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Leftovers

Page 20

by Stella Newman


  And more to the point he is the most outrageously flirtatious man I have ever met. He is utterly incorrigible. And I am encourageable. Or am I? Is that even a word? Well, according to Jacob’s Creek it’s a word. There really should be laws that say you are only allowed to flirt at that level once you’ve fully disclosed your relationship status. I mean really, ‘A girl like you deserves cake’ and ‘I think you’re great’. I could practically sue him for something or other, no doubt. Not that I’ll ever be in the same room with him ever again, I’ll make sure of that.

  Thirdly, I haven’t only been lying in bed indulging in a Gosl-a-thon. No, I have been industrious in the extreme.

  I’ve written down two awesome pasta recipes that are appropriate for a post-Jeff concussion. Pasta with crab, chilli and garlic, and pasta for when all hope is gone and all butter … I even took photos of the dishes while I cooked them, and have been teaching myself how to do a blog. It’s so straightforward I can’t believe I haven’t started one earlier. Literally all you have to do is type whatever you’re thinking and then upload photos from your phone or laptop – it is so easy and so much fun! I’ve called my blog ‘Some of my best friends are pasta’ and indeed that is how it seems to me this Sunday night … And another thing, did you know that De Cecco’s rigatoni number 24 is the perfect pasta shape of all time? Pretty, pretty curlicued edges, perfect length, I really love you, rigatoni …

  So, life, I just want you to know these important things:

  I am productive.

  I am not a loser.

  I am not drunk.

  I am going back to bed now.

  w/c 16 April –

  three weeks to airdate

  Status report:

  Get revised Celina Summer script from new team – URGENT URGENT

  Avoid Jeff at all costs

  Give up alcohol (after the wedding, and before the wedding, just not at the wedding)

  Book taxi for wedding

  Tinker with some-of-my-best-friends-are-pasta.co.uk

  Monday

  Worst. Monday. Evah …

  Even if I didn’t have a violent hangover, this mauling I’m sitting through in Berenice’s office would be intolerable.

  ‘… You’ve destroyed Karly and Nick’s motivation … We’ll have to find another team with no time left … Personally I am deeply disappointed by what I’ve observed of your working style … For someone who was hoping to be promoted at Christmas …’

  There is no point explaining to her that I’ve done them all a favour – saved Fletchers from a potential PR disaster – and that she should actually be presenting me with a magnum of champagne. And as for Karly and Nick walking off the project? That right there’s a reason to pop the cork …

  ‘Really, Susannah, I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, suggesting that we research scripts so late in the day. A colossal error of judgement.’

  ‘I didn’t actually suggest it,’ I say, realising the minute that it’s out of my mouth that I should not be drawing her attention to this point.

  ‘Whose idea was it then?’ she says, scornfully.

  ‘Well … Martin Meddlar’s …’

  ‘Why on earth would Martin be advising you on that level of detail?’ she says. ‘Oh. But of course you’ve been spending time with him …’

  ‘No! Not at all.’

  ‘I saw you together the other week.’

  ‘Berenice, I bumped into him in the lift and he asked me how it was all going.’

  ‘If you need advice at senior level I am here for you. My door is always open. I am your first port of call.’ Yes, and what a warm welcome you give …

  She tips her head to one side and looks at me. I sense her change tack. ‘You do realise, Susannah, that Martin has certain … proclivities, don’t you?’

  Yeah of course. Sam tells me everything about what goes in or up anyone in this building.

  ‘And he is extremely charismatic,’ she says, nodding sympathetically.

  I feel my face flush with shame though I have done nothing wrong. I mean, the man could be a double for Gollum, though she’s right, Martin is charismatic. Mind you, I suppose so is Gollum, in his way.

  ‘Berenice. I don’t have any interest in Martin Meddlar like that.’

  I actually want to say that I have no interest in him because I find him to be oleaginous and a bit scary; but regardless, she should mind her own bloody beeswax. But I can’t say that for obvious reasons. I don’t know how to pronounce oleaginous (is that g hard or soft?) I can barely spell it. And I’m not entirely clear what it means, apart from sort of slimy. And I mean, obviously I can’t tell Berenice to mind her own beeswax.

