Читать книгу The Happiness Recipe - Stella Newman - Страница 11

I will never, ever let Rebecca order me a Jäger Bomb, ever again.

I wake up in my clothes with half a pink umbrella in my hair, a splitting headache in my left eye and the taste of McDonald’s dill pickle in my mouth. It’s fine. I’m not late for work or anything. But as I lie here in bed, talking myself out of chucking a sickie, I can’t help but think ‘Why, oh why am I still working at NMN?’

I’ve been there for six years. I moved there from BVD, an even crappier agency, where I worked on a yellow fats account. (Yellow fats = butter, anything that behaves like butter, or that you’d say was butter-y-ish if you had no taste buds/someone put a gun in your mouth. In fact a gun in your mouth would taste more like butter.) I moved agencies because I thought the problem was BVD and yellow fats. But I’ve come to realise that the problem wasn’t my old agency. It wasn’t the spreadable butter-replacement solutions. It’s this business full stop.

Oh I know what you’re thinking: daft cow, of course advertising is full of tossers! Since the 1980s, ad ‘folk’ have been second only to estate agents as figures of hate. But in recent years two things changed all that. First, bankers and politicians (never high on your Christmas card list), made a running sprint, like at the end of the Grand National, for Public Enemy spots number one and two. The guys from Foxtons slipped down to third place, and ad folk – well, we fell off the podium.

And second: Mad Men came on TV. The men were chauvinists but sexy chauvinists. The women looked like actual women. Everyone smoked and drank and had sex with everyone else in the office. The industry suddenly looked glamorous and grown up and intellectually stimulating. And suddenly people seemed to forget that Mad Men is a made-up TV show rather than a documentary, and started thinking maybe advertising wasn’t so bad after all.

Friends began asking if it was anything like Mad Men at NMN. To which the answer is surprisingly twofold: a bit, and not at all. A bit: the men are still chauvinists. Everyone drinks. Some still smoke. Everyone still has sex with everyone else in the office (apart from Sam and me). But glamorous? Grown up? Intellectually stimulating? See ‘not at all’ for details. And as for women who look like actual women? I’m one of only four females in the building who’s bigger than a size eight, and two of the others are pregnant.

Anyway – I think, as I force myself to crawl out of bed – it’s all going to be fine because I have THE plan: execute this new brief perfectly, stay out of trouble with Berenice, get my bonus and promotion at Christmas, then go and find something fun and fulfilling to do in the world of food instead. And no, I will not be serving fries with that.

It could be a lot worse, I figure as I head to the tube. At least I don’t work at Fletchers.

Fletchers is a rubbish supermarket. They’re the seventh biggest in the UK. They used to be fourth, but they’ve steadily cut the quality of their food and staff. If you go into a Fletchers after 2 p.m. on a weekday, chances are they’ll have run out of milk and bread and you’ll be lucky to find a chicken in sell by date. They’re plagued by bad PR stories: the guy on the meat counter filmed by an undercover Sun reporter picking his nose and then touching the pork belly; donkey meat in the burgers; the relabelling of mutton as lamb; the job-lot of tomatoes from China that were genetically modified in an old nuclear plant.

They’re still pretty popular with shoppers though. Why? Here’s why: firstly, you can feed a family of four for two pounds at Fletchers. Secondly, a large proportion of the British public love the Fletchers ‘brand’. Devron, Fletchers’ Head of Foods and Marketing, is on record as saying ‘If you crossed James Corden with a can of Tango and a Geordie hen night, that’s what our brand stands for: down-to-earth, honest, cheeky fun.’ And all that cheeky fun is down to the advertising we’ve done for them over the last six years. Advertising that I have, in some small way, been involved in. Good job I don’t believe in re-incarnation or I’d be coming back in the next life as a vajazzle.

Fletchers hired NMN as their agency because we are the diametric opposite of Fletchers. We look classy (from the outside at least). We are big. Shiny. Expensive. We do ads for famous beers and jeans; for deodorant that is in every bathroom cabinet in the nation.

Our offices are plush and tasteful. They reek of sobriety.

We’re not wacky, soothe the white walls in reception.

We are solid, reassure the marble tiles in the first-floor client loos. We won’t take your overpriced t-shirt brand and ‘sex it up’ so that next year the only people wearing it will be gypsies on a reality TV show. Gosh no – not our style at all.

Take a closer look, whisper the spot-free windows in the second-floor boardroom. Here, borrow this ruler so you can measure how thick the chocolate on our client biscuits is. See? Isn’t that wonderful? Everything’s going to be just fine.

