Leftovers (10 page)

After Daniel moved to Scotland I wrote to him every week – heart-wrenching, embarrassing teenage letters telling him what I’d been up to, what films I’d seen:
Short Circuit II
! It’s not as good as the first one.
Die Hard
! I bet you’ve probably already seen it but it is so brilliant! Go and see it, I know you will love it!!

And as is the natural evolution of life, he met a girl locally and his replies dribbled out, then stopped. And Polly told me to stop writing, what was the point? He was gone. But somehow I felt that if I could just remind him of how it felt to be up on that roof … through the power of my words on wonky lines on letters, then some day, he’d come back to London and we’d be together again and the sadness that had grown in my chest would shrink, then disappear, and everything would be OK.

Except off he went to Warwick University to study civil engineering. And in the summer holiday of his first year he met a beautiful girl from New York, and by the time he was twenty-five he’d married her. Done.

I’d get the occasional update via Polly who had taken an instant dislike to Brooke: ‘She’s beautiful, I suppose, in a no-carbs, groomed kind of way, but spoilt and cold. It’ll never last.’

But it was lasting. These things often do. Still, it’ll be good to catch up with him at the wedding. For old times’ sake.

Status report:

• Get creative team – URGENT
  
• Visit Grumpy Marjorie
  

I do hate Mondays but this one’s not too bad. When I give Sam his portion of brownie cheesecake from Saturday night he rewards me with some tasty gossip about Martin Meddlar’s latest dalliance, and a packet of cool paperclips that look like penguins.

‘Sam, you’re not seriously going to eat that for breakfast, are you?’ I say, as he unwraps the foil and sizes up the cake appreciatively.

‘You’re trying to tell me you’ve never done that?’ he says.

I hate the fact that Sam knows me so well.

‘Besides,’ he says, ‘it’s easy for you – you know how to make this stuff. It’s like in
Breaking Bad
– you’re Walt, just sitting in your kitchen making crystal meth.’

‘Sam, I can bring you in my recipe, then you can make it yourself.’

‘If I wanted it I’d Google it.’

‘You wouldn’t actually, Mr Know It All, as this is my own recipe.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘It is! I stuck two other recipes together. It’s awesome – take two good things and make them into something even better.’ I can’t quite bring myself to confess that I invented this pudding after putting two puddings in my mouth at the same time.

‘I can’t believe you can make up recipes like this and you’re wasting your life in this place.’

‘You’re a fine one to talk about wasted potential. Anyway, this recipe’s dead easy, shall I bring it in for you tomorrow?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘I like the fact that you make things for me.’

‘I don’t make things for you, Sam, they’re just leftovers. It’s you or the bin.’

He smiles a little smile that suggests he doesn’t quite believe me.

Before I know it the morning’s gone and Rebecca’s on the phone calling me for lunch.

‘Give me ten minutes,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to catch up with Alexis about a creative team.’

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ she says.

‘Is she in a mood? Selfridges.com not got the McQueen in her size or some other tragedy?’

‘Doubt it, I reckon she’ll be in a great mood. She’s in Paris with Fallon.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘She called in sick this morning, but there’s a paparazzi shot of her and lover-boy on the
Mail
Online getting on the Eurostar yesterday afternoon, I’ll send you the link.’ Alexis has failed to grasp the fact that going out with an ex-
X Factor
contestant means she can no longer chuck sickies quite as liberally as in days of yore.

‘This Fletchers brief is so late … fuck it, I’m emailing Robbie directly. See you in five.’

Rebecca’s waiting in reception chatting to Sam. He always looks nervous when he talks to her and today is no exception. He’s staring at his trainers while she’s giving him full flirt mode, to no avail.

‘Alright, Suze,’ he says, looking up with relief in his face. He’s taken off the sweatshirt he had on earlier and underneath is a blue t-shirt I haven’t seen before that says ‘Give Me All the Bacon and Eggs You Have’. Sam’s eyes always look super green when he wears that shade of blue.

‘Good t-shirt, Sam,’ I say. ‘Good slogan.’

He looks impressed. ‘You’ve seen
Parks and Recs
?’

‘Parks and what?’

He shakes his head in disappointment.

‘Sam, come for a burrito with us?’ I say. Great idea! If Sam’s there, Rebecca won’t dare try to hash over last Tuesday and he can protect me from a lecture.

