Leftovers (14 page)

‘Don’t ask me that,’ he says, shaking his head.

Can we go back to talking about tongues again please?

‘Then there’s the tomato sauce,’ he says. ‘Our standard tomato sauce has twenty grammes of sugar per hundred, to make up for the fact that the tomatoes are Chinese and have no discernible flavour.’

‘Honestly, every time I think about Chinese tomatoes it makes me feel deeply unhappy.’

He laughs. ‘What have you got against Chinese tomatoes?’ he says. But he says this in a way that is
so
flirtatious he might as well be saying, ‘I really need you to take your knickers off right now. Off.’

I laugh and recross my legs and almost fall off the stool, and have to steady myself by touching his thigh momentarily.

‘Where were we … oh yes,’ he says grinning. ‘We’ve had to cut the sugar, so the tomato sauce now has sweetener in.’

‘Rat cancer sweetener, like in the eighties?’

‘No, just mouse cancer,’ he says.

‘OK, so you’ve got liquid fake fat in the base, plastic cheese flakes, and sweetener in the Chinese tomato sauce,’ I say, trying not to laugh.

‘Control yourself, my dear! I can see I’m making you ravenous, aren’t I?’

‘Tell me about the toppings, I want to hear about the toppings.’

‘Are you sure you can handle my toppings?’ he says.

That innuendo doesn’t even make sense and yet I laugh like I’ve had three gin and tonics.

‘OK,’ he says. ‘So Devron wants to launch with three flavours, and guess what?’

‘What?’ I say, grinning like a fool.

‘None of them work yet! He’s desperate to make the Meat Hoe Down half-cal.’

‘It’s the market leader, makes sense,’ I say, sitting up straight and trying to resume some sort of professional demeanour, though frankly if we were in a bar we’d be snogging by now.

‘But you can’t have meatballs, cheeseburgers and chorizo on a diet pizza – it’s impossible,’ he says. ‘The chicken pizza’s easier, we use baked breast meat and add spinach. Devron wants to call it Sexy Chick and we’re arguing about what constitutes a sexy ingredient. Devron thinks sweetcorn as it’s Mandy’s favourite. I’m not convinced.’

‘What would you put on there?’

‘Oooh, if I had my way, and we’re talking quality ingredients? Asparagus maybe, though it’s a bit of a cliché . The sexiest food for me isn’t truffle or lobster. It’s a rib-eye steak, medium rare, Béarnaise sauce and beautiful, salty, crunchy chips.’

‘You’d stick a steak and chips on a pizza? Very Fletchers!’ I say.

‘No. Forget Fletchers, forget pizza. Just the steak on a plate. God, I could totally murder a steak for supper tonight …’

‘Yes, me too,’ I say.
Ask me! Ask me out for a steak tonight!

‘There’s a thought. Anyway, finally there’s the vegetarian pizza.’

‘That should be easier on calories,’ I say, thinking maybe I should repeat how much I too would like a steak tonight. Didn’t he hear me properly?

‘You’d think. But Devron’s desperate for one of the three pizzas to come in at under four hundred calories, which means mushrooms, spinach and lettuce.’

‘Hot lettuce on a pizza?’

‘He says that in America they categorise pizza sauce as a vegetable; he wants our veggie pizza to be at least one of your five a day.’ He puts two fingers to the side of his head and mimes pulling a trigger.

‘Poor you,’ I say.

He fixes me again with those eyes. He must be fully aware of how piercing those eyes are, how could he not be?

‘Can I ask you a personal question, Jeff?’

‘Fire away.’

‘You seem … unconvinced by these pizzas.’

‘What’s the question?’

‘No one else at Fletchers is quite as honest as you are about the food quality …’

‘And what’s the question?’ he says, smiling.

‘I don’t mean to be rude, but if you love food isn’t it hard to work on a project like this?’

He pauses for a minute and nods. ‘That’s an interesting question.’

‘I mean, you were a chef, you ran your own place, and now you’re working for a big company doing pizzas that have dubious side effects. Shouldn’t it be the other way round? You work for a big company, then you go off and do your own thing?’

‘Yeah, I guess,’ he says. ‘But you know, life just never turns out the way you planned, does it? On which note you’ll have to excuse me. I’d love to stay and carry on talking but I have to see a man about some synthetic non-melting cheese. Let’s catch up soon.’

I stand outside the Fletchers buildings as a rush of commuters flow past me heading for home. I hesitate, then pick up the phone. ‘Are you free for a drink now?’

