‘Celina Summer,’ he says. ‘She’s a mate of Karly’s, apparently she’d be up for it.’
Celina Summer … Celina Summer … that name sounds familiar … URGH. ‘Celina Summer who’s married to what’s-his-face in that band?’ Who wrote that recipe for a chicken sandwich in the newspaper that was chicken, bread and lettuce? Who knows nothing about food whatsoever?
‘Her new book Eat Music, Dance to Food is top of the charts,’ says Nick. ‘She’s going to be the next Nigella, we need to get her now before she hits the big time.’
Top of the charts? How does one even dance to food? I bet my recipe folder’s ten times better than her book and yet here I am, biting my tongue to shreds for fear of saying what I mean in front of this dickwad.
‘I’m not finding your silence hugely motivating,’ says Nick.
‘I’m thinking …’
I’m thinking that this campaign will bomb and I will never get promoted and I won’t escape. If I don’t escape I’ll still be here in my forties. I’ll become so bitter and angry that I’ll turn into a fully-fledged alcoholic rather than a trainee alcoholic. What remaining physical attractions I have left will rapidly diminish. No one will go out with me again, I will never ever have sex again, and then one drunken Saturday night in five years’ time I will crawl upstairs on my hands and knees to Caspar’s flat after drinking two bottles of white wine to proposition him and he will probably say no and then that truly will be the end of me. So you see, Nick, these scripts are a much bigger problem than you could possibly realise.
‘If you don’t like them speak to Doggett,’ he says, closing his folder and standing up.
Bollocks: I thought he might say that. I absolutely have to send something to Devron this afternoon, there’s no time left to waste, so I have no choice but to speak to Doggett. I look past Alexis’s shoulder and see that he’s in his office talking to Berenice. It never rains … Mind you, I should grab them while they’re together – Berenice at least should be sympathetic. She won’t want awful headlines about sexism and misogyny for NMN. Plus she has zero sense of humour and won’t know where to insert her pretend laughs when she sees the scripts.
But how to get past the Rottweiler … Alexis will make me wait till Monday for an appointment on point of principle. There’s only one thing to shift her from guard but I can only pull this trick once a year or she gets suspicious …
‘Alexis,’ I say. ‘I think Sam said there’s a massive parcel for you from Space NK downstairs.’
And she’s off! Faster than you can say Touche Éclat …
I knock on Robbie’s door. ‘Sorry to interrupt but …’
‘Be quick,’ says Berenice. ‘I’ve got to be somewhere in two.’
‘OK. I’ve just seen the Fletchers scripts and …’
‘Amazing, right?’ says Robbie.
‘Have you seen them, Berenice?’
‘Robbie and I were just talking about how taboo-breaking they are.’
‘They are both singular and multiple,’ says Robbie – a point I can’t argue with because I don’t understand what it means.
‘I agree about the taboo thing,’ I say. ‘I am concerned that they push it just a bit too far …’
Robbie nods his head, making slow forward circles with his neck. ‘Such as?’
‘OK. Well the Cruz one is potentially going to cause offence to Catholics.’
‘Go on …’ says Robbie.
‘And the CGI one … it’s just a bit unsavoury talking about bodily fluids on a food ad. Plus, it doesn’t even say the words Fletchers or pizzas, it just has a URL at the end …’
Robbie smiles benignly at me. Berenice looks at me as if I’ve just used her favourite orchid vase as a toilet.
‘And the Celina Summer Truth one … personally I’m a size twelve to fourteen and I don’t find her message very … endearing. And I just wondered if we could tone anything down a bit or whether there are any other scripts I could show?’
‘Fascinating,’ says Robbie. ‘You appreciate that the Cruz script is incredibly witty? And you are aware that comedy is binary?’
I open my mouth but all that comes out is a small puff of confusion.
‘As for sticking the client’s name or logo on a script, that’s so twentieth century.’
Berenice is nodding so fast and hard I’m surprised she doesn’t slide off her chair.
‘We live in an attention economy,’ says Robbie. ‘We are battling with thousands of brands to win the consumer’s heart and mind, and what do consumers want?’
‘Killer end lines,’ says Berenice.