(It’s a good job clients never take the lift above the second floor. Up on fourth, the creatives inhabit their own little Sodom. Management up on fifth is Gomorrah. The smell of fire and brimstone is masked by copious amounts of Jo Malone Red Roses air freshener but that doesn’t fool me.)

And then we come to my desk, here on the third floor – home of the account directors. It’s a metaphorical floor plan. Below us are the clients, when they come in for a meeting. Above us, the creatives. We are stuck in the middle of two warring factions, the filling in a sandwich that you would be well advised not to eat.

I dump my bag on my chair and take a deep breath. Right: I’ve made a decision. Today is going to be a good day. Yes, I’m hungover, which isn’t ideal. But I have a large white coffee in one hand, and a brown paper bag with buttered white toast and Marmite in the other. Caffeine. Salt. Fat. Carb. Chair. Those five nouns: what more could a girl ask for?

Even better! Jonty’s not here. He’s off on a course all week learning how to manage his workload. Bless, I don’t think he needs any help on that front, he’s given it all to me.

And in other good news Rebecca is out too, on a shoot, so she won’t be able to nab me over lunch break and try to make me talk about last night. Rebecca is one of those friends who thinks it’s important always to confront the truth. Doesn’t she realise no one ever thanks you for telling them the truth? Denial is a healthy psychological state, designed to protect us from ourselves, and should be respected accordingly.

So no lunchtime shaming. In fact, today’s lunch is going to be the start of the rest of my life: Devron’s finally briefing me on Project F and I’ll be on the road to promotion. He’ll phone me in a bit to tell me where he wants to be wined and dined. My mother is always telling me how lucky I am that I get to go to the occasional posh restaurant and not have to pay. Maybe it does sound glamorous. Except it’s not like going somewhere fab with your friends. No. It is going somewhere fab with a compulsive freeloading rude buffoon who is a stranger to the concept of shame.

Sure enough, my phone rings at 10.57.

‘S-R,’ he says. Berenice calls me Susannah. Devron calls me by my initials, S-R. He doesn’t think women other than secretaries should be allowed in the workplace and I figure it’s his subconscious mind trying to pretend I’m not a girl.

‘So Devron, where do you fancy today?’

‘Hawksmoor,’ he says, ‘in Covent Garden. Hello? Are you still there, S-R?’

‘Uh-huh …’ I say, trying to replay exactly what interaction I had with the bar staff last night … Did that waitress overhear any of the clown stuff?

‘I want steak,’ says Devron. ‘Hawksmoor. It’s a beef place.’

More than familiar with it thanks, Devron – familiar with the barman, the waitress, the cocktail menu, the cocktail menu … Actually, playing it all back in my head, I don’t remember embarrassing myself in front of the staff … However, I also don’t remember whether I took a cab or the tube home last night … Not worth the risk. ‘We can’t go to Hawksmoor,’ I say, a little too forcefully.

‘What do you mean, can’t?’ says Devron, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice. Damn. There goes the golden rule of my job. Never ever use the c-word in front of a client.

‘It’s just … we might have trouble getting a table at such short notice … it’s very popular.’

‘Janelle’s on the other line getting us one now,’ he says.

Quick … think. ‘Tell her not the Covent Garden one! There’s a new one! In Air Street! It’s meant to be … much … airier?’

‘What’re you on about? The one in Covent Garden’s ten minutes away.’

‘If you fancy beef let’s go to Gaucho’s. They do that lovely Argentinian rib-eye …’

‘Nah, been there loads. Plus, they’re Argies. Hold on … one o’clock? Yeah, Janelle’s got us in at one, in the bar area. See you there.’

I hang up and have a terrible, paranoid, hungover thought. I check my wallet. Nope. No receipt. I start texting Rebecca to ask if she paid for our drinks last night because I definitely didn’t. That’s all I need: turn up and find myself on a Wanted poster. Rebecca’s on a shoot though so she’ll have her phone off till lunch.

No choice: I’m going to have to adopt a disguise, fake moustache not an option. Off to the loo. Right, let’s see what we’ve got to work with today …

Well, one good thing about having mousy hair and bluey-grey eyes is that you don’t leave a striking physical impression at the scene of a crime. I have the sort of neutral features that you’d describe as nondescript if you were being bitchy; or chameleon-like, if you were Jake, trying to be poetic on our third date. Nothing is too big or small but nothing is special either. If I apply make-up really well I can scrub up to a 7 out of 10. If I’m tired or have no blusher on, these days I can sink to a 3.

I’ll have to rely on subtle styling. OK, hair was down, or was it up last night? It smells of smoke. Rebecca must have been smoking, so my hair was probably down, which is why it smells of Marlboro Lights. Fine: I’ll stick it up in a bun.