‘Yeah, come, Sam! We promise we don’t bite,’ says Rebecca.

‘I can’t handle the two of you together,’ he says. ‘Besides, I’ve got stuff to do.’

‘What stuff?’ I say. ‘You’ve read the entire internet twice …’

‘Nothing you need worry about,’ he says and slopes off.

‘He is so cute and such a loser,’ says Rebecca, as we walk down the street. ‘You do realise he totally fancies you?’

‘Don’t be utterly ridiculous! Why would you even say something like that?’

‘You can’t seriously tell me you’ve never noticed the way he behaves around you?’

‘You are out of your mind, Rebecca. He fancies you more than he fancies me. He can’t even look at you.’

‘His face lights up when he talks to you. And he’s always getting you stationery. And asking you to cook for him. He’s desperate to impress you.’

‘All he ever does is sneer at me because I haven’t heard of the bands or TV shows that he’s into. Besides, Sam doesn’t do relationships any more. Some girl in Dublin broke his heart years ago, he’s taken early retirement.’

‘Oh I see. And you don’t approve of that, do you?’

‘Of what?’

‘Letting the past hold you back.’

‘Why would I approve of that? It’s stupid. He’s missing out on a lot of potential happiness.’

‘Yes. Isn’t he just?’ She raises an eyebrow at me. ‘Susie, trust me on this one. You just have to give him a bit of encouragement, that’s all. Right, what are you having?’

‘The usual with extra guacamole and a Diet Coke,’ I say, fishing a tenner out of my wallet. ‘Look, Rebecca: Sam asks me to cook for him because he likes food. He gives me stationery
because I give him food
. It’s a straightforward, mutually beneficial friendship founded on basic physical needs being met. I believe it’s called symbiosis. End of story.’

‘Nonsense. I think it would be so sweet if you guys got together,’ she says. ‘You’ve been friends all this time … One chicken burrito, one chipotle chicken salad and two Diet Cokes please, extra guacamole on the burrito,’ she says to the guy behind the counter who’s gazing at her.

‘And then we could sit at home together every night playing guitar? Hold on, could we have a bit more guacamole than that? Cheers … Rebecca, Sam’s like a permanent student.’

‘He just needs a push in the right direction, I don’t think it would take much,’ she says.

‘I’m not interested in pushing or being pushed for that matter,’ I say, as we take our food over to a corner table. I can feel the warmth of my burrito through the foil, and that mixture of excitement and anticipation that I feel rising in my chest is not a million miles away from the feeling I had when Jeff asked me for my number last week. Except that this burrito is entirely within my control and will definitely make me happy, whereas Jeff isn’t and probably won’t. I wonder when he’s going to email …

I’m just about to tell her about him when I notice she’s looking at me with her concerned-friend look – head tilted to the side at twenty degrees, lips slightly open, waiting for the perfect moment to say something I don’t want to hear. Oh … here it comes.

‘Listen, I’ve been thinking about you,’ she says, ‘and I know you’re going to say no way, but I think you should give the online dating thing a try.’

‘Let’s not ruin my lunch before I’ve even had a bite,’ I say, tearing the foil from the top of my burrito.

‘Don’t be like that, Suze.’

‘No way. I’m not interested, Rebecca … oh my God, this is exactly what I wanted,’ I say, taking a bite.

‘I can’t believe you won’t even give it a try. Everyone does it. That’s how you meet people nowadays,’ she says, burying her fork into her salad.

Why can’t
I
ever choose the salad in this place? I’m sure it’s lovely. You still get coriander rice and a bit of guacamole. Still, ordering a salad, at Burrito Shack? That would be like going to Betsy’s Cakes and choosing the oat and quinoa bar instead of the super-squidgy chocolate brownie: a pointless exercise in self-denial that would end badly.

Because then (hypothetically) you’d eat that oat bar and fail to be truly satisfied. So maybe you’d buy the brownie as well. Then eat the brownie on the number 88 en route to the last internet date you went on, wearing a white, Zara, dry-clean-only dress. Obviously you have no napkin; you’re not the practical type who carries Kleenex in her bag. So you’d arrive at your date flustered, with dodgy brown smears on your dress. But then rapidly realise: the stains don’t matter. You could be wearing a
Human Centipede
costume for all the difference it’d make. Because your date has lied about his height. By a mere eight inches. And while you can date a short man, you cannot knowingly date a liar. A liar who sends you a text, five minutes after your date has ended, to say, ‘Your v nice but their was no physical spark 4 me’.

