‘Fifteen grand is what I’ll be getting when you put me on the board this Christmas,’ I say. ‘But I would like my bonus and promotion now, I don’t want to wait till December.’
‘I think that’s not unreasonable,’ he says, looking relieved. ‘And this is on the understanding that we move forward with a clean slate.’
‘Absolutely,’ I say. ‘No point looking back. The future’s bright and all that.’
‘OK. We’ll look into getting you your bonus and promotion at month end,’ he says.
‘No, I meant I’d like them now, as in now now,’ I say. ‘I’d like my promotion signed off and a CHAPS payment today. I’m doing my Inspiration Hour on Friday and I’d be so much more motivated if the money was already in my account.’
He pauses to consider this. ‘I don’t know if finance can do a CHAPS payment mid-month …’
‘They managed to when Sandra Weston had to be paid off after her rather unfortunate difference of opinion with Karly. That was on the 12th of January. A Thursday, I believe … I’m sure these things are possible, with a little persuasion …’ I say.
‘You’re bloody good on detail, I’ll grant you that,’ he says, standing up with a half smile that’s verging on respect.
‘There’s one more small thing …’ I say. He hovers, not knowing whether to sit or stand.
‘And what would that be?’ he says.
‘I would like you to get Karly to apologise to me.’
His face falls. ‘Susie: I can get you the money. And at a push I can probably get you the biscuits. But there’s only so much I can do: you do realise I’m not Merlin?’
You know what? He’s right. I am being unreasonable. Because even if he did manage to make her apologise, she wouldn’t actually be sorry. She’d merely be sorry she’d been caught.
‘I just thought it was worth asking,’ I say, shrugging. ‘Right then – so you’ll authorise a CHAPS payment for me?’
‘It’ll be in your bank account by end of play,’ he says.
‘OK,’ I say, holding out my hand to him and smiling. ‘I think we have a deal.’
He smiles broadly back. ‘Why haven’t we promoted you earlier?’ he says. ‘I think you might have what it takes to go far.’
Oh I am going to go far, Martin. Very.
Watch me.
Friday
It is Friday. It is Happy Hour. And it is my turn to speak.
I thought long and hard about what music to play as I walked up to the podium. Sam suggested the theme tune from Rocky. I was thinking more like the Rolling Stones, ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’. But in the end I decided to have nothing. The only words I have to say today are my own. And this won’t be a normal Happy Hour. I reckon it’ll be more like a Happy Four Minutes.
I stand with my speech on a scrap of paper in front of me and look out at my audience. A few faces I love, a few faces I don’t; most in between.
There are moments in life when I’ve thought: ‘I could change my world in a heartbeat. I’m driving at seventy miles an hour along the M1 and if I jerked this steering wheel five inches to the left, I’d crash. Five inches between me and a fiery death-ball.’
Or I could call up Jake and tell him ‘There are times when I literally ache from still missing you, so could you please change the past, and large parts of your personality so that we can be happy and I will never have to feel lonely again?’
I would never do either of those things because I’m not crazy, I don’t want to die. And even more than dying, I definitely don’t want to be rejected. And besides, I do understand that you can’t change the past and you can’t change other people.
So I have not been foolish, but I have not been brave at all either. I have stayed in the safe area, in the comfort zone for a long time now, in emotional limbo.
But there are moments in life where staying comfortable has become so uncomfortable that it’s not an option to keep your mouth shut any more. And I know, as I look at Berenice and Robbie and, for the first time in the front row, Sam too, that this is my moment. It is now or never.
I am on. The audience look at me, a few smiling, most already bored, fiddling with their apps. I can feel my heart beating in my chest, and a little voice in my head saying do it. Just do it. Not in a Nike way, like Robbie would think. Or in a JFDI way, like Devron would. But in a Polly way.
‘Hello everybody,’ I say, giving the microphone a gentle tap. ‘I hope your Friday’s been good. I hope your whole week has been good. Steve Pearson, how was your week?’