Yesterday I was in my burgundy dress and heels; today a navy jacket, cream t-shirt and trousers. That’s good, less showy. And I’m in flats so a totally different height, five foot six now, and yesterday I was at least five foot eight.

Face. OK, not much we can do about this. Yesterday’s eye make-up is still on, but a bit smudged under the eyes, not too bad. I could pop to Boots and buy some red lipstick – oh, the irony … Pass myself off as French … Mind you, red lipstick will only draw attention, and I always feel ridiculous wearing it, like a little girl pretending to be her mother.

Glasses! That’ll do the trick. They’re in my handbag. Hair back, glasses on, no lipstick. Totally neutral and nothing special. I could walk into a bar like this and a man would look at me for about two seconds and then not look again. It’s at moments like this that I really start to feel my age, these last few tainted years between now and forty when I can still pass for youthful. The time is slipping away from me like an egg white down the kitchen sink – a little dribble at first, then a giant whoosh, and suddenly it’s gone.

I head back to my desk, a small cloud forming: shake it off. Why am I even worrying about the bar staff approaching me? Ridiculous. Hawksmoor’s a classy establishment. Worst-case scenario they’ll take me subtly to one side, tell me they’ve added the drinks to the bill. In fact I hope they do add the drinks to the bill. It’s bad karma running out on a bill, isn’t it? By the time I’ve talked myself into and out of a panic, it’s time to go. Still no text back from Rebecca. I’ll just have to hope for the best.

Sure enough, it’s fine. When I get to the restaurant and head gingerly down the stairs, neither the barman nor the waitress are anywhere to be seen. All that panic over nothing. I don’t know what’s wrong with me sometimes. I always fear the worst – maybe as a way of preparing myself for life’s constant disappointments.

Devron’s already at the table with a bottle of wine from the priciest third of the list. He normally only has one glass, then takes the rest of the bottle home to have with his girlfriend. Berenice doesn’t mind – she’ll sign off any client-related expenses without a quibble, even lapdances at Stringfellows when the luxury car team take their client out on a mega jolly. But try to expense a taxi home at 11 p.m. on a rainy winter’s night and she’ll send round an all-staff email, titled ‘KEEP CALM AND CATCH THE TUBE! – AUSTERITY TIMES!’ naming and shaming you.

‘What are we having?’ says Devron, handing me a menu. He does mean we, not you. Devron is one of life’s sharers. Well, a one-way sharer. I too am a sharer. I want other people to try the food I love. I put things on their plates; I eat from theirs. In fact I have no problem eating from a stranger’s plate. Jake and I once had a massive row because he thought I was flirting with a man on the table next to us, when all I really wanted was a taste of his cherry pie.

However, I cannot share with Devron. When I first started on Fletchers we went to The Ivy. I was so excited, I’d never been. The waiter had barely laid down my pudding when Devron licked the entire back of his spoon like an eight-year-old boy trying to out-gross his sister. Then, as if in slow motion, he plunged it into my untouched chocolate fondant. Since then I’ve developed an over-sensitivity to him touching my food. And he always does touch it. It’s just a question of when. In the past I’ve tried different strategies to avoid him ruining our meals together. Tried pulling the plate away. Tried saying I’m developing a cold sore. Tried licking my own spoon copiously. To no avail.

‘Get the burger,’ says Devron.

‘Don’t fancy it,’ I say, looking down the menu for the least Devron-friendly dish. ‘You get the burger.’

‘I want steak. Get the burger.’

‘I had a burger last night, I’ll have grilled fish.’

‘You can’t order fish in a steak restaurant. Come on, S-R, look at how good that looks!’ he says, pointing to the table to my left.

Devron is right though. The burger looks terrific. And I am badly in need of something more substantial than a sliver of white fish. Plus, a MacDonald’s cheeseburger – perfect for a drunken snack – is as much about the excitement of unwrapping that greaseproof paper as anything. This Hawksmoor burger is in a different league: a thick, char-grilled patty of Longhorn beef on a brioche bun, all the trimmings. And it was supposed to be mine last night. Brainwave! If I keep a tight grip on it Devron won’t be able to nick any!

Devron beckons the waiter over. ‘We’ll start with lobster, then I’ll get the Chateaubriand, triple cooked chips, beef dripping chips and she’ll have a burger.’

‘Any sides?’ says the waiter.

‘Macaroni cheese,’ says Devron.

‘Good choice,’ says the waiter, sticking his pencil back behind his ear when he should be reaching for his sharpener.