And then perhaps you’d kick yourself for not having bought a second brownie to eat on the bus home as consolation. But it all worked out fine because there was still half a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food left in the freezer when you got home. And as everybody knows, Ben & Jerry’s absorbs tears much better than Kleenex anyway …

I mean that’s, like, one possible, hypothetical way that the situation might play out.

I put down my burrito and take a sip of Diet Coke. ‘Rebecca. I don’t want to have this conversation again. And you know full well I did try online dating, many times, before Jake. And it did not work out if you recall.’

‘You didn’t even go on a single date.’

‘I went on two! The guy who licked my forehead, and the extremely short guy.’

‘Oh. I thought the guy who licked you was the short guy.’

‘Tongue wouldn’t have reached.’

‘Oh … That was so long ago. You were unlucky. And there are loads of new sites, some of them are actually quite cool. Emily White in art buying just got engaged to some guy she met on My Single Friend.’

‘Well done, Emily.’

‘And I’ve met loads of good men online.’

‘Like who?’

‘Paul …’ she says.

‘You liar, you said you met him in a bar!’

‘He made me say that because he was embarrassed.’

‘There you go, and with good reason too! Met him in a bar … I can’t believe you lied to me all this time!’

‘No, he was embarrassed to admit we met online because he’s a macho old-fashioned idiot. Look, all I’m saying is that there are interesting, cute guys out there. I just think it’d be a good thing if you went on a few dates, got your confidence back. You know, take the focus a bit off …’

‘Take the focus a bit off what?’

‘I’m just saying …’

‘What are you just saying?’

‘The other night at Hawksmoor … I just think it’s time you moved on, put a toe back in the water.’

‘Rebecca. That guy in Hawksmoor was a dickhead. The stuff he was saying about women over thirty would have been justification alone for me to slap him.’

‘This isn’t about that guy. It’s the …’ she looks at me, then shakes her head, and then says, ‘it’s the Jake thing.’

‘Jake? Jake who? I’m over Jake, if that’s what you’re talking about. Just because I might mention him occasionally doesn’t mean anything. Naturally there are a few things that remind me of him … sometimes. And that’s totally normal after a long-term relationship breaks up, and I’m a lot better than I was six months ago. Don’t you agree?’

‘Well yes, you’re definitely better than you were, but still, I just think it would help you to see that there’s hope out there.’

‘Rebecca. First of all, hope is what kills you …’

‘Stop trying to be funny.’

‘I’m not trying to be funny. There’s nothing funny about the death of hope. I hoped things would work out with Jake. I hoped I wouldn’t waste four of the last good fertile years of my life with someone who ultimately mucked me about and wasn’t who I thought he was. I hoped by my age I’d have found a job I enjoyed. Quite frankly I hoped I’d be married and settled and happy by now, like pretty much everyone else seems to be. And where has all that hope got me?’

‘Susie …’

‘I know your heart’s in the right place and you think you’re helping me. But there’s just something about the whole online dating thing that I cannot bear. Everyone’s a tick box. It’s exhausting. It feels like shopping. And not fun shopping. Not “What’s new in mid-length dresses this week on ASOS?” shopping. More like: “Do you like the right bands? Are you under thirty-five? Do you enjoy watching DVDs? Are you athletic or do you actually mean big-boned?” Are you going to finish that guacamole?’

‘What?’

‘Come on, hand it over if you’re not eating it. If I ever open a burrito restaurant I won’t charge extra for guacamole, it’s just not right,’ I say. ‘Anyway, Rebecca, this whole online dating thing – I simply don’t have time to spend hours wading through a bunch of profile photos of blokes with two thumbs up, standing in the snow. You’re on a mountain. Wow, an actual mountain! No other male has ever been snowboarding ON A MOUNTAIN in the history of the universe …’

‘But you’re more than happy to spend hours looking at Jake’s girlfriend’s Facebook page …’

‘I have
stopped
doing that.’

‘No. You’ve just stopped telling me you’re doing that.’

‘I have not looked at her page for at least two months. And I know for a fact that you looked at Paul’s new girlfriend only three weeks ago. So I win!’