Steve looks up in surprise, mid sex-text – and says, ‘Yeah. Fine, cheers.’
‘I’m glad,’ I say. ‘It’s good to talk. Good to talk to each other. You sit next to me, I say good morning, hello, goodbye. It’s nice. Human. Rather than you emailing me from four desks along asking for a favour and then ignoring me when we pass in the corridor.’ I say this with a smile on my face – you can say anything you like when you’re smiling – people think you’re being jolly.
‘Today’s Happy Hour is just a few simple thoughts from me. We’ve all sat here over the years and listened to the great and good tell us lots of fascinating facts, and I thought I can’t really compete with that. Plus we do all know how to use Google by now. So I’ll just tell you a few things I’ve been thinking about recently.
‘When I was young, I fell in love with the Smash Martians. Do you remember them?’ There are a few smiles and nods in the audience from those old enough to remember.
‘These funny little talking aliens charmed the pants off people; they made us want to go out and buy powdered potatoes. I loved them so much they could probably have persuaded me to buy a powdered steak.’ Sam nods his encouragement from the front row.
‘And the reason those ads were so persuasive was because they had an idea in them. And they had charm, and they had wit.’ Robbie nods and Berenice allows herself a pinch of a smile.
‘But nowadays it seems we don’t have those sorts of ideas very often. We’re “inspired” by ideas that we “discover” on the internet. We “borrow” a new animation style from some kid in Idaho, or “pay homage” to a brilliant idea from a girl in Leeds, and just don’t quite get round to giving them credit. I’ve been working recently on a big pizza campaign for Fletchers. Berenice, when you briefed me, you said that the project would define me. It was called “The Truth”. It did really well.
‘Now we talk a lot about truth in this building. Getting to the heart of the brand. Being the midwife of its soul. But the truth is this: brands don’t have hearts, and they don’t have souls. People do. Well, some of them.
‘The truth is, I am not defined by a brief for a pizza. None of us here should be defined by our work, no matter how big the budget is. We are defined by how we treat other people. I’ve been at NMN for six years. When I joined I had hope, a bit of confidence, joy and some energy. I lost them in this place, maybe in the lush carpets, or in one of the giant lily vases in reception. But last weekend for the first time in about three years I found them again.’
I pause for a moment, feeling my heart pounding in my chest.
‘“The truth will set you free” apparently. You might have heard that quote before? It’s from the Bible, though I think you’ll find that Karly came up with it first. Well, the truth has set me free, in its own way.
‘Robbie, I have one thing I’ve been meaning to say to you for such a very long time: Leonardo Da Vinci did not paint the Sistine Chapel. It was Michel-bloody-Angelo. Michelangelo. He was a painter. Italian. And if you don’t believe me, look it up on Wikipedia.’ I take a deep breath and take my piece of paper from the podium and turn to go.
I hesitate for a moment and turn back.
‘Oh, and one more thing,’ I say. ‘I almost forgot!’ I take a deep breath and force myself to stay calm.
‘Robbie: you always said that you’re a huge fan of the killer end line. Well so am I. How’s about this for one? I quit.’
I walk out of the
agency.
I head north and I keep walking.
I turn left and walk through Regent’s Park and then out past the long parade of perfect cream Nash Houses.
I take a right and then walk all the way up to the top of Primrose Hill and sit on a bench looking out over this beautiful grey city.
I almost cannot believe what I have done. But I have done it.
It is foolish and perhaps it is brave and perhaps it is insane. But whatever it turns out to be, at least I will have tried.
So come on then, life.
Let’s see what you’ve got for me.
One year later
30th May
As the minicab pulls up outside the Hilton on Park Lane I take Sam’s hand and give it a little squeeze. His fingers are strong, though mine are shaking.
I’m so nervous that I accidentally tip the driver the change from a twenty rather than a ten and only realise when I’m half way down the stairs to the Great Room reception area. Oh well – what goes around comes around. I suppose I’ve had a pretty good year on most fronts.