‘What happened?’ says Rebecca. ‘I thought you were having a meeting with Jeff?’

‘I was,’ I say. ‘And now I’m not. It just ended. I can’t have a late one, I’ve got to be in early to brief the creatives, but meet me at The Flask in half an hour?’

‘Let’s go somewhere different?’ she says. ‘Clerkenwell? There’s a new cocktail bar, same people as Colebrooke Row.’

‘
No!
You know I can’t go anywhere near that part of town.’

‘Oh Suze, he’s not going to be there. You’ve got to get over this.’

‘I am over it. I just don’t need to go anywhere near his postcode.’

‘Clerkenwell is not Islington. You can’t veto every postcode because of Jake.’

‘I’ve told you I’ll go as far as the Holborn–Farringdon borders. Just not tonight.’

‘Fine. The Flask.’

‘The Flask.’

‘Fine.’

‘I don’t understand, it was all going so well,’ I say, pouring a second glass of wine. ‘He’d made me these amazing brownies, and he started the whole conversation talking about tongues. Then he was offering to show me his toppings; he even said I should go to Naples with them next time they go. I mean honestly, Rebecca, the way he was looking at me, I don’t think I’m imagining this. But then suddenly mid-conversation he says he has to go, takes me back up to reception and that was that. Maybe it was something I said …’

‘Like what?’

‘Well I asked him why he worked at Fletchers, that it must kill him to work on that food …’

‘And you think you might have offended him?’

‘I don’t think so … he doesn’t seem the type to offend easily …’

‘He probably just had to be somewhere,’ she says.

‘He said he had a meeting about cheese …’

‘There you go! Nothing to do with you.’

‘But I gave him this massive opportunity to ask me out for steak, and he didn’t take the bait at all.’

‘He’s not going to ask you out for dinner during a meeting, is he? He probably doesn’t know whether you’ve got a boyfriend. It is work, remember?’

‘Oh now it’s work? You’re the one telling me to email him asking his inside leg measurements and now it’s work?’

‘Come outside for a ciggy,’ she says, grabbing the bottle of wine.

‘It’s raining.’

‘Come on. I just saw a hot guy go outside and his friend was alright too …’

Rebecca started smoking again when she split up with Paul last year. I hate her smoking. Not for my own sake – I’m quite fond of the smell of fags, reminds me of my youth – but because it reeks of self-harm, albeit in socially acceptable form. It suggests that she’s not over her ex. I mean, I know I have my moments, but I’m relying on her to be wiser and stronger than me. The only upside to her smoking is that we do end up talking to even more men. Sure enough her fag’s barely out of the pack before the guy we’ve followed outside leans over to light her cigarette – though his mythical good-looking friend is nowhere in sight.

Rebecca is so damn impressive when she’s on the prowl. Within minutes they’re practically snogging. She’s turning round to show him something on the back pocket of her trousers, and he’s touching her back pocket, pretending to be interested in the tailoring but clearly delighted to be copping a feel. I’m standing awkwardly next to them staring into the middle distance with a smile fixed on my face when the pub door opens, and his friend re-emerges with a couple more pints. He hands one to his mate, stops, looks me up and down in my dress, then nods a greeting.

Rebecca is right though – this man is attractive. Excellent teeth, dark hair, tall, wearing a lovely grey suit, cream shirt and a navy tie. He actually looks like a proper person with a proper job. Maybe Rebecca’s theory stands up – maybe the mere fact of fancying Jeff means I’m now attracting more men into my universe.

‘Is this us then?’ he says.

‘Is what us then?’ I say.

‘Your mate’s going to get off with my mate, so we talk to each other?’

‘Does this happen to you often?’

‘A bit too often. I’d tell your mate not to bother with Gary,’ he whispers. ‘Seb, by the way,’ he says, extending his hand.

‘Susie. Why should I tell my friend not to bother? They look like they’re enjoying talking to each other.’ I notice Rebecca give Gary a joke slap, then press her hand to his chest in mock disapproval.

‘I’m sure your friend’s lovely,’ he says. ‘I just mean she’s probably wasting her time.’

‘Why? Is your friend a player?’ Garys are always players now I come to think of it.

‘You could say that,’ he says. ‘His wife would probably say that if she was here now …’

‘Ouch,’ I say, clocking his ring finger and noting it is bare. I pause for a second to try to work out why I feel so bothered on Rebecca’s behalf.

‘Are you married?’ he says.

‘Never,’ I say. ‘You?’

‘No. Got kids?’ I shake my head. ‘But you want kids?’ he says.