‘Then bone marrow … creamed spinach … and talk me through the ribs,’ says Devron.

‘Tamworth belly ribs, sir? Tender pork, marinaded in maple syrup, chipotle and spices.’

‘Yeah, one of those with the lobster. And we’ll do puddings now – I’ll have the peanut butter shortbread, she’ll have …’

‘I haven’t even looked yet …’ I say.

‘Sticky toffee ice cream sundae,’ says Devron.

Gross. Don’t get me wrong. I’m greedy. I love food. I like to try a bit of everything. I just can’t stand waste. Maybe that’s why I never throw anything away. It’s obviously not like I was a war baby, but fundamentally it offends me to see good food go in the bin. I think it’s because I come from feeders. In my mother’s kitchen food equals love: why would you throw that away, even if it is slightly on the turn?

‘So! Big brief!’ says Devron, pulling his chair closer to the table. ‘Super-high-profile, game-changing – mega-strategic!’ I wonder if he stole this phrase from Berenice, or she stole it from him? I wonder how long I can avoid having to use it myself …

‘We’re developing a range that’s going to do-mi-nate the pizza market!’ he says. (The last ‘market-dominating’ idea Fletchers came up with was savoury chewing gum.) ‘We want TV ads, Twitter, the works. Budget’s mega – four million quid. This time next year we’ll have wiped the floor with every other retailer. Asda? As-don’t, more like. Dominos? Domi-no-nos!’

‘Good one, Devron.’ (I know. It’s bad. But if Berenice were here she’d have fake-laughed for a full minute.)

‘Our research guys report massive growth in low-cal treats, women worrying about cellulite but still wanting to nosh on comfort food.’ He gives me a knowing look as the waiter approaches with our starters. ‘Huge gap in the market and we’re going to fill it with a range of half-calorie pizzas! It’ll be bigger than Fearne Cotton’s arse.’

Does he mean Fearne Cotton or Fern Britton? Fearne Cotton doesn’t even have an arse, as far as I’m aware. (Devron left his wife and kids for Mandy, a girl he met on a boys’ night out at Tiger Tiger. By all accounts Mandy is an avid follower of celebrity culture. In an attempt to look ‘with-it’ Devron often references celebrities, but he sometimes gets a little confused.)

‘Let’s get Fearne Cotton for the campaign,’ he says. ‘Have you got her agent’s number?’

‘Devron, I think if you mean Fern Britton she actually did Ryvita already …’

He pauses, a chunk of lobster flesh half way to his mouth. ‘Oh. Well you guys can fine-tune the celeb, it was just a thought.’ He reaches for the plate of belly ribs and grabs one in his fist. ‘Well? What do you think?’

I think if you’re going to have a pizza, have a pizza. Do things properly or don’t bother.

‘How do they cut the calories so significantly?’ I say.

‘Sell punters half a pizza, ha ha ha!’ says Devron.

‘Seriously, how?’

‘Something to do with fat sprays, flavour substitutes … ask Jeff the recipe guy.’

‘What’s the name of the range?’

‘Legal are checking trademarks, I’ll confirm end of next week, but it’s a goody,’ he says, waggling a rib in the air like it’s a sixth finger, Anne Boleyn but with pork.

‘Have you researched it?’ I say.

‘No need, I feel it in my gut. Head, heart, guts.’ This is one of Devron’s favourite phrases. It’s the title of some management book he’s obsessed with and every time he wants to justify anything moronic he reels it out. His other favourite phrase is JFDI. Which is like the Nike slogan, Just Do It, but with added swearing.

I smile weakly as the waiter clears our plates.

‘Can I see the wine list?’ Devron says to the waiter, though there’s practically a full bottle on the table.

‘Don’t you like the Bordeaux?’ I say.

‘I just want to look at the list. Do me a favour? Go call Tom, fix up a meeting for Friday with him and Jeff to talk you through the range.’

‘Shall I do it after lunch? Our main courses will be here any minute.’

‘JFDI.’

There’s no reception down here so I pop upstairs and out onto the street. Opposite the restaurant is a dance studio and I pause to watch a class of ballerinas stand at the barre warming up. Beautiful. Their bodies are not like normal people’s bodies. They move so fluidly, it’s impossible to imagine them doing anything other than dancing. I wish I had an innate talent, other than the ability to eat a little bit too much.

I take my phone out to call Tom, Devron’s underling, and find a text from Rebecca: ‘I think the guys paid last night?’ Great. That’s exactly what won’t have happened. I’ve got away with it now, but still … I phone Tom and leave a message, then go back to join Devron and discover the real reason he sent me upstairs. There is now a second bottle of the same Bordeaux open on the table next to the first which is barely touched. I am witnessing a master at work. I’d forgotten that I have to watch Devron like a paranoid hawk at all times. Yet this is a new low – an act of such shameless greed that I almost have to take my hat off to him. Except he’d probably nick my hat and sell it on eBay while I was blinking.

