting, Department Meeting, Production Meeting and finally Meeting-Planning Meeting. Yes. Just when you think it’s safe to go back to your desk at 6.30 p.m., the account directors have a meeting just to talk about the rest of the week’s meetings. Still, tonight we’re finished by 7 p.m., and I race out of the door before Berenice can make her usual hi-larious joke – ‘half day, Susannah?’
With any luck Upstairs Caspar will be out for the night. If it wasn’t for Caspar my home would be perfect. I live in a cosy one-bed flat on the fifth floor of Peartree Court, a six-storey U-shaped block with a little square of garden in the middle, with, yes, a tree, with pears on. It’s in Swiss Cottage, a pleasant area of North London that is not remotely Swiss, nor full of cottages. The flat belonged to my granny, who left it to me and my brother when she died seven years ago. My brother now lives in a big house in Chester where his wife is from. I give him half the mortgage equivalent every month and I get to live here.
Peartree Court is looked after by Terry the Caretaker. If he wasn’t in his sixties and missing two important front teeth we’d be in business. He’s a total sweetheart – he’s even given me a secret key to the roof terrace. It has amazing views of the whole of London. Residents aren’t supposed to go up there – health and safety. But as long as I’m discreet and don’t let myself get spotted by the busybody Langdons on the third floor then Terry’s fine. (The Langdons actually complain every autumn when the pears start to fall from the tree. They don’t like the mess of everyday life. Then again, who does?)
Terry’s kind to all the old people in the block and tolerant of all the 4x4 driving yuppies who move in every time one of the oldies kicks the bucket. Yuppies like Caspar. Love thy neighbour’s not working out too well for us. Caspar moved in just over a year ago. He is an actuary. I don’t actuary know what this means, other than that at thirty-one he can afford two cars (Porsche, Range Rover) and has enough free time to play a lot of tennis. I frequently bump into him in the lift in mini-shorts, thinking he’s Nadal. Except unlike Nadal, Caspar is pasty, blond and snotty. Grand-slam snotty.
I know this because two weeks after my ex, Jake, ripped out my heart, Caspar ripped up his carpets, installing tropical hardwood flooring instead. Due to the acoustics of this flooring I hear Caspar flob up whatever’s in his throat every single morning at dawn, like vulgar birdsong. Caspar spent four years in Hong Kong and he informs me that in Chinese culture it is a good thing to loudly hack up one’s phlegm. Good for him; not so much for me.
Along with the coughing there’s the shagging – his, not mine, obviously. Never optimum to hear your neighbours getting it on. But Caspar’s sex life … it’s so terribly audible. And it’s always the same routine: Michael Bublé goes on the Bang & Olufsen. Then I hear Caspar bang and olufsen. I’ve repeatedly asked him to at least put some rugs down, but he tells me that my ears are too sensitive. So now I’ve resorted to whacking up the volume on my Adele CD – it’s that or else I hear everything.
The only part of his routine that ever changes is the girl. He has a taste for drippy blondes, and because he’s a rich, cocky little bugger he seems to have no trouble pulling. Sometimes I see him strut to his Porsche, an interchangeable girl scurrying a few metres behind him like an obedient little mouse. I never ever want to go out with a man who marches ahead of me down the street.
Tonight I’m in luck: Caspar’s out, which means some peace. I head straight for the kitchen: the only thing that can undo the damage to my soul that a Monday at work has done is a good dinner. The cupboards in here are a bit of a mess – I’m rubbish at throwing things away – but behind the Hobnob tubes and huddles of geriatric spices I find exactly what I’m looking for.
My grandma always told me that a bowl of pasta is the answer to most of life’s problems. She was Italian. Statements like that always sound a little more profound in a foreign language: Un piatto di pasta e’ la risposta a quasi tutti i problemi della vita. All you have to do is pick the right pasta for your circumstances. For example, tonight I’m tired and feeling lazy. So nothing too complicated: a tomato-based sauce, thirty minutes’ cooking time, max. However today, being Monday, was dull, so I’m craving a little lift. The solution? A bit of chilli in the sauce, and a pasta shape that conjures up excitement: fusilli. Lovely and twirly, like a kids’ fairground ride.