  ‘It’s not you, it’s him,’ she says. ‘He doesn’t just go for pretty little things … He probably looks at a thirty-six-year-old unmarried woman and sees an easy target.’

  Wow. Ouch. Wowch.

  ‘I’m just looking out for you,’ she says. Interesting – feels quite the reverse.

  ‘Berenice, I’m meant to call Devron with an update now, so do you mind if I head off?’

  She shakes her head and raises both hands in the air in exasperation. ‘This is a disaster.’

  Tell me something I don’t know.

  I need some fresh air to clear my head and work out what to do about this Celina Summer script. As I head out of the revolving doors I see my new best friend Martin standing in the street, waiting.

  ‘We must stop meeting like this,’ he says, giving me a kiss. We must if Berenice is spying on me from her window … ‘How did your research go, darling?’

  ‘You haven’t heard? Ah. Well it brought some clarity, in that all the respondents hated the scripts.’

  ‘Ah. Well, some you win, some you lose. At least we discovered that before we went ahead and made the ad.’

  ‘Exactly! But now I need a new creative team urgently, to tidy up Karly and Nick’s script, and I’m just trying to figure out how to broach the subject with Robbie …’

  ‘Would Andy Ashford do?’ he says. ‘We’re off to Rules now for a catch up, I’ll see how busy he is.’

  ‘Really? Andy Ashford would be the perfect person. But don’t I need to go through Robbie?’

  ‘No no, Robbie does what I tell him to. Leave it with me.’

  Friday

  Given that we’re shooting the biggest ad of my career next week and we have no script; given that Berenice has accused me of trying to seduce Martin Meddlar and insinuated my demotion is imminent; and given that I’ve spent the last five days having to email Jeff about work and pretend that whole thigh-squeeze thing didn’t happen last Thursday night, I’m surprisingly un-suicidal.

  The only reason why is because I’m in Andy Ashford’s office. Andy is my favourite creative in the building. He’s a dream: talented, polite, genuine, accommodating, helpful – if I could work with him on every brief then I don’t think I’d drink quite so much. Even though he’s the oldest creative here by a good fifteen years, he has a vitality and a twinkle in his brown eyes that other teams lack.

  He’s actually made me a cup of tea – unheard of! And when I sit down and deliver him the brief from hell he’s totally unfazed.

  ‘Have one of these, it’s elevensies,’ he says, reaching over with a pack of dark chocolate digestives as I apologise for the sixth time since entering his office for dumping this on him.

  That’s another thing I love about Andy! His office! It doesn’t have Pirelli calendar girls on the wall. It doesn’t have rude words illustrated in Gothic fonts, or framed Chelsea shirts. It has posters of his favourite ads of the last fifty years, including one with my favourite line of all time. It’s from an old campaign for Rich Tea biscuits: “A drink’s too wet without one”.

  Brilliant; it gives you an excuse to eat a biscuit every time you have a cup of tea.

  ‘So Susie, all you need me to do is tidy this up, make Celina a bit more likeable and say the pizzas are half the calories?’ I nod. ‘Does 2 p.m. sound alright
?’ he says, smiling.

  I go round and give him a little hug. ‘You’re a life-saver, Andy. It’s better than alright.’ Because now I can send Devron a script this afternoon that I know he’ll approve. And then I won’t have to think about work, and instead I can think about enjoying myself at the wedding.

  I bump into Sam as I’m leaving the office at 6 p.m. ‘You look remarkably happy,’ he says.

  ‘Happy client, for once; he’s just signed off the new script,’ I say, smiling and feeling a little bit of excitement about tomorrow start to creep in.

  ‘You should do happy more often, Susie. It suits you.’

  Saturday

  Today’s the big day: Polly’s wedding!

  Most of my friends got married in their late twenties. Back then, every other month saw us trekking to Hampshire or across to Bath or up to Derby, to beautiful old churches, and country house hotels and marquees. Mostly my friends had classic wedding cakes, iced and white, flowers and bows. And then there was the occasional cake that was a cheese cake – not a cheesecake, but an artful piling up of cheeses, tiered to look like a cake, with jars of ‘Ben and Lucy’s Wedding Chutney’ for every guest to take home. Back then there were no wedding cakes that were stacks of cupcakes.