‘Killer end lines,’ says Robbie. ‘And lucky you! Because we’ve given you three scripts with three killer end lines.’
‘I’m worried Devron will buy them but that customers will complain,’ I say.
‘Ah! So you think you know better than me, your creative team and your client? I suggest you endeavour to sell your scripts. Brave and fearless, Susie, brave and fearless.’
I feel almost sick with loathing as I close Robbie’s door on my way out. My face is still scarlet when I bump into Martin Meddlar in the lift on my way back down.
‘What’s wrong, darling, you look troubled?’
It is entirely inappropriate to discuss one’s day-to-day work problems with a man of Martin Meddlar’s ranking, in a lift. Then again, it is entirely inappropriate for a man of Martin Meddlar’s ranking to have grabbed my hand and to be swinging it now, gently, like we’re on some weird adult play date.
‘It’s nothing, Martin …’
He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Talk to me, Susie, I’m here to help.’
Alright then: if you’re going to squeeze me then I’m going to share some of this pain with you.
‘It’s these Fletchers scripts. I know you said be provocative, and I know it’s great to get PR, but I’m concerned they might alienate our female shoppers.’
‘I’m sure they’re fine, darling.’
‘There are three routes and they all feel too extreme, but Robbie and Berenice disagree.’
‘If you’re that worried, stick them into research. No point losing sleep over it.’
‘Devron’s not the biggest fan of listening to his customers. Plus Robbie and Berenice will be pretty unimpressed with me for even suggesting it.’
‘Tell them all I said to do it. How big’s this campaign?’
‘Four million pounds.’
‘Fine, do one group, that’s a couple of grand, say the agency will pick up the tab. I’ll get Finance to tuck it on another client’s job number.’ That’s the reason Martin runs this place – he’s as wily as they come.
‘Thank you,’ I say, sincerely. ‘This is a big project for me. I appreciate your advice.’
‘You know you can call me any time,’ he says, as we reach the ground floor. ‘Have you got my mobile, darling?’
‘I don’t think I do.’ I take my phone from my pocket. And it is my sheer bad luck that at the exact moment he is giving me his number the lift next to ours opens and out walks Berenice.
Still, there’s no time to worry about her reaction. I have to get these scripts off to Devron before 5 p.m. I email them over, writing a soul-destroying spiel about how strong the ads are; ‘how powerful, how original, how hard it must be to have to choose only one …’
And then I sit back and cross my fingers that he will hate them all, and insist on moving the airdate back three months and then I can get another team on the job who will do an award-winning script. And then Ryan Gosling will turn up at the awards ceremony with the world’s largest tub of chocolate mini-bites and when I say ‘But Ryan, won’t these make me fat?’ he will reply, ‘No Susie, they will make you even thinner and younger and prettier than you already are.’
And who says I’m not an optimist?
Saturday
Dalia has suggested an early evening drink at Boccarinos in Mayfair before she heads off to meet Mark for dinner.
Boccarinos is o
ne of those places where silver-fox titans of industry go for breakfast, to eat two poached eggs for fourteen quid. In the evening there’s a real scene: you could be in Italy in 1985, the amount of gel that’s slathered on the men’s hair. Over there in the corner is that miniscule billionaire who’s always in Hello! with what looks like his nurse but is in fact wife four. And across the counter from me at the bar are two high-class escorts, all tits and teeth, Choos dangling off heels.
Dalia loves it here – she loves Eurotrash-watching. She doesn’t love it quite enough to be punctual, and when she does arrive, twenty minutes late, she immediately announces she can only stay for fifteen minutes, as she totally got confused about her timings and thought dinner with Mark was at 9 p.m., when it’s actually at 7.30 p.m. Third time in a row she’s mucked me about because of him. Three strikes and she’s still not out …
‘I’ve bought us a bottle!’ I say, secretly cursing the fact that this wine cost thirty quid and I’ll either have to drink the whole thing alone here at the bar, or ask for a cork so I can take it home on the bus. Which is totally unacceptable behaviour at Boccarinos, even if it is sort of acceptable on the top deck of the number 13.
