Leftovers (11 page)

‘Yes, Susie, you win. Well done, doesn’t victory feel great?’ She shakes her head, exhausted. Hurrah, I’ve worn her down!

‘I know lots of happy couples who’ve met online,’ she continues.

No, I haven’t …

‘Look, Rebecca: I am ready to meet someone. I just want to meet him in the real world.’

‘Since I’ve been online, I’ve met more men in the real world too. It helps give off an “I’m not desperate” vibe.’

‘I am not desperate, Rebecca. If I was truly desperate, then I might consider it.’

‘Being online just opens up your options. That’s all I’m saying.’

‘Fine. You’ve said it. I appreciate your concern, truly I do. Now pass the Tabasco please?’

‘I’ve got a date on Saturday with someone from DoingSomething …’

‘Name?’

‘MrSalsa75 … you won’t make that face once you’ve seen what he looks like,’ she says, handing me her iPhone.

‘He’s like a better-looking version of that guy in
True Blood
! Is that his real photo?’

‘There he is surfing on Bondi … that’s him on the day he qualified …’

‘As a surf instructor?’

‘As a lawyer, darling. That’s him with his niece at the zoo …’

‘OK, OK. I get it. He’s hot and smart and good with kids. Well I hope you have a lovely time … Ooh, and you’ve got what’s-his-face, Hawksmoor barman too, haven’t you?’

‘We’re going for drinks next week! He still thinks I’m called Susie …’

‘You do realise you can’t ever tell him your real name?’ I say, smiling. ‘But that’s exactly my point, see? You walk into a bar or an office and you meet someone. It should be simple.’

‘At least tell me you’ll think about it.’

‘No, because I have thought about it.’

‘How about I buy you a three-month subscription to Lovematch.com?’

‘How about you never mention it again and I’ll buy you a cappuccino?’

‘Just say you’ll think about it.’

Such a phenomenal start to a Wednesday! An email sitting in my inbox with Jeff Nichols as sender. Sent at 8 p.m. last night, which is hugely encouraging. He could have just gone home at that time of night, sent this first thing today. But no, he stayed at his desk after hours to send it, which tells me two things. Firstly, I am not a task on his ‘to do’ list that he cares to procrastinate, so I am not entirely without significance. And secondly, if he had Miss Venezuela waiting for him at home I bet he wouldn’t be working late.

Still no word from Robbie in New York though, which is a pain; this brief is getting later and later. In the meantime let’s just see what Jeff has to say for himself. I click on the email with a tiny flutter of hope.

Hey Suzy Q,

Truly great to meet you last week. Hope you survived Tom’s PowerPoint charts, sorry I had to dash, I wanted to stay. Let’s meet up and I can show you my wares. How does next Monday sound, end of the day? Don’t worry about that half piece of cake I know you’re saving for me, I’ll cook something nice for us on the day.

Have a great week and look forward to seeing you soon.

Jeff

Yes! So many excellent signs in this email, I don’t know where to start. And an end of the day meeting – well, am I reading too much into it or does that clearly leave the door open for a drink after work? I spend a good half hour crafting a response and then panic that it’s far too flirtatious, at which point I call Rebecca over, tell her all about Jeff and ask her to help me edit it.

‘So exciting,’ she says. ‘A Fletchers client who isn’t hideous!’

‘I’ve earned it. Six years of Devron, I deserve a work crush, finally.’

‘Sam will be heartbroken when he goes through your inbox.’

‘Sam doesn’t read my emails,’ I say. ‘I know he used to, but he’s promised he’ll never do it again. And stop with this whole Sam crush thing, it’s nonsense, he’s my friend.’

‘OK … so I think maybe change that bit where you talk about the cake. He’s not actually interested in the cake, he’s interested in you.’

‘Yeah, but I’m trying to flirt with him.’

‘Be more obvious.’

‘More obvious? Don’t you think “Can’t wait to see what’s on the table” is pretty obvious? Actually I’m taking that out, it’s too full on.’

‘Ask him what he’s up to at the weekend. That’ll flush out whether he’s got a girlfriend. Do it. Then you know whether to waste time fancying him or not.’

‘Rebecca, it’s a work email, I’m not going to ask him that. And besides, I don’t think he has got a girlfriend. Honestly, there was just that chemistry there, you know, that instant rapport. I don’t think you ever feel that unless the other person is giving off a major vibe too. It was way beyond politeness.’

‘Oooh, this is so cool!’ she says, clapping her hands with delight. ‘What are you going to wear?’