  The last wedding I went to was four years ago, out in Cape Town. Jake’s boss, Steve-O, a confirmed bachelor, was tying the knot with a South African girl he’d met seven months beforehand. It had been a lavish affair, a different wine and wine glass with every course, champagne all night and a sparkling view out over Camps Bay. I’d worn this dress for it: a lovely jade silk number from Anthropologie. Yet standing looking at myself now in my bedroom mirror I suddenly have a horrible flashback to the way I had actually felt at that wedding: desperately unglamorous compared to all the women wearing statement jewellery, micro-clutch bags and Gina platform heels.

  Weddings are all about accessories, I figure, and that’s one thing I’m rubbish at. I should have made more effort to keep on top of trends. That’s another thing that’s making me feel … not old, just not young. I need a spruce. This outfit just looks boring. Nice. But boring. Anthropologie dress and a blazer from Zara. Classic round-toed black heels. Nice. Boring. Nice. Boring. I could be going to an AGM dressed like this. It doesn’t feel fitting for the occasion.

  I’ve booked an appointment at a chi-chi hairdresser in Hampstead that has fifty per cent off with Groupon. I’m due there in half an hour – my timings are already screwed as it is. But this will not do. I never thought I’d find myself in urgent need of a fascinator, but I definitely need something – something sparkly or frivolous, to put some oomph into this outfit.

  Oh no! Maybe it’s actually the dress that’s wrong … Why did I not treat myself to a new dress for this wedding? I knew I should have. Why did I let those silly girls in the boutique deter me so easily from my mission? I should have gone to Westfield instead of Regent’s Park; or Selfridges one night after work last week.

  And now I look at myself it is most definitely the dress that’s the problem, not just the lack of accessories. I hate this outfit, I hate it. I take off the blazer and fling it on the bed. This is a party, damn it! A celebration of hope and of love and of happiness, not of increased profitability and like-for-like growth.

  I wade through my wardrobe …

  No, too short.

  Too tight, that never fitted properly first time round …

  Too pink, need a tan for that one.

  Ah, now this dress could work, but where’s the belt? Can’t find the belt, doesn’t work without the belt …

  How about this one? Black: lace, slightly-off-the-shoulder from Autograph. It’s sexy and ladylike. This is fail-safe usually, though today it’s making me look drained. I thought little black dresses were always meant to save the day. Brilliant. I’ve got nothing to wear at all.

  Oh, but hold on. Hold on one minute … Now this one I love. I’ve forgotten all about this dress because it’s too nice to wear, and if you spill something on it then it’s a hassle because it’s dry-clean only … But the colour of it is so fabulous! Purple, like an iris, and for some reason that colour makes my hair look more auburn than mouse. And with those two ribbon straps at the shoulder that form a low V at the back, classy yet really understatedly sexy. The last time I wore this dress … I think it was my second anniversary with Jake, and oh yes, that’s right … We’d gone to Claridge’s for a drink, and while he was in the loo and I was standing at the bar waiting, a beautiful Argentinian man had tried to chat me up. He’d said that I was the most elegant woman in the bar, which was the first and last time anyone’s ever said that to me. He’d kissed me on the shoulder when he’d said goodbye. All credit to the dress – it’s that kind of a dress. Yes, this is the one. And damn the discomfort, I’m wearing the five-inch silver strappy heels. If my feet hurt I’ll just drink my way through the pain.

  Midday already! I pull on my jeans and a t-shirt and race out to the street. No time to walk or get the bus so I hail a cab to the hairdressers – so much for trying to save money.

  ‘I’ve got a 12.15 p.m. with Shelley,’ I say. ‘A wash and blow-dry with a Groupon voucher.’

  Her interest slightly wanes. ‘Have a seat, she’s just finishing someone’s colour, she won’t be a moment.’

  But she’s more than a moment. It’s now 12.40 p.m. and I’m shampooed but still waiting in the chair, anxiously looking at my watch. The wedding starts at 2 p.m. I should never have cut it so fine, I shouldn’t have chanced this to Groupon. I’m an idiot. I can’t be late. I’m going to be late. I can’t be late.