‘I’ll neck a glass with you now,’ she says, sitting and taking her coat off to reveal a scarlet silk dress with a plunging neckline.
‘Wow, beautiful, is that new?’ I say, as I notice the man next to her do a double-take.
‘Thanks – it’s Issa,’ she says.
‘Not cheap!’
‘Well it’s an important dinner for Mark. He asked me to make an effort.’
‘Did he buy it for you?’ I ask, staring at my glass to avoid her having to lie directly to my face.
‘… I had a voucher for Selfridges from work for my birthday … it wasn’t that expensive …’
‘And what’s this dinner you’re off to?’
‘Some charity gala, Mark’s mother’s on the committee.’
‘You’re finally going to meet the mother?’ After two years of not being allowed anywhere near family members.
‘No,’ she says, taking a large sip of wine and immediately fishing in her clutch bag for a mirror to check her lipstick. ‘She’s in Venice, some arts thing …’
‘Do you think he’ll introduce you to her one of these days?’ I say.
‘I don’t want to meet her,’ she says unconvincingly. ‘She sounds like a complete dragon. Besides Mark and I are … you know … we’re trying not to put too much pressure on our relationship at the moment … keeping it open, you know … We’re just hanging out.’
‘You’re just hanging out …’ I say, smiling, and re-adjusting her black lacy bra strap that’s slipping slowly down her shoulder.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she says.
‘What? Nothing! … I mean you’re hanging out of your dress!’
‘I know you and Polly don’t like Mark …’
‘Dalia …’
‘You think he’s using me, and that I’m some sort of an idiot or something. But he is a good guy. And I’m telling you it is the best sex of my entire life. I am talking full on, heated, rampant, can’t-concentrate-at-work-because-I’m-thinking-about-it, bloody-great, pin-me-up-against-the-wall sex.’
‘Alright!’
‘And I personally refuse to live without that,’ she says. Dalia thinks I should at least find myself a fuck-buddy. But I don’t want to segregate my heart from the rest of my body. So I am learning to live without that sort of sex. And I am almost used to not having it; almost at a point where I don’t miss it.
Not almost enough.
‘And what’s more,’ she says, ‘I refuse to apologise for the fact that I am a passionate person who knows what she wants.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Dalia, all I was doing was tucking your bra strap back in – nothing more! You don’t need to go on and on about it like that.’
She takes a deep breath. ‘Fine. It just feels like you judge me all the time.’
‘How’s work?’ I say, with forced jollity. ‘Boss still off?’
‘Yeah,’ she says, glancing at her watch. ‘I can’t believe it – a month off with stress, after she threw her iPhone at the work placement’s head! Still, at least she’s not micro-managing my every move. How’s yours?’
‘I’m off at Christmas, as soon as they promote me.’
‘You’ll leave?’
‘I hate it,’ I say, realising that hate is a strong word – yet, thinking about Nick and his scripts, perhaps not strong enough. ‘I’m not learning. It’s not fun. The only good things are my friends, and I’ll still see them if I quit.’ Funny, that’s what Jake used to say and I’d always shoot him down.
‘It’s a bad time to be out of work, they’re talking triple dip recession.’
‘You sound just like my mum,’ I say.
She looks at her watch again. ‘Shit, I’ve got to go or he’ll be pissed off. Let me give you some cash,’ she says, checking her make-up again. She holds the mirror an inch from her eyes, and prods gently at her cheekbones before shaking her head. ‘Mark’s right – I do look old and tired. I think I’m going to have to start getting filler.’
‘Nonsense. You look beautiful. You are beautiful. Wine’s on me. Go. You don’t want to be late.’ For a man who tells you how knackered you look …
She gives my arm a quick squeeze as she goes. I can tell she feels slightly bad about ditching me again on a Saturday night, but not as bad as I feel now, slightly tipsy Norman No-Mates with my bottle of wine. I turn the bottle round and pretend to inspect the label. I sense the man who’d given Dalia the once-over glance briefly at me. When he’s stopped looking I glance back.
