Kitabı oku: «The Happiness Recipe», sayfa 2

‘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.

He works in equities at a small Swiss firm near London Wall. He’s not being arrogant or anything but he’s bloody good at his job – it’s just a fact.

He lives in Putney, drives a BM, doesn’t much like films or books unless they’re about real life crime.

He listens to XFM, thinks Katy Perry’s got nice tits but Adele should lay off the doughnuts.

He goes down the gym – David Lloyd, Fulham – three to four times a week and does forty minutes on the treadmill at fourteen kilometres an hour ’cos he likes to look good. It’s where he met his last girlfriend, Megan, twenty-five, who was super hot, beautiful blow job lips, ri-di-culous body (the greatest arse in London), but after two years she was pressuring him to commit and he just wasn’t sure she was enough for him and he doesn’t miss her ’cos London’s full of fit birds. Mind you, you don’t want to be dating a woman who’s over thirty. There’s a reason why they’re single.

I am yet to find Jason’s redeeming features.

He thinks my name is Ella, and I haven’t bothered to correct him. Partly because he’s done nothing other than talk about himself for an hour. And partly because I’m now severely drunk. My burger hasn’t turned up and all I can think about is how hungover my Wednesday morning is going to be. I’m a little dizzy and I really should have a glass of water but Jason is now desperately chatting up the tattooed, red-lipsticked waitress and I don’t want to interrupt. She’s humouring him, playing along, because the cocktails here aren’t cheap, and if Jason orders a few more then her tip might reach double digits.

‘Oy, Danny,’ he says, pulling at his friend’s sleeve as the waitress heads back to the bar. ‘Did you clock that waitress’s mouth?’

‘Saw her tramp stamp,’ says Danny. ‘You dirty dog, Jase.’

‘I think she’s up for it,’ says Jason.

‘I think she’s a good waitress,’ I say, thinking that I couldn’t flirt with this tosser just for the sake of a bigger tip.

‘Those bright red lips! I bet she’s filthy …’ he says, nudging Danny.

‘For God’s sake, just because a woman wears red lipstick doesn’t mean she’s filthy,’ I say. ‘Where’s my burger?’

Jason takes a swig of his drink. ‘Yeah well in my experience red lipstick’s a good indication that a girl knows what she’s doing down there.’ He grins. ‘The more lipstick, the dirtier!’ He winks at Rebecca.

Good grief. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Are you actually suggesting that red lipstick indicates a girl is good in bed?’ Rebecca gives me a warning look: you’re drunk.

He shrugs and looks at his mate with a raised eyebrow, as if he’s said the most intelligent thing short of E = mc².

‘Because, Ja-son, if that’s true, then why don’t you run off and join the circus?’

‘What?’

‘Go join the circus, Jason. Date a clown. They wear loads of red lipstick – it’s all over their face. By your logic that makes them at least twice as filthy as that poor waitress. Yeah, Jase, go and date a nice dirty clown with a squeezy plastic flower and those funny stripy trousers.’

There is an embarrassed silence, filled eventually by Rebecca. ‘Sorry guys, maybe those Jäger Bombs weren’t such a good idea …’ she says. Jason is staring at me like I’ve said something … I don’t know, what is that word now … weird?

‘You know what, Jase?’ I say. ‘Maybe you don’t have to wait until the circus comes to town. You might get lucky. Maybe there are some clowns hanging out down the David Lloyd, running on the treadmill with their long slutty clown shoes.’

I see Rebecca shaking her head more violently in my direction.

‘Gosh, clown shoes must make running a real challenge. Bet they can’t do “fourteen kilometres an hour” like you can … Oh! And step class must be a nightmare! So embarrassing, always tripping over their own feet. Poor, sexy, slightly scary clut-slowns.’

‘Clut-slowns?’ he says.

‘Clut-slowns. Clut-slowns, slut-clowns, you know what I mean!’

‘Are you a lezza or what?’ he says.

‘What?!’ I haven’t been accused of being a lesbian since I refused to snog Elliot Johnson at the school Christ-mas disco when I was fourteen. ‘Jason … You know Maggie?’

‘Maggie who?’

‘Hello? Your ex-girlfriend Maggie? Wow, fickle! Two years together and you can’t even remember her name!’

‘That’s because her name’s Megan.’

‘Oh. Was it? I thought you said Maggie? No?’

He shakes his head.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Pretty sure …’

‘Anyway, “the greatest arse in London” – that one – well, Jason, I’ve got news for you, my friend: you are the greatest arse in London!’

‘Suze …’ says Rebecca, putting her hand on my arm. ‘Let’s get you some food …’

‘I think you should take your mental rug-munching friend home – get her back on her meds,’ says Jason, heading to the bar in pursuit of the waitress.

‘Yeah, send my love to …’ I rack my brain for the name of a famous clown … er … how come I don’t know any famous clown names? Now that really is embarrassing. ‘Send my love to … to Coco!’ I shout after him. Yeah. Coco. That’ll do. He was a boy clown. I think.

Danny whispers something to Rebecca and follows his mate to the bar. Rebecca just stares at me.

‘What?’ I say, twiddling my umbrella and checking whether the up-down mechanism on it works. Cool, it does! I love the fact that these umbrellas could actually function as mini parasols, for ladybirds or something …

‘Bloody hell, Suze,’ she says. ‘You need to stop doing that.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Being insane and aggressive when hot men are chatting us up.’

‘He wasn’t that hot. Anyway you fancy the barman more than you fancied him.’

‘Not the point.’

‘Come off it, he was booooring. And his nob-head friend was rude about Adele. I’m standing up for womankind. And he made that moronic comment about lipstick and I was merely trying to explain to him that … you know … you shouldn’t objectify women, and lipstick doesn’t make a girl sexy …’

‘Shall I tell you what else doesn’t make a girl sexy, Suze?’

‘What?’

‘Verbally attacking random men.’

‘Random dipshits more like …’

‘Whatever. Either way, you come across as angry.’

‘Becka, I’m only angry when I’m provoked.’

‘Look, I know you’ve had a drink …’

‘That’s your fault! You’re a bad friend! You made me have five drinks on a Tuesday night and you know I don’t get along with Jägermeister at the best of times, hideous Alpine medicine …’

‘Hang on a minute …’ she says.

‘What?’

‘The lipstick thing …’

‘No, it’s not what you’re thinking!’ I hold up my hand to stop what she’s about to say.

‘Isn’t Jake’s girlfriend a …’

‘Rebecca, it has nothing whatsoever to do with that.’

‘You’re not still looking at her stupid blog, are you?’

‘No.’

She looks at me.

‘Not really,’ I say.

‘You are. Oh Suze, why are you doing this to yourself?’

‘I’m not. There was some stupid piece in ES Magazine last week about Spring’s New Make-Up Looks. I saw her name, and then there was a little photo of her with her bloody Birkin bag like some wannabe Victoria Beckham, doing some model’s lip gloss at a show … I wasn’t Googling her, I really wasn’t.’

‘Oh Suze, she is so irrelevant.’

‘They’re still together, Rebecca. She’s posted some new pics on Facebook. God, I need some carbohydrate, I feel dreadful.’

She shakes her head and puts her arm round me. ‘Come on, you drunken, crazy fool. Let’s get you home for your meds.’

‘Only if by meds you mean two McDonald’s cheeseburgers for the road? Please, can we?’

She nods, resignedly.

She’s a very good friend.

Wednesday

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.