I check in the fridge and find a pack of bacon that’s a week past its use by date. My mum brought me up to believe that a use by date is arbitrary – a random sequence of numbers and letters, designed to trick you into throwing good food away before its time. It might as well be in Cyrillic. If it looks fine and it smells fine then it is fine.
I fry a red onion in butter and olive oil till it’s soft and starting to turn golden, then add the bacon and a pinch of red chilli flakes and stand over the saucepan inhaling like a teenage glue-sniffer. After five minutes I pour in a tin of tomatoes, a pinch of salt and sugar, reduce the heat to a low simmer and head to my bathroom.
Make-up comes off, I have a bath and I even manage to apply a Liz Earle nourishing face mask, which promises to brighten my tired, dull complexion. If only Liz could make a potion to brighten the other parts of my tired, dull existence …
OK. Pyjamas: on. Baggy, slightly moth-bitten cashmere sweater: on. Horrendous yet cosy Ninja Turtle slippers, a gift from my brother in 1987: on (I’m serious – I never throw anything away). Pan of salted water for the pasta: on.
Eleven minutes later – absolute happiness. Twirly pasta with a spicy tomato and bacon sauce with loads of melted cheese on top. Eaten on the sofa in front of an episode of 30 Rock. Just me, Tina Fey and Alec Baldwin.
My grandma was right about the pasta. My mother was right about those use by dates. And all is right in my world.
Tuesday
All is about to be a little less right.
When I reach my desk the light on my phone is already flashing. It’s 7.42 a.m., which can only mean one person: Berenice. I have been summoned. Always ominous with Berenice; she has a way of making you feel like a mass-murderer just by saying your name on an answering machine. I suspect one day I’ll break down in her office and admit to kidnapping Shergar, shooting JFK and hiding Lord Lucan under my bed.
I rush to the ladies’ to check in the mirror. Could be worse: Tuesday morning bed hair gets pulled back into a bun. Make-up is fine; the early days of the week always see fresh mascara. Catch me on a Friday though and chances are it’s Thursday night’s face. I’m wearing a respectable M&S knee-length burgundy dress that could pass for Jaeger, in the dark. No cleavage or knees on show – extremely important, in light of Berenice’s latest paranoid fixation … Jolly good – I look like a tired, non-sexual, overworked thirty-six-year-old woman who is not having much fun. A carbon copy of Berenice, only five years younger.
I take the lift up to the fifth floor. Her PA must be at Early-Bird Zumba so I hover awkwardly outside Berenice’s office, waiting for her to notice me through the glass wall. Maybe Sam’s right, I think, as I look at the crown of Berenice’s head. Last week Sam informed me that Berenice has her colour done every nine days at that place off Sloane Square where Cate Blanchett goes to when she’s in town. I have never seen a trace of a dark root in Berenice’s hair. It is always perfect: placid, unthreatening, shoulder-length blonde. Not sexy blonde. But grown-up, good taste, all-my-glassware-comes-from-Conran, ash blonde. Personally I favour brown. Slightly unruly, all-my-glasswear-comes-from-Ikea-or-was-borrowed-from-my-local-pub, mousy brown.
Sam also told me that Martin Meddlar, our CEO, gets his hair bouffed at Nicky Clarke once a week and puts it down as a work expense. When I asked Sam how he came by this business-critical information he merely raised an eyebrow and said ‘Exactly!’ (Either he’s hacking into Finance’s expenses file, or he’s hacking into London’s chi-chiest hairdressers’ Hotmail accounts. He’s capable of both.)
I glance over to see if Martin and his bouff are in their vast corner office, but no, the plush leather chair is empty. Generally Martin comes in at 11 a.m., lunches from 12 p.m. with a senior client, then returns slightly drunk at 3.50 p.m. just in time for his driver to take him home at 4.00 p.m. on the dot. (‘The A40 gets totally gridlocked after 4.30 p.m.’)
Berenice must sense movement, as she finally looks up and beckons me in. She’s been the head of my department for six years and yet I still feel slightly sick with fear every time I have a meeting with her. ‘Susannah, take a seat,’ she says.
My name is Susie. I know it’s the same name. I know it’s not a big a deal. But the only other person who calls me Susannah is my mother when I’ve done something earth-shatteringly wrong (borrowed her car and forgotten to reset the rear-view mirror; failed to be a successful and married dentist like my brother).
