‘Not today, next week?’
‘It’s important.’
‘I can’t now.’
‘Okay, later?’ Stop talking, Sophie.
‘Today’s not good.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Stop it now, Sophie.
‘My cab’s just pulling up at Heathrow …’
‘Where are you going?’
‘On business.’
‘Where?’
There is silence on the line.
‘James? Where are you going?’
‘Moscow …’
I smile. That’s fine, of course.
‘Soph, I can see you next week …’
‘No. It’s better if you don’t.’
I remember when I was five, playing in the ocean a few metres further out than my parents had said was safe. I saw the next wave coming and realised too late that it was big. Bigger than me.
I knew that whether I turned sideways, turned my back, crouched down or stood and faced that wave, I was going to go under.
It feels as if that wave is in my head.
On Monday morning I take the train up to Sheffield to brief Appletree on the new spinster custards.
Will is waiting for me at the station with a millefeuille. Of all the desserts in all the world … I politely refuse.
‘You’re quiet today, Soph,’ he says, as I stare out of the window.
‘Thinking,’ I mumble.
‘Never a good idea!’
In his office, we talk through the new brief in more detail.
‘So – single portions, under 200 calories, custard based, and cheap …’ I say. ‘Do you think there’s anything you can do with all the work you’ve done already?’
‘We’ll try our best, Soph …’
‘I’m most worried about the low-cal part,’ I say. ‘I’ve never had a low-cal product that tasted as good as the real thing.’
‘It’s tricky,’ says Will. ‘You lose the fat, you lose the texture and flavour. We’ll look at skimmed milk, soy, and whey …’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t want to make desserts like that … it’s like eating in black and white …’
‘I know what you mean,’ he says. ‘Let’s have a stab at it, and if it doesn’t work … Come on, let’s go to the canteen and I’ll buy us some lunch.’
We scrub up, put our uniforms on and head through the factory.
In the fruit room I notice a large puddle of scarlet-black cherry juice that looks like a pool of blood.
‘Depositor’s malfunctioning. Oh, but I’ve got a brand new robot I think you’ll like,’ he says, as we walk into the vanilla sugar air of the cake room.
We head over to the Madeira line and as the cakes roll past on the conveyor belt a robot arm suddenly punches one of the cakes off the line onto a smaller belt running parallel. Another robot arm slams a large red ‘REJECT’ sticker down on to the cake, which then falls through a trap door into a large plastic bin.
‘Isn’t that great?’ he says. ‘The scales on the line automatically detect if the cake weighs too much. Anything too heavy goes straight to the dump.’
‘Harsh,’ I say.
We walk through the wedding cake room, past huge stacks of folded peachy-pink sugar icing. The vast sheets look like flesh, the aftermath of a giant’s tummy-tuck.
‘Will, I’m really sorry but I think I’m going to take an earlier train. I don’t feel good.’
‘I thought you didn’t seem like your normal bubbly self. Is everything okay?’ he says, resting his hand on my shoulder.
I nod, scared that if I try to speak, I’ll cry.
‘Let me take you to the station.’
‘I’ll call for a cab.’
‘I insist.’
‘Thank you for the lift.’
‘I’ll wait with you,’ says Will, pulling into a space in the car park.
‘The train will be here at twenty past. I’m fine …’
‘I know you are. To be honest, I could do with a break from the office,’ he says, smiling gently.
We walk slowly to the station and find a bench. We sit side by side in silence.
It should feel awkward, this sitting so close saying nothing. To passers-by it must look weird, like we’ve had a fight. With anyone else I didn’t know very well, I’d feel self-conscious.
But for these fifteen minutes until my train arrives, sitting here next to Will, I feel entirely at peace.
Later that night Laura drags me to the pub.
If it weren’t for Laura, I’d still be with James now. I’d have taken him back, or worse, begged for him back. I owe her my remaining sanity, but a part of me blames her for cutting me off from my chance of happiness. It’s alright for her – she’s been with Dave for ten years. She’s forgotten how tough it is out there. For some reason, men in London think they’re buyers in a buyers’ market, and a 34-year-old single woman is like an overpriced studio flat in Zone 5. An overpriced studio flat that’s desperate for sperm.