‘Ah look, the mains,’ he says, nodding at two waiters en route with large trays.

The waiter puts my burger down in front of me. I immediately put my master plan into action: grab the burger and hold on for dear life. If Devron wants any he’ll have to fight me for it. For once he is not going to ruin my lunch. Devron looks at the burger. He looks at me. His brain goes into overdrive. Even though it’s dark in here, I swear I can see his pupils dilate. Hell, I can actually see the cogs inside his brain start to rotate. My grip on the burger tightens.

In my years at NMN I’ve learnt a smidgen about Greek mythology; board members often quote the Greeks as a way of making themselves look like intellectuals rather than men who spend all day fantasising about shagging the grads. One thing that comes to me, as my fingers sink into the bun and I struggle to contain the meat, lettuce and tomato inside, is the concept of the Pyrrhic victory. Named after a king who won a battle but lost a war, it loosely equates to a tiny gain offset by a gigantic loss. For, after two delicious bites, my over-tight grip causes the beef to slide from my bun, and Devron, quicker than a Venus flytrap, reaches out, stabs the beef and drags it across the table to his own plate. Game over, and he didn’t even blink.

‘So, Devron …’ I say, wondering how it’s possible that I’ll be paying two hundred pounds for this meal and I’ll still need to pop to M&S for a sandwich on my way back to the office, ‘this brief. Is the airtime still planned for the start of May?’ He nods.

‘OK: I’ll brief a creative team next week,’ I say. ‘That’ll mean shooting the ad after Easter and, and … and …’

‘And what?’

And the barman from last night’s just walked in.

‘And … yes …’ There he is, talking to my waiter, and now he’s turning and shit, yes, he’s looking this way. ‘And … yes … good, yes, Easter.’ Shit. ‘Easter.’

‘Yeah, shoot after Easter,’ says Devron. ‘Blah … blah … blah … timing plan,’ he carries on.

Oh God. The barman is totally staring at me, and now smiling. No, that’s not a smile, that’s a grin! He is grinning in a way that does not bode well.

‘Blah … blah … blue sky thinking … blah … blah … Nike ad …’ says Devron.

‘Absolutely, Devron,’ I say, nodding. Oh no! Now the barman’s scribbling something down … the bill!

‘Blah … blah … super-tight deadlines … share the process early …’

‘Yes, of course …’ I nod. Oh good grief no! He’s coming over. Get back behind the bar, this is not on!

He’s half way across the floor heading towards us. I’ve got to move. Right now.

‘Blah … blah … three weeks on Friday, yes?’ says Devron.

‘Sure, yes, whatever you want, back in a sec,’ I say, darting out from behind the table and heading speedily towards the toilets, head down.

Christ. Lucky escape. How long can I hide in here for? Too little time and the barman will still be lurking. Two and a half minutes? La-di-dah … Quick make-up check … Oooh, nice wall tiles in here, didn’t notice those last night. White rectangular subway tiles, very classic … Right, I think that’s about time.

I pull the bathroom door open to find the barman standing waiting for me, arms folded. He really is embarrassingly good looking: thick black hair and green eyes, with thick lashes. And that body! His black t-shirt stops at the perfect mid point of his arm, showing off perfect, not too large, but very defined, tanned biceps.

‘You again! I couldn’t believe it when I saw you in here!’ he says. Ditto.

‘Well … Sorry,’ I say, ‘but I have to get back to my table …’

‘Hang on a minute,’ he says. ‘I’m glad you’re here, there’s something I didn’t manage to give you guys last night, you ran out before I could get over to you!’

Hurry up and get this over with then.

‘Yep, sorry about that … just give it to me, I’ll sort it,’ I say, holding out my palm and turning slightly away so that Devron can’t see what’s going on.

‘Cool! I didn’t want to hand it over at the table, I thought it might not be appropriate,’ he says, handing me a little green paper umbrella. Ah, nice touch. Giving me the bill inside the umbrella, that’s a classy move. I look over to see if Devron’s watching but he’s otherwise occupied, knuckle-deep in my sundae.

‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ he says.

‘Bad luck opening an umbrella indoors,’ I say.

He smiles. ‘Go on, before you go back.’

I quickly open the little parasol, and sure enough, there’s a figure written down inside. Except there’s no pound sign. And no decimal point. And while the drinks here are expensive, they’re not that expensive. This number’s eleven digits long.