The lobby’s already bustling – gorgeous girls in sequins or one-shouldered numbers or tuxedo-style jackets, lots of perfectly groomed brows and highlighted cheekbones.
After much consideration I have opted for the purple dress I wore to Polly’s wedding. I admit, I dithered; it makes me think so much of that amazing night with Daniel. But it’s OK to think of Daniel a little bit. We can be friends. We are friends, from a distance. His life goes on and my life goes on and maybe one day his situation will change. And maybe if it does and if I’m single, and if we both feel like it, then maybe we’ll go for a drink. But that’s a lot of ifs and maybes. And one thing I have learned is that you cannot live your life in ifs and maybes … You cannot live it in week commencings. You live it right here. You live it now.
Sam and I head over to where a couple of girls with clipboards are standing under a silver banner that reads ‘Style and Food Magazine Awards – Short-List Finalists’ to pick up my name tag. I scan the names for Leyla’s – her blog is on the list too, but her tag’s already gone.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to do this bit for me, Sam?’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.’
‘You can’t blame any of this on me,’ he says, putting his hands gently on my shoulders and smiling. ‘It’s all your work. It’s all you. In fact it couldn’t be more you.’
‘Let me just pin this name on you for a little bit … just till after the speeches.’ I make a grab for his lapel. My, but this boy does scrub up well. I can’t quite believe how dashing he looks in his suit. He has even managed to get a good haircut, and he’s promised he won’t pop out for a fag till midnight.
‘You know I can’t be trusted speaking in public,’ I say. ‘Not after the last time!’
‘Oh I don’t know,’ he says. ‘That was one of the highlights of my time at NMN. That and the time Steve Pearson got locked in the toilet overnight.’
I don’t expect to bump in to Jake immediately. I was hoping to neck a couple of glasses of champagne at the very least, to calm my nerves. But of course things never ever turn out the way you play them in the fantasy in your head. He’s there, of course – with her, of course. And the first thing I feel when I see him is a tiny jolt of shock, followed by a balloon-burst of disappointment. I’ve waited so long for this moment and now that it’s here how could it be anything other than an anti-climax?
He looks fine. Not amazing, not terrible. A little bit chunkier than when I last saw him. A little bit older. So do I, I’m sure. Does he look happy? He looks a bit tired and a bit bored. Not unhappy. But he doesn’t look as happy as me.
I instinctively check his left hand to see if he’s wearing a ring. He isn’t, and she’s not wearing an engagement ring. And I realise that I would actually feel OK even if she was wearing a massive rock: she has ceased to be shrapnel. And then I suddenly understand that over the last year something truly wonderful has happened. The feelings of love I once had for Jake have become something better. They have gone through pain and turned into indifference. And when you truly don’t care any more, you are finally free.
Because Polly was so right. If he hadn’t left me, then sure, maybe none of the bad things would have happened in these last two years, but none of the good things would have happened either. If we’d stayed together I would have just bumbled along. I’d have always had someone to come home to, to watch a DVD with. And I would have hidden in that relationship and put him first, so that I never had to try or fail at anything that was all my own. He pushed me onto that path to freedom, though I didn’t want to be pushed. Freedom. That’s a much greater luxury than a Birkin bag.
So I really should go over now and thank him. But I’m not going to. Not because I’m going to ignore him. I’m not. I give him a little wave and a smile. Just for old times’ sake. No, I don’t go over to him because I have somewhere far more important that I’m meant to be: front row table in the Grand Room, taking my seat for the ceremony. And there’s a few VIPs already sitting there who I need to say an urgent hello to.
Polly, six months pregnant with baby number two. Rebecca and Luke, holding hands under the table. The pair of them look like they should be in a Kooples ad, they’re so perfectly beautiful together. Frandrew, still together and still snogging like teenagers at the back of a bus. Debbie, without that idiot husband of hers. Dalia, back with that idiot boyfriend of hers. Mum, Dad, Terry! Marjorie’s sitting next to Terry, almost smiling. And there’s lovely, sweet Andy Ashford with his wife.