‘You need to move on,’ she says.
‘I just want to understand it. There are only ever two people who know what really happened in any relationship, but I don’t feel like one of them,’ I say.
‘Stop wasting your energy on him. Put it into yourself,’ she says.
She might as well have asked me to reconstruct the Hadron Collider in my front room out of Iced Gems.
‘You only remember the highs, Soph, but you need to remember what a weasel he was too. And this whole Noushka fixation is crazy. Me and Dave googled her – she’s got a bigger chin than Jimmy Hill! What did Dave say … she’s a total prawn – ignore the head, it’s all about the body.’
I smile weakly.
‘Look, every time you think about James, just picture a big fat weasel in mid-life crisis jeans and a too-tight shirt, driving a Maserati down Bond Street with a giant prawn sitting next to him dressed in suspenders and stockings.’
‘Fishnet?’
‘Naturally,’ she says, clinking my glass.
‘Is the prawn wearing suspenders on all her legs?’ I ask.
‘No, just four. On the others she’s wearing Hellmans …’
I laugh, and Laura gives me a long hug.
‘You know what you need?’ she says.
‘A photoshop picture of a weasel and a prawn as my screensaver?’
‘Forget him. You need to get out there and meet a decent man. There must be someone knocking around.’
I think immediately of Will, and how comfortable I felt with him earlier. He’s so sweet, so kind. But he’s just too nice. Plus, he has the baggage of a divorce, he lives in another city, and I work with him.
I guess there’s Jack, my granny’s neighbour. He texted a month ago asking me out and I never replied.
‘Anyone?’ she says.
‘This guy Jack, maybe …’
And before I can stop her she’s grabbed my phone and typed: ‘Fancy a drink next week?’
‘Don’t, Laura. DON’T.’
But she’s already pressed send.
The following day I’m in a one-to-one with Devron. I’ve been up since 5am – I don’t sleep well at the moment – and I am super-fucking-irritable.
‘Special one-off “Value” project for you. Go and spend £100 at M&S on puddings, do hot and cold, and work out how we can make ’em all cheaper,’ he says. He can barely make eye contact with me these days; just as well, as I’m usually pink-eyed, puffy-eyed or panda-eyed.
I will not, I think. That’s just wrong.
‘Can’t be done, Devron, M&S are all about quality. They don’t cheapskate on ingredients.’
At the word ‘cheapskate’, Devron shudders.
‘Sophie – this fiscal’s all about budget slashing. Maintain quality but make efficiencies where possible – that’s the route to the loot.’
A cackle slips out of me. ‘Did you just say route to the loot?’
‘JFDI,’ he says and walks away.
‘Eddie, what does JFDI mean?’
‘Let’s just say he didn’t learn it at Ashridge …’
I walk over to M&S on Oxford Street and take the escalator down to the food hall. I take a basket, then put it back and grab a trolley and head towards the pudding aisle. I buy 25 different desserts, from Kentish Apple Crumbles to New York Cheesecake Slices to Belgian Chocolate Soufflés, plus double cream and custard for good measure.
I have more bags than I can carry so I put them through car service, then pop upstairs to call Janelle and tell her I’m working from home on a ‘Special Project’ for the rest of the day. Devron is now off for a week, ‘visiting our European competitors,’ i.e. taking Mands on a trip to Paris and Venice and billing it to Fletchers. If Janelle wants to snitch on me, let her. I am taking no prisoners.
I hail a taxi, picking up my six bags of puddings en route. The cabbie helps me up to my flat and asks, ‘When’s the party?’
‘All week,’ I say. I tip him well and give him a two pack of Berry Cheesecake slices for his troubles. ‘Try these, they’re delicious.’
‘You sure you’ll have enough for your guests?’
‘I’ll make them stretch,’ I say, waving him off.
I put the chain on my front door, the puddings in my fridge, and myself into bed.
On Wednesday, I set my alarm for 8am. Five puddings to try each day, minus the cabbie’s one: one every two hours, eminently doable.