His phone number. Oh my goodness. This super-hot young barman is giving me his phone number. The game is not over yet! – I have still got it going on! I must stop being so hard on myself. Evidently I don’t look bedraggled at all. I look good. Better than good: Very Good. Sexxy. Hot enough to attract this chisel-jawed guy who looks quite like David Gandy. I don’t think anyone this handsome has chatted me up for years. Maybe I’m entering a pre-Mrs-Robinson stage of allure? A little firework of delight goes off inside me. I try not to show a reaction but I’m already grinning like an imbecile.

‘What’s her name?’ he says.

‘Susie,’ I say. ‘It’s Susie.’ Hang on. Her name? What? Whose name? Oh no.

‘Susie.’ He says it like a handshake. ‘Sorry if I was staring at you girls last night, I just think your mate’s properly beautiful. If it isn’t too cheesy, would you ask her to call me?’

I nod silently, trying to keep my smile up.

‘I’m Luke by the way. What’s your name?’

I feel a substantial part of my self curl up into a ball and start to howl, though I stay standing, one arm resting on the door frame, pretending not to be acutely embarrassed.

‘I’m also Susie actually.’ I say, realising that I’m about to pay the bill with my credit card, which clearly says Susie Rosen on it. ‘We’re both Susies.’

‘That’s funny,’ he says.

‘Isn’t it just,’ I say. ‘Ha! We’re like the Two Ronnies … you know, well actually she’s more a Sue-becka. Some people even call her … Becka … Subecka … her middle name’s Becka, that’s why … just to tell us apart …’

‘Subecka! Sounds Japanese! Well anyway, say hi from me.’

‘Will do, got to go!’ I say, heading back to Devron, who is arranging with the waiter for his two bottles of wine to be re-corked and put in a bag for him.

‘Bit young for you, wasn’t he?’ says Devron, as I sit back down. ‘It’s good ice cream, have some,’ he says, poking his spoon at my sundae glass.

‘I’m stuffed,’ I say.

‘Right: see Tom and Jeff end of the week and get scripts to me three weeks on Friday.’

‘That soon, Devron?’

I’m pretty sure the Amish can erect a wooden house in twenty-four hours. Apparently God created the Universe in seven days. But it takes our creative teams one month to write a few piddly scripts.

‘That timing’s too tight, Devron.’

‘You said it was OK a minute ago!’

I have zero recollection of agreeing to anything of the sort. And if I did it was only because I wasn’t listening to a word he was saying … OK, let me think: if I brief a team early next week I might manage it, if Robbie gives me one of the more amenable, mature creative teams. Maybe lovely old Andy Ashford.

‘Theoretically it’s possible …’ I say.

‘We’re good, right?’ he nods.

‘It does depend on the team’s availability and workload, I’ll do everything I can …’

‘You’re late on this project already.’

‘To be fair we haven’t had your brief yet. And we haven’t got a name for the range. And we haven’t seen the products either.’ So technically, Devron, I should be the one sitting across the table giving you a menacing look, not the other way round …

‘So that’s a yes then,’ he says nodding again. (Last year Devron spent a week on a ‘How to Influence People’ course. He spent five days glued to YouTube videos of Tony Blair and Obama. Now whenever he wants something unreasonable he nods like a plastic dog in a car. Horrifically, this technique seems to work.)

I nod back at him. ‘Yes, Devron,’ I say, ‘yes, that’s totally fine.’

I have a nasty feeling in my head, heart and guts, that I shouldn’t have just said that.

The first thing I do when I’m back at my desk is fill out my expenses – two hundred and forty quid with that second bottle of wine! Just once before I quit I’d like to do what Steve Pearson, Board Director on pessaries, does regularly: take the person I’m having an affair with out for lunch and bill it as a client lunch. (Sam – premier source of intel, as per usual.) I’d never actually fake my expenses; more to the point, there’s no one here I’d have an affair with. What am I even talking about? I would never have an affair full stop. Why can’t anybody ever leave anybody without another body to go to?

I wander down to the mail room to see if Sam’s around. I fancy a coffee and a gossip but he’s nowhere to be found. He’s probably in the pub with Jinesh from IT, swotting up on some dodgy new computer software that can read your emails from outer space.