‘I haven’t got that far.’

‘Wear that black dress with the low V at the front that you wore for your birthday, you look gorgeous in that.’

‘Meeting’s in a kitchen, not a brothel.’

‘With a white cami top underneath it’s perfect. Great cleavage, big smile. He’ll be totally defenceless.’

‘What about the burgundy one with the little bow at the neck … feminine, quite quirky?’

‘Men don’t want quirky, they want sexy. Come on, Suze, I haven’t seen you even vaguely bothered by anyone since … since last year; you’ve got to come out of hibernation with all guns blazing.’

‘I’ll figure it out at the weekend … Maybe that charcoal Topshop dress with the belt?’

‘Perfect, feminine and sexy, although I’d argue more cleavage. And shoes, what shoes? How tall is he again?’

I think back to standing beside him when we were waiting for our coffees. He’d stood so close to me. ‘Taller than Jake, just under six foot? But bigger, broader than him, solid.’

‘Sounds hot. Wear your highest heels that you can still walk to the pub in after. OK, so put at the end of the email, “Can’t wait for round two” or something.’

‘That’s far too much! You don’t think we’re getting carried away here? He might just be being friendly,’ I say, suddenly filled with paranoia that I’ve misread the whole situation.

‘Not at all, you know what the give-away is?’

‘The end of day meeting thing?’

‘No, that could conceivably just be his diary. It’s where he says
us
– I’ll cook
us
something nice. That, my friend, is assumed intimacy. It’s like he’s putting his arm around you already! Come on, just press send.’

‘Alright. But I’m just leaving the sign-off as “Look forward to next Monday”. That’s what he said, so if I say it back I’m not exposed.’

‘And I bet you something else, now that he’s on the scene there’ll be others crawling out of the woodwork too, that’s what I was saying yesterday, just you wait and see!’

‘Yep. I’ll be waiting, Rebecca.’

My phone rings at midday. It must be Devron, in for lunch with Martin Meddlar but wanting to update me on the new pizza range name in person beforehand.

‘Susie? Your visitor’s here,’ says Anita, our receptionist, whose sole job is to sit on a chair and look sexy. New clients sometimes get confused when they walk in to NMN, thinking they’ve stepped into a modelling agency: three beautiful women to welcome them, all nearly six foot tall, in white Lycra dresses. Everything in reception is white: thick white carpet, white sofas, and six giant white floor-standing vases filled with lilies that cost £50k a year.

And now we also have the white lights of the digital tickertape that runs along the back wall. Robbie installed the tickertape last year when he introduced ‘Tweet of the Week’. He’s made it my department’s responsibility to run a Twitter account for every campaign we do. ‘Creative teams are still the Big Thought Leaders but you guys are the soldiers on the ground,’ he’d said. ‘Remember you need killer end lines, always: attack, attack!’

A little piece of my soul has died every week since. The tickertape runs a live feed, so one minute you’ll have Berenice Tweeting: ‘NMN ranks highest in industry survey! Client servicing is core to our values’. And then a minute later, the pessaries team: ‘New campaign launches in Slovakia, well done Team Euro Bum!!!’

Devron’s sitting in reception waiting, flicking through the
Sun.
‘S-R!’ he says as he stands to shake hands and slips the reception copy of the paper into his briefcase. ‘Just waiting for Marty, but I wanted to share the name, legal have finally signed it off.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Gotta give you some background first,’ he says, adjusting his stance so that his legs are a little further apart, as if he’s about to leap onto a very small pony. ‘So, a while back, me and Mands are watching
CSI
, she’s eating a choc ice. Mands never eats fattening stuff, so I’m like what’s the deal? She says, “It’s a Skinny Cow.” I’d never even heard of it but they make choc ices, ice cream, all sorts of frozen.’

‘Yes, Devron, I know the brand.’ And I can’t believe you don’t. Given that it’s worth like a billion quid and it’s owned by Nestlé and you’re the head of food at a supermarket. Next you’ll be telling me about these amazingly tasty little beans in tomato sauce that you’ve discovered …

‘Me and Mands thought it was a brilliant name. Obviously we couldn’t call the pizzas the same thing but we brainstormed and came up with something even better.’

‘Which is?’ I say.

‘Fat Cow!’

I do not respond. I’m trying to work out if this is a wind up, as it can only be a wind up. Ad yet from the self-congratulatory look on Devron’s face it doesn’t feel like a wind up.