If I eat one portion of each dessert, and the mean, or is it the median, of a portion is 400 calories, I’ll be consuming around 2000 calories a day. If I do a small amount of exercise, and don’t eat or drink anything else, I’ll be fine from a weight gain point of view, and so what if I feel crappy, it’s only five days of my long, long life.
I then file all the desserts by their ‘Use By’ date in my fridge, ones to eat first at the top. I’m feeling supremely on edge so I decide to go and lie down on my sofa, but it’s far too bright in my living room, so I go and lie down on my bed.
I wake up when my phone rings: Jack.
‘You sound like you’re asleep!’ he says.
‘Of course I’m not … what time is it?’ I say.
‘4.30pm.’
Shit.
‘Listen, do you fancy that drink sometime this week?’ he says.
‘I’m busy …’
‘Next week better?’
‘Okay …’
‘Great! Tuesday? Do you know the Lansdowne in Primrose Hill?’
James’s local. ‘How about The Old White Bear in Hampstead?’ Maggie says their brownies are almost perfect.
‘Eight o’clock next Tuesday. It’s a date.’
I haul myself out of bed. I’m now behind schedule and I was meant to walk for an hour, or run for ten minutes, but now it’s raining so going outside is technically impossible. I put the kettle on, figuring I can offset the calories in the milk in my tea by having a bite less of the first pudding. Or not.
Have you even tried the Bakewell Cream Slice from M&S? Shortbread base, raspberry compôte, fresh cream, roasted flaked almonds. A classic with a twist; inspired design. Very Maggie, I think, as I work my way through half of the six slices. After slice three I am full and feel sick.
If I am going to marathon eat, my body might need a little help.
I put my granny’s pink furry dressing gown on over my nightie and head out.
Amber opens her door dressed in metallic purple leggings and a fur jacket. I think she looks more ridiculous than me. ‘Hey babe, not working?’ she says.
‘Special Project,’ I say. ‘Listen, you know that £100 I lent you for coke about a year ago?’
‘Oh babe, today’s a really bad day for me, I’ve got to pick Annalex up from the vet, poor baby’s got terrible worms, and then I’m off to Bikram …’
‘Fine, on your way back do me a favour. Get me £50 worth of whatever weed your dealer has on him and we’ll call it quits. Or I’ll have £100 tonight if you prefer …’
‘I was going to go straight to the spa after …’
‘Just post it through my letterbox by 5pm, then we’re quits. Okay?’
She pouts, but I can tell she’ll do it because she looks a tiny bit scared of the new me.
I climb back into bed and when I get up a few hours later, what do you know? There on my doormat sits a beautiful little baggy of sweet smelling skunk.
SHIT! I have no fags, no skins, and it’s still pissing down with rain.
This dressing gown is so cosy and my flat is so cold, I can’t possibly take it off. Fuck it, it’s dark already anyway. I put on my trainers, put a coat over the dressing gown and a hat against the rain and dash round to the newsagent. For some perverse reason this trip reminds me of dancing naked round the fountain in France, and I let out a small howl of pain.
Good thing I really don’t care what I look like these days. I find this fantastically liberating, having spent most of the last year trying to look pretty and slim, rather than furious and insane.
Right. Home. Climb the stairs. Lock the door. Skin up. Smoke weed. Strong weed. I am stoned. Soooo stoned. Eat big bites of all the cold puddings, they all taste amayyyyyyzing. Berry and Cherry Jelly, Belly and Jenny Cherry, Benny and Jerry Chelly, Belly and Jelly and Shelliii …
I can’t be arsed to write any notes and now I really am soooo stoned and very, very sleepy and it’s already 8.30pm and so I climb into bed.
Day two, I wake up, get stoned in bed, then drag myself into the kitchen and heat the Belgian Chocolate Marble pudding for four. I sit staring through the oven door, watching as it cooks, but halfway through, my mind flits to a memory of watching James naked through the glass in the swimming pool and I take the half-cooked pudding out and start to eat.