‘Why are you asking me?’

‘Don’t all women your age want kids?’

‘Er, no, Seb. And what age do you think I am?’

‘Don’t know, thirty?’ he says.

OK, I shall stay in this conversation – for now. ‘I don’t know if I want kids. Not everyone’s the same.’

‘You’re quite prickly, aren’t you?’ he says. ‘I like that in a girl. Feisty.’

‘It’s quite a personal question. How about you start with something a little less significant?’

‘OK.’ He smiles. ‘What’s your favourite sandwich filling? Or is that too significant too?’

‘Don’t knock sandwiches – sandwiches are important,’ I say, looking over to see what Rebecca’s up to. I’m not sure if I should go over there and warn her Gary’s married; I’ll tell her in a bit, when I’m done talking to this … quite attractive person.

‘I agree,’ says Seb. ‘I like roast beef, mustard and lettuce, with a packet of salted crisps on the side.’

‘Good call on the crisps. Rocket or iceberg?’ I say.

‘Oooh, now you’re asking … rocket, I think.’

Oh hang on a minute. Body language over there has changed slightly. I see Rebecca’s hand come up to rest on her hip and she starts to shake her head. ‘Seb, I think my friend has just found out that your friend is spoken for.’

‘Oh that’s a shame. You’ve only just forgiven me for that question about babies and now you’re going to go off to another pub and we’ll never see each other again.’

‘That is a shame, isn’t it,’ I say, smiling in a way that I hope is encouraging.

‘Ah well,’ he says.

‘Suze, shall we go?’ says Rebecca, coming to stand next to me and raising her eyebrows with great emphasis.

‘I guess I’m going now …’ I say.

‘Bye then …’ And then after a pause, ‘Are you going to give me your number or what?’

‘07831 442 310,’ I say, and I turn to walk away.

‘Hang on a minute, let me put it in my phone,’ he says.

‘Come on,’ I say, grabbing Rebecca’s arm. ‘Let’s go.’ I start walking.

‘Don’t you want to give that guy your number? He’s standing there with his phone in his hand.’

‘If he really wants it he’ll catch up with us,’ I say, as we walk away. With these good-looking ones you have to make them work a bit harder; they’re usually quite arrogant.

‘He’s standing there waiting for you. He’s not going to run down the street after you in front of his mate.’

‘Oh. Is he not coming?’

‘No. He’s just standing there.’

‘Well I can’t go back now, I’ll look silly,’ I say. ‘You go back and give him my number.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Just hurry up and do it, I’m too embarrassed now,’ I say.

‘You’re a twelve-year-old sometimes, you know that?’ she says, as she heads back to the pub, shaking her head.

Am not!
I think, as I stick my tongue out at her.

‘Fine. Done,’ she says, coming back. ‘Don’t make me do that again. Can you believe that guy I was talking to was married? He wasn’t wearing a ring.’

‘I’m telling you, all Garys are love-rats. So meanwhile how was Mr Salsa, did you see him in the end?’ I say.

‘Ah, yeah, not for me,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Lied about his height …’

I try not to smirk. ‘You’ve got the hot barman this week though, haven’t you?’

‘Hot barman on Thursday. And yes, he still thinks I’m called Susie …’

‘You can tell him your real name if you like.’

‘He’s taking me to some new pop-up speakeasy that serves alcoholic milkshakes.’

‘Be sure to Tweet an Instagram the moment you get there …’

‘Hopefully I’ll have better things to do with my time,’ she says with a smile.

One thing you do
not
want, when briefing Karly and Nick in their office first thing on a Tuesday is a cheap white wine hangover.

Another thing is Nick, lying on his stomach, playing
Grand Theft Auto
on his PlayStation and shouting ‘Die, you slaaag!’ at the prostitute on screen that he’s shooting.

‘Remind me why Robbie’s given us this brief?’ says Karly, tapping on her iPhone. Karly reminds me of Louise Brooks’s evil twin. She has a fantastically expensive razor-sharp bob and a killer body – long legs, slim hips and collar bones like a Tiffany mount that snugly position a diamond skull at the pit of her neck. Along with a killer body she has the mind of a psychopath.

‘It’s a huge budget, it’s very high profile, they want a star team.’ I say, trying to locate some ‘pep’ in my tone of voice collection.

‘Yeah,’ she says, putting her phone down briefly. ‘It’s just not our thing. Pre-manufactured food? I haven’t been to a supermarket for a decade. Are you sure Robbie meant this for us? He probably meant it for, like, Andy Ashford.’