‘Fletchers OK?’ says Berenice, staring down at her notepad.
Good morning, Susie. Are you well? You look a little tired. I know that we work you terribly hard, but we do so appreciate your labour on behalf of our bottom line. Would you like a cup of tea? A posh biscuit? Maybe even some eye contact? To be honest, I’m happier without the eye contact. There is something hostile in Berenice’s grey eyes that I can only assume is the by-product of her being bullied by Martin Meddlar. That’s just a rumour – he’s only ever been nice to me. Too nice, in Berenice’s opinion – hence my dowdy dress. Anyway, allegedly he bullies her, and she bullies me: a pretty little daisy chain of bullying that entwines the three of us.
‘Fletchers is great,’ I say. ‘Spanish pizza sales are up twenty-three per cent, and the digital campaign’s tracking well.’
She nods. ‘How’s Jonty getting on?’
Aaah, Jonty. The I-d-iot she’s allocated to help me out with print ads. The lazy, cocky red-jeaned idiot who is Berenice’s best friend’s godson and therefore couldn’t possibly be an idiot.
‘Yup. I think Jonty’s enjoying himself.’
‘Glad he’s helping you out. Now. I know you’re looking to progress by year end.’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ I nod. ‘I’ve been an account director for six years now, so I’m definitely ready …’ And have been for the last two years since I first asked you for a promotion and you first waved a little carrot near me, before smashing me with a stick of Fletchers pizza.
‘And I believe Devron at Fletchers has mentioned Project F to you already.’
‘Briefing’s tomorrow. What’s it all about?’
She flinches. ‘I can’t share that information, I’ve signed a non-disclosure agreement.’ I bet if I asked her where her PA keeps the Earl Grey teabags she’d say she’s signed an NDA on that too.
‘Berenice, can I just check, it is still a pizza brief, isn’t it?’ It had better be. Pizzas are bad enough. (I’ve also done time on Jumbo Pasties and Asian Cuisine, which for some reason included Polish dumplings.) Just please, please, please don’t put me on Dog and Bog. The worst possible fate for anyone here is to be moved to Dog and Bog. (Household department: pet food and loo roll.)
She sighs. ‘Basically it’s their biggest launch of the financial year. Super-high-profile, game-changing, mega-strategic. Lots of … fun.’ She says the word ‘fun’ like other people say the word ‘herpes’. She squints at something on her notepad. It’s the only thing on her desk other than a white porcelain vase with a narrow neck that is currently strangling a single pink orchid. My desk looks like a crime scene. Berenice associates messiness with stupidity, which might explain why she always talks to me like I’m nine years old.
‘Susannah. This is your opportunity to prove yourself. It’s time to put clear blue water between you and your peers. That’s if you want to notch it up to the next level. You’ve got people like Jonty at your heels, champing at the bit for projects like this.’
My peers? Jonty thinks spaghetti grows on trees. He actually does.
‘This project will define you,’ she says. ‘If you get this right …’ She looks at me with almost a smile. Of course she will not say ‘If you get this right I will promote you’ for that would amount to a sentence (in mid-air, if nowhere else) for me to clutch onto in my darkest hours. Two years ago Berenice said ‘If you prove yourself on pizzas …’ She never finished that sentence and I never pinned her down; cowardice stopped me. Well, cowardice has not served me well – it’s time for a change of tack.
‘Are you saying that if I get this right then at Christmas you’ll promote me?’ I say, as softly and gently as a human voice can deliver a sentence.
Her almost-smile disappears instantly. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’
‘I don’t mean to push you, but I’m just trying to be clear what I need to do to …’ What was her awful buzz-word? Mirror her awful buzz-word, speak Berenice back to her. ‘What I need to do to notch it … to the next level …’
She stares at me as if she’s trying to decide between two identical shades of white paint, neither of which are satisfactory. ‘I need you to exceed my expectations. I need to see a step-change in your performance. I need to be convinced you’re ready for this. You are ready for this, aren’t you, Susannah? I need to see that you’re hungry. Are you hungry?’
‘Oh I’m hungry, Berenice. I’m hungry.’
I’m always hungry.
I’m the hungriest.
‘Can we go and eat?’ I say to Rebecca as I hover over her desk at the end of the day. Rebecca and Sam are the only two reasons I’ve stayed borderline sane at NMN and arguably that border has been crossed a few times of late.