I pour double cream on to dilute the richness; because the pudding’s undercooked, the sponge is too dense and hasn’t risen properly. I start to feel sick in my throat, but soldier on like the true professional that I am. I make it to the end and halfway through an all butter shortcrust cherry lattice pie before I am slightly sick in my kitchen sink.
Day three – the only way I am going to get through this is if I portion out single servings of each remaining pudding, and give or throw away the rest.
I divide up the food, then summon Ben the caretaker and beg him to take away as much as he can carry. ‘And for God’s sake take the Millionaire’s Shortbread,’ I say.
I try to offload on Amber too, but of course she’s wheat and gluten and dairy intolerant this week.
I throw away the extras, guilt-ridden about the waste, and go back to bed exhausted, then remember that I haven’t eaten anything yet today. I’m craving something green, or some fruit, but when I bite into an apple it tastes so … uncreamy, so I chuck it on top of the pile of puddings in my bin.
A new hit in the hall of shame. I only get through three individual portions of dessert before I burrow through my bin to retrieve seconds of the Salted Caramel Pecan Torte.
Day four and now I can see the weight gain in my face, around my chin. In the bath I can feel my muffin tops rising again. The realisation disturbs me so much that I rush to the kitchen, dismember the chocolate cheesecake, and eat only the crunchy bourbon-biscuit base.
It is only when I go to bed at 6pm that I realise that today is Saturday and I shouldn’t have been working at all, and wonder if I can bill Fletchers for a day’s overtime and spend the cash on more drugs …
Day five – some of my shelf lives are imminent so I decide to keep on working. My flat now stinks of weed, so I decide to smoke only in the bath, and after washing I change into a new selection of clothes that are currently decorating my floor.
I only have two desserts left in the fridge and to this day I have no recollection or understanding of how that can be, as I thought I had at least seven more to go. Regardless, I take the top one out of the fridge and set about eating it as intelligently as I can. It occurs to me that I have written no notes, nor given the slightest bit of thought to the job in hand, i.e. Devron asking me to
think about how we could copy any of this lot on the cheap.
It’s a Key Lime Pie Tray Bake and for a microsecond I think, well, you could substitute the double cream they’ve used for a cheaper cream and starch powder, and leave off the zest, try a different base that doesn’t use as much butter. Of course, it wouldn’t be anywhere near as nice, but Devron doesn’t care about nice, Devron cares about cheap.
And then I go to the fridge to fetch the final pudding and recoil in horror when I see what it is. How did I put that in my basket without realising it? I must have scooped it up by accident because there’s no way I’d have that in my house willingly.
It is a Tarte Aux Abricots and the very sight of it (or maybe the entire Key Lime Pie I’ve polished off) makes me violently sick.
I spend the rest of the day in bed staring at the ceiling and sleeping and wishing I was not such a giant loser, and could just shag a barman, ten barmen, and get over this.
And then the following morning, five pounds heavier and six days after I last showed my face, I re-enter the work place.
‘Where have you been?’ says Janelle. ‘Did you not get my messages?’
‘My phone broke. I told you … Special Project, working from home,’ I say.
‘That was on Tuesday afternoon.’
‘So?’
‘Last week.’
‘… And?’
‘… What about all the rest of last week? Where were you?’
‘I just told you.’
‘But you need to tell me in advance if you’re working from home.’
‘No, I don’t, I need to tell Devron. I texted him and then my phone broke.’
‘Shall I mark you down as sick?’
‘I WAS WORKING!’ I say. ‘On Wednesday I researched cheesecakes and steamed puddings, Thursday – mousses, soufflés and frozen, Friday – tarts, trifles and pies. I’ve only just finished my notes. I’ll talk Devron through them in due course.’
She pulls the ‘you’re in a world of shit and I’m glad’ face that I’ve come to know and love and goes back to her desk.
I settle back at mine and click on an email from the Pantry Team inviting anyone with a spare ten minutes to come to the twelfth floor to beat the Monday blues and sample their new ‘Super Biscuits’ range. With my expert palette and in-depth knowledge of the Treat Market, it’s basically my duty to help.
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