Leftovers (23 page)

‘Come! Have a dance,’ he says, grabbing my hand from my lap. ‘That’ll wake you up.’

I don’t want to be woken up! I want to go home to bed, scream and then cry a bit.

But instead I let him drag me to the mirrored dance floor, just as the electro-whine of
Gangnam Style
kicks in. Peter starts lassoing his arm through the air and boinging to the left and right. Occasionally he breaks his horse-inspired routine to spin me violently. After ten minutes of increasing dizziness I plead a time out, but sitting proves to be a mistake. Peter orders another bottle, then a third. I keep thinking ‘just leave’, but he is now telling me about his dead brother and how can you possibly walk out on someone while they’re telling you about their dead brother? All I can do is keep knocking back this expensive, delicious white wine, though I’ll be the one paying the price in the morning. It is only when he moves my hair to one side and tells me what a delightful jaw line I have that I sense a window, and an urgency to jump through it.

‘Thank you so much for your generosity but I must go now.’

‘It’s still early, Sarah! You’re such terribly good fun, do stay.’ He clutches my hand, awkwardly grabbing my fourth and fifth finger in his fist.

‘I have to go.’

He is still holding onto my fingers for dear life while he reaches over to kiss me goodbye. I turn my head quickly but he still manages to plant his mouth next to mine. His top lip is moist from the dance floor and his wet lips linger. It is all I can do not to wipe his sweat from my skin until I’m back out on the street, walking away as fast as I drunkenly can.

I wake at 11 a.m. and the first thing I feel is a throbbing headache, followed by a low, deep ache of sadness. Alcohol’s a depressant, I reason. This is just a particularly emotional hangover. It’s normal to feel miserable – that’s why people become alcoholics: when they feel like this they carry on drinking. And hangovers are harder to recover from in your thirties than in your twenties; a bit like relationships.

Why did I let myself get into that situation with Peter last night? And the week before with Seb? I was drunk both times, yes. But drunk on loneliness more than anything.

Speaking of Seb, when I check my phone there’s yet another text. Eighth one this week. How has he not got the hint? I’d taken the view that any response from me would encourage him but I should have put my foot down at the start.

Hey sexy lady. U have not responded to my texts. Y not? Last Sunday u were v friendly, touching my leg 1 minute, then totally cold the next! U have given V mixed signals. Perhaps u r frigid – no wonder u r single
. I do think u r rude though – ESPECIALLY when someone buys u drinks and snacks. Anyway: rightly or wrongly I think u do NOT want to c me again. If I am reading these signals wrong and u call me tmrw and say hey Seb crossed wires Seb v sorry OR I lost my phone – then no harm done. If u do I think we could have a REALLY good time. If u r around and r genuinely sorry I look forward to date 2. And if not – your loss, S, your loss

I phone Polly to share the lunacy of this text but it goes through to her voicemail. Only two weeks to go now till the wedding, she’ll be totally hectic. I can’t wait for that wedding.

Rebecca and I had vague plans to go to the cinema, but while I’m in the shower she calls and leaves a hugely apologetic message saying she’s still with Luke, do I mind if we take a rain check? I could really do without her turning into Dalia marque two. On one level of course I’m incredibly happy for Rebecca that things are going so well with Luke Barman. And on another horrible level I’m a bit bothered that it’s working out. My partner in crime has abandoned me, and while I want her to be happy, I don’t want to be left alone.

So …

Sunday …

What to do with a day?

Since when did days become so long? When Jake and I were a couple the weekends never felt this drawn out. We usually had something fun to do but when the diary was empty that was fine too: we might do nothing other than eat a late breakfast, bumble around and watch a box-set and yet the time would fly. But nowadays some weekends feel like a long journey home in the rain.

I think about calling Sam. He’d be fun to hang out with, we could watch a DVD or something. Is that what it all boils down to? Trying to find people to share or avoid the loneliness with? Should I be brave and text Jeff? I can’t bear the thought of spending a day waiting for him to not reply. Besides, next week at the research group I’ll pin him down properly.

I’m definitely not in the mood to see Marjorie. But I don’t want to sit here thinking about things and people I shouldn’t. I should go to Westfield and find a dress for Polly’s wedding, but the thought of shopping with a hangover is too heinous. Besides it’s cloudy out. I’ll make lunch and then I’ll be able to think of something.

There is only one dish to make on a day like today –
the
go-to, cheer-me-up-post-hangover pasta: conchiglie with cream, bacon and parmesan. How could there be a better designed pasta shape for this dish than these shells? That delicious creamy sauce, held safe and warm in those private little sanctums. I myself would like to climb into a giant pasta shell on a day like today.

I’ve got carried away and made twice as much as I can eat. Still, it’ll keep till dinner. It looks like the sky is beginning to clear. I flick through last week’s Sunday supplements. There’s an article about Being Single: it says that the key to happiness is to treat yourself like you are your own soul mate, spoil yourself with flowers, take yourself out on dates.

You know what? I would really like to go to London Zoo – I haven’t been since I was about five and it’s only twenty minutes away. But I can’t picture myself going to the zoo alone. Though actually I could go for a long walk in Regent’s Park … Clear my head, get some exercise. Perfect. I love a walk in the park. It’s one of my favourite things. I feel most myself when I’m in Regent’s Park in particular – even though it’s always busy it still always feels calm. And it’s so beautiful – so much better than Westfield at the weekend.