‘Not bothered about food but I could murder a drink,’ she says, pointing to a presentation on her screen titled ‘Shlitzy Alcopops – Nurturing The Brand Soul’.
‘How can you always drink on an empty stomach?’ I say.
‘I’m a professional,’ she says, shutting down her computer and grabbing her coat. ‘Where’s good on a miserable rainy Tuesday?’
‘Hawksmoor? Killer cocktails and their burgers are meant to be amazing.’
‘First round’s on me,’ she says. ‘Let’s make it a double.’
Is Rebecca a Leftover then? She’s thirty-three, single, does a bullshit job, drinks a little too much. She happens to be gorgeous: she has huge brown eyes with naturally long, thick curly lashes. She never needs to wear mascara, but when she does, people just stare at her as if her eyes can’t be real. Plus she’s curvy, and leggy! Honestly, if I didn’t know her I’d hate her. But I do know her. So I know that along with being naturally beautiful, she’s also funny, kind and loyal.
What I don’t know is why she’s single. Other than that she’s playing a numbers game and hasn’t found that mythical ‘one’ yet. And with Rebecca it definitely isn’t for lack of trying. Well, who knows what’s around the corner?
‘Best Piña Coladas in London, hands down,’ I say, fishing a yellow cocktail umbrella from my glass and sticking it behind my right ear. Perfect! A little friend for the pink one behind my left.
‘Try this,’ she says, holding out her Martini glass. ‘It says on the menu that it’s an anti-fogmatic, and that in the 1820s, doctors recommended it be drunk before eleven in the morning.’
‘And you’d be drunk before eleven in the morning, Berenice would love that … Did the barman say he uses coconut sorbet in this?’
‘I wasn’t listening to him, I was just looking at him.’ She grins. ‘Did you see his body?’
‘Becka, he’s like twenty-two years old.’
She shrugs. Rebecca has no qualms about letching over younger men. I don’t do it for fear of looking like a cougar, but Rebecca’s not yet old enough to be branded a cougar. Besides, the barman couldn’t keep his eyes off her either.
‘Let’s do Piña Coladas every Tuesday,’ I say, taking another swig of my drink. ‘This is almost like being on holiday!’
‘This place is great,’ she says, taking in the dark wood panelled walls and old-fashioned table lamps.
‘Isn’t it? We’re two minutes from all that tourist crap in Covent Garden but we could be in a New York speakeasy. Where’s my burger, how long since I ordered?’
‘Never mind the burger, I think we’ve got company,’ she says, smiling her perfect Juicy Tubed smile at someone behind me.
Bingo. It never takes more than a couple of drinks in any social setting before Rebecca has attracted male attention. She’s the perfect wing-man. (Wing-woman sounds weird, like a low-budget super hero; Wing-Woman! She has wings and she’s learning to fly!) ‘Pulling partner’ isn’t right either technically, as Rebecca invariably pulls and I don’t. But that’s because she always gets the hot guy and leaves me with the sidekick. Fair enough, I guess I’m the sidekick too. Still, even the leftovers don’t want other leftovers.
And here we go again.
‘Can we buy you beautiful ladies a drink?’ says the better-looking one to Rebecca.
‘Have a seat,’ she says. ‘I’ll have a glass of champagne, my friend Ella Umbrella over there will have another Piña Colada.’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ I say. I’m tipsy already – two strong cocktails on an empty stomach have done me in.
‘And a couple of Jäger Bombs too,’ says Rebecca, giving me the look. The look that says ‘Don’t complain your life is boring if you refuse to join me in Living It Up and Getting Pissed On A School Night. Booze! Boys! What more could you want?’
‘Rebecca! You know they don’t agree with me …’
Sixty minutes, two Jäger Bombs and another Piña Colada later, I’m trying to work out where to stick my new green umbrella.
In Danny, the handsome guy, for droning on about the transfer window?
In Rebecca, for faking interest so brilliantly, thus leaving me stuck with The Douche Bag?
Or straight into The Douche Bag? I mean, come on: we both know the deal. We’re meant to politely chat and let the other two get on with flirting. But no.
I now know Jason is forty, a Virgo, but on the cusp and actually way more Libran.