This time last year, all I could think about were the things I didn’t have: a boyfriend. Someone to go on mini-breaks with. Younger skin. Size ten jeans that fitted me. A really good marble pestle and mortar. A promotion. Something solid in the ground to say ‘I’ve done OK, I’m not a total failure.’
I wanted so many things that I didn’t have. But I look around me now at the people gathered at this table and I no longer think of all the things I don’t have. But of all these things I do. Because it’s not about scrabbling in the void for people to share your loneliness. It’s about filling the void with the people you love, to share the good times.
The ceremony has started and everything is such a blur that I don’t hear my name called out as the winner is announced but suddenly my mum is grabbing my arm and whispering loudly.
‘Hurry up, get up there before they change their minds …’
I take a long slow sip of water, then a quick gulp of champagne, then a bit more water, and I move slowly to the stage. I feel a wave of nerves push me up the steps and carry me over to the microphone.
I take a deep breath. And another. And then I begin.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Susie Rosen. I run a blog called The Leftovers.
‘I started writing this blog twelve months ago and I had three people reading it, only one of whom wasn’t a relative. Last week a lady called Jenny Knight in Norwich became my 100,000th subscriber. Waitrose signed up as my biggest advertiser. And you, Style and Food Magazine (my favourite magazine, by the way, I have always been a fan!) voted me as your best new website of the year.
‘Leftovers started out as a collection of tasty, budget-conscious recipes with a clever search engine that my very talented friend and business partner Sam designed. And now it’s grown into something a bit bigger. It has a scrapbook section where readers post photos of their own recipes. And there’s a Swapsies section, where you can exchange or give away bits of kitchen equipment you don’t use any more … And then there’s the newest section of the site which is like a dating website but based on food. It’s called Meet Up/Eat Up. You don’t have to go out one-on-one either – if there’s a few of you who are single you can go out for a meal as a group.
‘Leftovers. It’s a funny old word. To some people it might sound a little bit negative. Like the things that got left on the table, the things that no one really wants. A dollop of mashed potato. Two
chicken thighs that didn’t get eaten because you were saving room for that more exciting dessert. The last scraping of caramelised onion chutney in the bottom of the jar, the square of Cornish Cruncher cheddar at the back of the fridge that you failed to wrap properly.
‘But take that slightly hard cheese and grate it. Warm the potato, stir the cheese through. Add a lump of butter. Add a lump of butter to everything. Take those pieces of chicken and spread that not-quite-enough scraping of onion chutney on top, then layer the potato on and put it in the oven. In twenty-five minutes you’ll have a dish I call “Sam’s chicken”. Tender chicken, golden cheesy mash, with a sweet, sharp hint of caramelised onion.
‘And there you were, thinking of throwing all that in a bin.
‘That’s the thing about leftovers. With a little thought, a little imagination, a little faith – you can see the potential in what’s left on the table. You can put in some work. And you can make something.’ I resist the urge to look at Sam, though even against the bright lights of the stage I can still make out his expression – a huge grin, full of pride.
‘You can make something worthwhile,’ I say, feeling hope rise up in me so strongly I have to take a breath.
‘You can make something good.’ I allow myself the tiniest of smiles in Sam’s direction.
‘Maybe something even better than you started with.
‘My name is Susie Rosen.’ And I am a Leftover.
Pasta for when you’ve just finished a book that you enjoyed and there’s a little hole in your life to fill while you ponder what to read next
This pasta is my slightly indulgent take on an Amatriciana – the classic Roman sauce of tomato, bacon and cheese. It is nowhere near authentic, but it is easy, delicious, comforting and not that bad for you, in a relative universe. These quantities make enough sauce for two people, but I’ve written as a ‘serves one’, so that if there is one of you, you can eat the leftover sauce the following day once you’re engrossed in your new book and can no longer be bothered to cook.
Leftovers Page 29