  ‘Excuse me, could someone else do the blow-dry? It’s just I’m late …’

  ‘She won’t be a sec, can I get you a coffee?’ says one of the other girls.

  ‘No, but you can get me a hairdryer?’ I say. ‘I’ll start drying it myself, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Better wait for Shelley,’ she says.

  ‘Please just get me a hairdryer,’ I say.

  12.55 p.m. and I’ve dried the underneath parts OK, though not as straight or as shiny as I’d like. Now Shelley’s here and she’s obviously not happy that I’ve taken the law into my own hands, because she’s pulling my hair really very hard from my roots, and a few hairs have actually pinged out in the process. Still, she does a good enough job and I pay her thirty pounds for eight minutes of labour, then race out of the door.

  OK, it’s fine. If I get a cab from my house at 1.30 p.m. I’ll be there at 1.55 p.m., it’ll be OK. I call my local minicab firm as I speedwalk down the hill but they’ve got no cars till 2 p.m. I hang up, panic rising in me. I call the other local cab company and it’s the same story. What the hell is wrong with me? Why didn’t I book this cab earlier? I meant to. Every wedding, every holiday Jake and I went on, I used to have to organise every detail and I’ve never missed a flight or been late before. Why today? By the time I get back to the flat, red-faced and sweating, it’s 1.12 p.m. I’m going to miss the ceremony.

  ‘Terry!’ I say, spotting him talking to the Langdons in the forecourt. ‘Terry, I’m so sorry but is there any chance you can find me a cab in the street, I’ll be down in ten?’

  The Langdons give me a filthy look. First of all I’ve interrupted them complaining about the proposed new paint colour for the radiators in the communal hallway. And secondly, this is not an appropriate request to make of the caretaker.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask normally, but it’s my friend’s wedding and I’ve mis-timed everything.’ I point at my jeans and un-made-up face.

  ‘Not a problem, love. I’ll see what I can do,’ he says, delighted to have an excuse to rid himself of the Langdons, at least temporarily.

  I race up to the fifth floor, and have the world’s quickest shower – sixty seconds – keeping my new hair well away from the water. Thank goodness I shaved my legs this morning, but make-up needs doing. Shit, 1.19 p.m. already …

  I put on foundation and blusher and calculate if I have time to curl my eyelashes
– yes, just about, ten seconds’ squeezing time each side in the little metal mangle. OK, don’t rush the eyeliner now or you’ll have to start over. Please let there be a cab out there, please Terry, don’t let me down. I can do the mascara in the cab. OK, dress on. Christ, nearly forgot deodorant. Calm down. Dress on, deodorant, perfume. Oh, and another tooth clean, bollocks! I have forgotten how to be a lady. It has been too long.

  By the time I’ve sorted out cash, keys, bag, make-up touch ups, and locked my front door, it’s 1.35 p.m. I could almost cry when I see Terry downstairs, chatting to a cabbie, looking in my direction.

  ‘Thank you, I owe you big time,’ I say.

  ‘You look stunning,’ he says. ‘Terrific dress. Mind you don’t break your neck in them shoes.’

  Finally. In the cab, on the way. Shit! I’ve forgotten my phone. Doesn’t matter, you don’t need a phone at a wedding …

  At every red traffic light I put on a little more mascara, then lip liner and a little gloss. OK, it’s actually OK. You look nice. You’ve done OK.

  We pull up at the registry office with two minutes to spare, and as I bolt up the stairs as fast as these heels will allow I vow I will never be such an idiot again. I’m nearly thirty-seven years old. I’ve been dressing myself and moving myself round this city on time for a long time now.

  Everyone is already seated, looking expectantly at the door. I must be the last one in as the door shuts behind me. I take a seat at the back, smiling awkwardly and waving at Polly’s parents and at Maisie as I shuffle along the row, banging into knees and the backs of chairs. Dave is standing at the front, hands clasped nervously behind his back, looking excitedly at the door. He looks so handsome in his three-piece navy suit, a cream rose in his buttonhole. I give him a warm smile and he gives a little wave back.

 

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