Finally (and this should have been first, but I’ve put it off because it’s the least fun) I take the lift up to the creative floor to visit Robbie Doggett’s secretary, Alexis. It’s impossible for me not to associate anyone called Alexis with Alexis Colby Carrington from Dynasty. So even if this Alexis wasn’t already a cold, manipulative bitch, I’d probably project that onto her anyway. She’s lying on the leather sofa outside Robbie’s office, wearing sequinned hot pants and her favourite Patti Smith t-shirt. Sam’s the only man in the building who doesn’t think she’s the most beautiful woman in W1. As a consequence she hates him. She hates him even more since last year’s Christmas party when he asked her – in front of her new pop star boyfriend – to name a single Patti Smith song.

She’s deep in concentration, studying Grazia.

‘Alexis. Have you got a sec?’

She puts her magazine down on the floor and checks out my outfit. Her gaze lingers briefly on my belt, then moves swiftly back to the mag. ‘Hi babe,’ she says wearily.

‘Can you please ask Robbie to allocate me a team for the Fletchers brief asap?’

‘Babe, he’s shooting in New York, not back for a week.’

‘Yes. I know.’ And as far as I’m aware they do have telephones and the internet in America. It might just be a rumour but I’m pretty sure it’s true. ‘He knows the brief’s urgent.’

‘He didn’t mention it to me,’ she says, flicking over the page. She pulls her head back as if she’s seen a burns victim. ‘Look at this cellulite!’ she says, her fingers tracing the thighs of some poor A-lister as if the paper were her own skin.

‘And tell him Devron wants scripts three weeks on Friday.’

‘You’ll never get that,’ she says.

‘I’ll call him myself and explain?’

‘Babe, you know that I’m The Gatekeeper. Leave it with me.’ End of conversation.

It’s pitch black outside by the time I finish, and a particularly cold March evening with no sign of spring in sight. All I want to do is head home and have a large glass of wine and a curry, but I’m trying not to drink every night. Plus I can’t justify splashing out on a mid-week take-away when I’m meant to be saving for my eventual escape.

Theoretically I should go home via Sainsbury’s. Try to be good, buy something healthy and full of beta-carotenes and Omega 3s. Is it Omega 3s or Omega 6s? Can’t I just eat double the 3s? A piece of salmon, some leafy green veg. I could make some form of cleansing broth. If I slipped in some udon noodles, it’d be almost like pasta … I should also pop in to see my neighbour, Grumpy Marjorie. I try to see her once a month and I haven’t been round for a while. The guilt is building up.

Then again, The Apprentice is on tonight. If I go straight home I could be in bed with Sir Alan on iPlayer by 9pm. Not in bed with Sir Alan, that wouldn’t work at all.

Decision made, I walk quickly to the tube station. I promise myself I’ll go round to Marjorie’s this weekend. Or maybe next weekend. And I’ll eat green leafy veg another day.

Right. Let’s start over. Stressful day, happy pasta shape needed. Farfalle! Butterflies are happy! And there’s the other half of that pack of bacon from Monday. I was planning a vegetarian dinner after watching Devron demolish a piece of bone marrow with his fingers earlier. Still bacon’s not really meat-meat. Pigs are more like chickens than cows, when you think about it.

And I’ll chuck in some frozen peas, they’re definitely vegetables … and there’s that carbonara recipe that doesn’t need cream – just one egg and an extra yolk – but it still tastes mega creamy: easy, peasy carbonara! Perfect. Crispy bits of bacon, little bursts of fresh, sweet peas, topped with lovely salty parmesan.

My stomach is rumbling on the tube and the minute I walk through my door I start the pasta and pour myself a little glass of wine. It’s just one glass. An hour later I’m in bed and I’m content. This is the best way that this day could end. I have three things that I really wanted. Good food. Good wine. Good TV.

I am thankful for these nights, when I am so exhausted, I can almost forget that I’ve ever been in love. I can almost forget the whole concept of having another person to share my life with. The good stuff, the bad stuff, a photo of ballerinas, the story of Devron and his wine. I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to fall asleep next to someone and wake up the next morning feeling happy and calm. I’ve almost forgotten all of these things. Except in these moments in the dark before sleep comes. And who ever really does forget, really?

Jake, my ex, used to have this thing about foreign catchphrases and quirks in other languages. For example, he thought it was hilarious that the English call condoms ‘French letters’, but the French call them English hats, ‘capotes Anglaises’. He’d often try to amuse my male friends with this fact, to the point where I’d have to leave the room from sheer repetition.

Another phrase he loved was ‘Metro, boulot, dodo’. Metro = subway. Boulot = French slang for ‘the grind’, i.e. the day job. And dodo = sweet slang for ‘dormir’ = to sleep; like you’d use to a child, i.e. sleepy time. The line is taken from a poem by a French writer, Pierre Béarn, about the tedium of monotonous work: tube, the grind, sleep. Welcome to my world.