I walk round the Outer Circle and then head to Queen Mary’s Gardens. The roses here are breathtaking. It’s like something out of a fairy tale – I can’t believe they don’t charge people to see such a spectacular sight, not to mention the scent! And the names of these roses are so random – this one’s called Ice Cream, and this phenomenal deep yellow one’s called Keep Smiling. I wonder who makes up these names. That would be a lovely job, making up names for roses.

I pop over to The Cow and Coffee Bean and treat myself to a cappuccino and a slice of awesome carrot cake, and then walk all the way round to the lake to look at the birds. Unbelievable – these little black ones with white collars, so chic! And these, with the glimmering purply-blue feathers – stunning.

That was a delightful date with me, if I do say so myself. I would totally ask me out again!

I’m in such a buoyant mood that I decide to go and see Marjorie on my way home. I just about have time to pop to the supermarket. I don’t think she deserves it after how rude she was to me, but still it’ll be up to me to be the bigger person. I trek to Waitrose, buy some raspberries, some seeds for Fitzgerald, a
Mail on Sunday,
a bunch of purple tulips and a tin of old fashioned mixed-fruit travel sweets. White flags and olive branches aren’t on deal this week.

I pop back to mine quickly and put the leftover pasta I was saving for dinner into Tupperware for her, and head over. When I get to her door she doesn’t answer. For a moment I panic that she might have had another fall, but when I prop open her mailbox I can hear the TV blaring out. I knock loudly again and after three long minutes, during which I begin to regret making the effort, she comes to the door.

‘What do you want?’ she says, through the inch she’s willing to give.

‘Hello Marjorie! I’ve brought you a few things.’

‘I’m in the middle of
Columbo
.’

Columbo
’s on every hour of every day.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘If you just let me in I’ll give you the stuff, make you a cup of tea and then I’ll leave you to it. Would you prefer that?’

She nods grudgingly, opens the door, then shuffles back to the living room.

I flick the kettle on, put the flowers in a vase and the fruit in the fridge, and head back in to see her. This room is even more of a tip than before – it’s depressing. But there’s no point in me offering to help tidy it, she’ll only have a go at me. I notice the cheque she wrote for me last time is still sitting on her side table. I’m amazed she hasn’t ripped it up.

She is entirely serious about not wanting to be disturbed. I try having a chat, but she shakes her head and points to Peter Falk, who’s just said ‘One more thing …’

I wait until the episode is over, but it’s straight into another episode, and when I try to offer her another cup of tea she tells me to shut up or go home. And so I thank my lucky stars that for once she doesn’t want me to stay and I leave her to it.

I’ve given her my dinner, so I take some fish fingers out of the freezer and make that fish-finger sandwich. I get in to bed with my laptop and catch up on
The Killing.
Maybe I’ll move to Copenhagen. All the men there are so handsome, even the serial killers.

I turn the lights out at 9.10 p.m. Big week coming up, research group with Jeff, and of course that whopping major work problem on the scripts …

I’m asleep before I even have time to worry.

Status report:

• Get script signed off – URGENT (subliminally persuade Devron to research)
  
• Jeff date – FORCE THE ISSUE THIS WEEK
  

Oh dear. First thing Monday, Devron’s on the phone: he loves all the scripts. Mandy too loves the scripts. Their next-door-neighbour Keith who was round at the weekend watching the match thinks they’re blinding. And Keith’s wife Lorraine does too, though personally she’s not a fan of that Penelope Cruz, and thinks Lana Del Ga Ga or whatever her name is would be a better choice.

Why don’t I just let this play out? Let them make a terrible ad, waste four million quid – it’s not like it’s my money. Because: the minute a single viewer at home complains about the ad, it will be entirely my fault, no one else’s. Don’t ask me why, it makes no sense. Same as quadratic equations – I cannot explain it.

‘I can’t decide which one will work best for the brand,’ says Devron. ‘The Cruz script – that’ll get great PR but there’s not much pizza in it …’ True, there is no pizza in it, I think, as I doodle an un-smiley face on my to-do list.

‘Then those CGI girls … love that, and those locations will look
so
aspirational …’ He means Mandy’s already bought a new bikini.

‘But then that Truth one with Celina Summer – it just has so much honesty, so much raw truth to it. I think it’ll really speak to our customers in their own language.’

‘Tricky,’ I say. ‘If only there was a way of finding out what your customers actually think …’

‘Yeah …’ he says. And then falls silent. He can’t bear to suggest research because he doesn’t want to look indecisive or weak.

‘I’m not sure if it’s at all possible,’ I say, ‘and I’d have to ask a massive favour from Martin Meddlar …’

‘Yes?’ says Devron.

‘But just this once would you allow us to commission some research? We’d pay for it, of course. I mean, we’re the ones putting you in this awkward position …’

‘How soon can you do it?’

‘If we’re lucky we can get it sorted this week … Thursday at 6 p.m.?’ I say, clicking send on the email I’ve already drafted to our research agency giving them the go-ahead.

‘Done,’ he said. ‘Just this once.’

‘Oh, just one thing, Devron. I think it would be incredibly helpful if that chef of yours was there …’

‘Jeff?’

‘That’s his name, Jeff. There might be some NPD feedback for him …’ And 6 p.m. on a Thursday night will be a good time for me to get some feedback from him.

‘Alright, I’ll bring him,’ he says.

Now that, Rebecca, is a cloud with a silver lining.