Old. Expensive suit. Portly. A thick shot of white hair. He too has a bottle of wine all to himself, and not even the cover of a now-vanished friend to share it with. His booze is considerably finer than mine, however, and sits in its own shiny silver bucket. He has a couple of small plates of food – one with meatballs, another with what look like tiny mozzarella balls in a pale sauce. Without my glasses I can’t tell. They look too shiny to be cheese … They look tasty …
‘Excuse me,’ I say, my wine getting the better of me. ‘Is that mozzarella?’
‘Quail’s eggs. With tuna. Try some?’
‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘I was just trying to work out what they were.’
‘They’re terribly good.’ He pushes his plate towards me.
‘Only if you’re sure.’ I hastily pull the plate nearer. ‘And do you mind, the bread basket?’ In for a penny …
‘Verdict?’ he says, as I swipe a soft square of focaccia through the sauce.
‘Totally delicious. Thank goodness someone’s got the patience to peel a quail’s egg.’
‘I come here often,’ he says, looking around the room as if it’s his. ‘I’ll have a few bits here, then go next door for my main course.’
‘What’s next door?’
‘Lydia’s.’
‘I’ve always wanted to go to Lydia’s!’
‘I’ve been a member since 1958. Lydia and I were great chums, used to ski a lot together,’ he says. ‘If you fancy dinner, we can go there now?’
I look at him carefully. He is unfit, overweight, double my age. His complexion has the glowing redness of sunburn but I suspect it’s a lifetime of long lunches. If he tried to attack me I reckon I could hold my own. Besides, people don’t get abducted from swanky members’ clubs in Mayfair. Unless of course he slips me a Rohypnol …
‘So if you used to hang out at Lydia’s in the sixties did you know Lord Lucan, then?’ I say.
‘Bastard won a Jag off me playing backgammon.’
‘What’s your name?’ I wonder if he’s a politician.
He suddenly looks wary. ‘You ask a lot of questions.’
‘I can’t go to dinner with a man whose name I don’t know.’
He pauses for a moment to consider this. ‘Peter.’
‘And your surname?’
‘You don’t need to know that.’
Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. Either way I’m going to Google him when I go to the loo in a minute to check he’s not a murderer. The man used to gamble with Lucan – I mean, who knows?
‘Help me finish this Chablis,’ he says, clicking towards the barman for a clean glass, then filling it almost to the rim. If he is going to slip me a Mickey Finn right now is when. I watch the pour carefully. No sign of white powder falling from his Savile Row sleeve.
‘Back in a sec,’ I say, heading to the loo, smartphone at the ready. I type in ‘Peter’, ‘Lydia’s nightclub’ and ‘Lord Lucan’ and come up with five possible old aristos called Peter, then add in ‘backgammon’ and ‘Jaguar’ and find him – thank you, internet, for once you’re on my side!
Peter Emerson-Black, born in 1940 … yes, double my age. Made his money in the City in the eighties … Owns cars, a small plane, a football team – yep, he can pay for dinner. One ex-wife, no children … and no history of murder.
I check my face in the mirror. Why is he asking me to dinner, I wonder. I look OK tonight, quite well turned out I suppose in a knee-length navy dress with a high neck. And I guess I look quite classy compared to some of the women in here who are in head-to-toe leopard print. Why am I going for dinner with him is probably the question I should be asking. I don’t remotely fancy him.
But it’s Saturday night, I’ve been ditched by my friend. I’m drunk. I’m hungry. And I’ve always wanted to go to Lydia’s to see what all the fuss was about. All those famous paparazzi shots over the years of people falling out of its doors at 3 a.m., with people they shouldn’t be falling out of doors with. This might be my only opportunity to get in. So it’s that or go home for a fish-finger sandwich and The Killing. Though I do love Lund. But I guess I could catch up on iPlayer …
I can’t possibly go home at 8 p.m. on a Saturday night when everyone else in London is out having fun. Besides, I’m here now. And Lydia’s is right next door. And Peter looks lonely. He does, poor old man, sitting with a bottle of wine and no one to drink it with …
‘What sort of food do they do at Lydia’s?’ I say, as Peter helps me on with my coat.
‘They can make you whatever you want,’ he says, as we head out of the door and turn right. I wonder if they would make me a fish-finger sandwich – it’s actually what I really fancy.
Leftovers Page 17