‘Don’t look so stunned, S-R, I didn’t mean you! I meant the name. Fat Cow!’

‘Fat Cow.’ I say. ‘They’re Skinny Cow and you’re going to call yours Fat Cow?’

‘Don’t be daft, S-R! Of course we’re not calling it Fat Cow.’

‘Ha!’ I say, relaxing. ‘You almost had me there, Devron, you looked so serious.’

‘It
was
Fat Cow but those jobsworths in legal wouldn’t let us call it that. They thought it was too close to Skinny Cow.’

‘Really?’ I say, sympathetically. ‘They thought Fat Cow and Skinny Cow were a little bit similar, did they? I don’t think they’re similar at all, are they … In fact they’re the opposite of each other, aren’t they, Devron? Fat Cow/Skinny Cow. Miles apart. There’s just that one little word that’s the same. And it’s only three letters …’

‘That’s what I said,’ says Devron. ‘Still, they started banging on about trademark infringement, I just said it’s not worth the hassle. So me and Mands had another brainstorm, she’s so good with ideas, Mands, she should come and work here.’

Yes, entirely what this building needs: another scantily clad young woman looking to spend quality time with a nice married man with a view to home-wrecking …

‘And where did you get to, Devron?’

‘We had a massive list,’ he says. ‘Pizza Skinnita, Slice-a-Nice, Chick-Pizzas, Thin Bottoms …’

‘Are the bases thinner? Jeff’s showing me products next Monday.’ Yes, Jeff’s showing me, just me, me, me.

‘Nah. What other names …? Oh yeah, we thought we’d be single-minded, like you guys always say, so we had Shee-tzahs, like pizzas for shes. We had literally hundreds but it was spankingly obvious which name to go for.’

‘So what is it?’

‘Fat Bird.’ He grins. ‘I’ve shared it round the wider team and everybody loves it.’

‘Fat Bird,’ I say. ‘Fat? Bird?’

‘Fat Bird. And Nestlé can’t touch us. So, in your face, Nestlé.’

I start to say something, then stop myself. ‘Hang on a minute, Devron. Wasn’t there a project last year on desserts that was called Fat Bird? And didn’t it have to be pulled?’ I’m sure I remember seeing something on our department status about a major cock-up.

‘It was the wrong time to launch and the developer quit in the middle of the process.’

‘Nothing to do with the name?’ I say.

‘The name’s the best bit, trust me. Our PR guys say the tabloids will love it. And Tom’s already briefed the printers on branded clothing. Play your cards right and come June there’ll be a photo of you on page ten of the
Sun
in a Fat Bird onesie.’

You’ll have to un-bury me first.

‘Devron, who are these pizzas targeted at again?’

‘Women who are a bit overweight. Tom’s cluster researched the target audience and he’s identified two core groups: Cellulite Sallys and Bingo-Wing Brendas.’

I take a deep breath and look at the floor. ‘And you haven’t researched the name?’

‘Head, heart, guts!’ he says.

‘Isn’t it possible that if you were a woman on a diet you might not love being called Fat?’

Devron crosses his arms. ‘It’s a well known fact that fat women have a better developed sense of humour than normal women. Look at Roseanne. And Dawn French.’ This, right here is the biggest problem with my job: when a man like Devron says something like this it is considered unprofessional to slap him.

‘If I listened to a panel of housewives before I made every decision, where would that leave me?’ Good question, Devron. Better informed, perhaps? ‘The public is fine with Skinny Cow,’ he says, pouting like a petulant child

‘There is a difference between being called skinny and fat,’ I say.

‘I’m not going to stand around arguing, S-R, it’s not up for debate. Aaah, here comes the big man himself! Marty mate!’

I turn around and sure enough here comes the big man, Martin Meddlar. ‘Big’ being slightly misleading, as Martin’s two inches shorter than me and that’s including two inches of bouffant dyed-brown hair. Still – he does earn £1.2 million. And he drives a lovely shiny red Ferrari. So I guess maybe my ruler’s broken and he is in fact taller than me … Martin’s around fifty but he has that youthful glow that wealthy alpha males have: the glow that comes from the twin blessings of never having to worry about bills, and having access to plenty of rigorous sex with women far better looking than themselves.

‘Devron, great to see you,’ says Martin, giving him the full politician handshake – firm clasp with the right hand, left hand offering extra patting on Devron’s arm. ‘Susie darling, I haven’t seen you for weeks.’ He kisses me on the cheek and lets his arm drift down my back. ‘Where have you been hiding?’