Some mornings when I’d be struggling out of bed at 5.30 a.m. for a pre-meeting with Berenice where my sole purpose was to lay pencils for her in Boardroom Two at perfect right angles to the pads, Jake would grab my hand and try to pull me back into the warmth.

‘Why do you do that bullshit job? It’s Metro Bullshit Dodo, Susie, I don’t get it.’

‘I’m thirty-three, it’s the only job I’ve ever done. I’m not qualified for anything else.’

‘Your skills are totally adaptable, there’s loads of other jobs you could do.’

And then a year later, ‘Jake: I am thirty-four. That’s too old to change careers. I couldn’t afford to go back to college now, even if I wanted to.’

‘Stop being so negative. People older than you re-train to be doctors or even architects.’

‘I can’t stand the sight of blood, and I’m not smart enough to be a doctor or an architect.’

‘I didn’t literally mean those two jobs. I meant you could do anything – even if it takes a few years to get there.’

And then last year, ‘It’s easy for you, Jake! You’re naturally talented, you love your job and you’re paid loads to do it. I am average at everything. I have no hidden talents. What am I good at?’

‘Food. You just need to figure out a way to make it into a career.’

‘Yeah right, chip shop assistant number three, minimum wage and the boss gets to grope me behind the deep fat fryer …’

‘I don’t know. You could run your own café, do a mix of English and Italian classics, just simple, beautiful stuff. You’re such a good cook, and you love all that.’

‘Do you know how expensive it is to set something like that up? And do you know how many catering businesses fail in their first year? And if you think I’m busy and do horrendous hours now, what do you think that would be like?’

‘You could write a cookbook! Or do a recipe blog, or a blog all about pasta! That girl at work I was telling you about, she’s started doing a blog about make-up …’

‘Which girl?’

‘You know … my friend who does make-up.’

‘Who? Leyla Dempsey?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘The one whose dad bought her a flat in Notting Hill and a Birkin bag, and pays all her bills for her, but you say she’s not at all spoiled and she’s really down to earth? That one?’

‘Oh Susie, stop it.’

‘Stop what? No, it’s fine. I’m glad she can afford to spend her days writing about eye shadow, I’m sure it’s deeply enthralling, but you know, my dad didn’t buy me a flat and he doesn’t pay my bills and buy me handbags that cost a year’s salary in the chip shop.’

‘Well actually you do live in a flat that your grandma gave you.’

‘No, I don’t! She did not give it to me, that’s ridiculous. I pay seven hundred and fifty pounds a month to my brother, I have never asked my parents for money since I was twenty-one and I never would. Not least because my parents would tell me to get stuffed, and be a grown up.’

‘Well, why don’t you?’

‘Why don’t I what? Ask them for money?’

‘No. Why don’t you be a grown up?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Man up. Grow some balls. Stop wasting your time in a job you don’t even like. You’ve got no respect for most of the people you work with.’

‘That’s because they’re all letches or bullies. Anyway I do like Rebecca. And Sam …’

‘You’d still be mates with them if you leave. They might leave before you. Have you ever thought about that?’

‘Sam’s never going anywhere.’

‘Sam’s a loser, but he’s not the point.’

‘Don’t call Sam a loser,’ I say. ‘So your friend’s blog, presumably she doesn’t make any money out of it, it’s just some little vanity project? Oh, that’d be a great name for a beauty blog, The Vanity Project …’

‘Stop having a go at some girl you’ve never even met just because she’s got off her arse and is doing what you want to do.’

‘Are you saying I’m jealous of some twenty-three-year-old who writes about bloody lip balm?’

‘I’d say you’re clearly jealous, yes. And a bit vicious as well.’

‘I think it’s a really good idea if I go to work now.’

‘Yeah, I think that’s a really good idea.’

‘Am I seeing you later?’

‘Not sure …’

‘Why not?’

‘There’s a work-drinks thing in Soho …’

‘Oh … the whole company?’

‘A few of us, yeah.’

‘Oh. Well let me know if you pick up any brilliant tips on how to apply mascara. Am I supposed to look up or down? Gosh, it’s all so terribly confusing …’

‘Go to work.’

Sometimes I have an overwhelming urge to call him, to tell him that I’m finally going to hand in my notice, as soon as they promote me. I want him to know that at long last I’m about to be brave, jump off this treadmill, very soon. I am. But then he’ll ask me when, and what I’m going to do instead, and I don’t know yet, so I can’t, and I’ll look foolish.

And also if I call him, he’ll think I want him back. Which truly I don’t. After what happened? I couldn’t forgive him. And also she might answer. And that’s one voice I don’t ever need to hear again.