Leftovers (31 page)

Daniel has made me realise that perhaps there is some hope.

But actually what use is this hope if it’s going in the direction of Daniel McKendall? I think it’s worse than no hope at all.

Status report:

• ON AIR! Keep senior team updated on results
  
• Happy Hour – plan speech – MEGA URGENT
  
• Try to remember Daniel McKendall is still married
  
• New Fletchers brief – check on timings – due any day?
  

Our thirty-second TV ad for Fat Bird pizzas, featuring the lovely Celina Summer, went on air for the first time during
Coronation Street
on Monday.

By the close of business on Tuesday, Fletchers had sold out of all their stock, which was supposed to last through until Friday. They’ve had to double the number of lines and workers in the factory, and they’re running night shifts too, in order to meet the unexpected demand.

It’s been the biggest success since the launch of the Triangulicious pizza in the mid-nineties. Devron has been whoop-whooping down the phone to Martin. Ton of Fun Tom has been whoop-whooping down the phone to me. Jeff sent me a funny email yesterday describing the double high-fiving and low-fiving that’s been going on around their office.

Berenice is fully abreast of the phenomenal sales figures.

And do you know who we have to thank for this ‘amazing, stellar, dazzling performance’ – according to Robbie’s email that went out this morning?

Of course I knew it wouldn’t be me, I’m not entirely naive.

But Andy Ashford, maybe? Nah … Andy who???

Why, it’s Karly and Nick of course! The heroes of the piece.

I’ll be getting a new brief on the next Fletchers project in a couple of weeks and perhaps I should chase for it now, but I’m not in the mood so I pop up to Andy’s office with a gold tin of Fortnum and Mason Chocolossus Biscuits, to commiserate.

‘These are for you, Andy. To congratulate you on doing such a great job and for being so gracious about it. I know you’re partial to a biscuit, and having conducted extensive biscuit research on your behalf, I think you might like these.’

‘Oh goodness, you shouldn’t have!’ he says, beaming. ‘It was my pleasure.’ He gestures for me to have a seat.

‘You know, Andy, I think it’s so unfair that those guys are getting the credit when you’re the one who saved this ad from being a total disaster.’

He shrugs. ‘I was just doing my job.’

‘Doesn’t it bother you though?’

‘What?’

‘The email that Robbie sent out? It didn’t even mention that you’re the one who did all the hard work.’

‘I’m far too old to pay attention to any of that nonsense. I ignore all the politics, I just keep my head down, come in and do the work. I’m probably lucky to still have a job in this business at my age.’

I nod.

‘And I really love the work,’ he says. ‘It’s the greatest luxury in the world to do a job you actually enjoy.’

‘I’ll have to take your word for it,’ I say.

‘You sound a bit down on the whole thing.’

I nod and look round his office at the posters on display. ‘Here’s the thing: I look at all these great ads on your wall – Boddingtons, Volkswagen – and I remember why I wanted to work in advertising in the first place … When I was thirteen, watching that first Levi’s ad on TV, Nick Kamen taking his jeans off in a launderette …’ Maybe I just wanted Nick Kamen in his pants, not the job in advertising …

‘Levi’s was a brilliant campaign,’ says Andy.

‘But I feel like over the years I’ve lost my way in this business,’ I say. ‘Or maybe this was never the way for me.’

‘There’s no shame in admitting you made a mistake,’ he says. ‘And I can never quite understand how you guys on the third floor put up with so much grief from all directions. I’ve seen the people who get on in this industry and, forgive me for saying it, Susie – I mean it as a compliment – but you’re not quite like them. You don’t play the game.’

‘It’s just I know how to do this job, Andy. I don’t love it but I know how to do it.’

‘Just because you know how to do something, doesn’t mean you have to do it,’ he says. ‘My father wanted me to follow him into law, but I would have been a very average lawyer. It took me five years to figure it out, and another five to work up the courage to leave.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ I say. ‘Well anyway, I just wanted to thank you properly, even if Robbie didn’t. I know it’s only a packet of biscuits but they are very fine biscuits.’

He smiles warmly. ‘You know, I can’t remember anyone in your department ever saying thank you before!’

Dalia calls. I haven’t seen her since Boccarinos, and since then I have not been too hasty in returning her calls.

‘Are you free today?’ she says.

‘I’m off to Maltby Street now to buy some ingredients, and then I’m going to do some recipe work on this blog thing tomorrow. So no, not really.’ Not if you’re going to give me the one hour of your time when Mark is busy doing something else.

‘I can meet you at Maltby Street,’ she says.

‘I didn’t think you ever went south of the river, Dalia.’

‘I’d really like to see you.’

‘As you like. I’ll be at Monmouth Coffee at midday.’

I take the tube down to London Bridge and wander the back streets and under the railway bridge, through to the arches of Maltby Street. It’s so much quieter here than at Borough Market, and yet there are all these fantastic food places hidden away. An amazing cheese shop, a greengrocer where it all looks so beautiful you want to buy every last bit of produce – I have to get these broad beans, ooh and the peas look amazing too. And then there’s the best place of all – St John’s Bakery, where they do the greatest custard doughnut in the world. I think about picking one up for Dalia but what’s the point, Mark won’t let her eat it. Well, she won’t let herself eat it rather …

I head back to the coffee shop for noon. Dalia’s already there, sitting at a table outside.

‘I got here early, managed to grab us a space,’ she says.

‘Thanks.’ I take a seat and feel the sun warm my face.

‘I got you a cappuccino, and a brownie for us to share.’

‘You eating brownies nowadays?’

She smiles gently.

‘How was Miami?’ I say. ‘You’ve still got a bit of a tan.’

‘It was fine,’ she says, nodding. ‘And I hear I missed the wedding of the year. I saw Poll yesterday, she showed me the photos.’

‘It was wonderful,’ I say, thawing slightly.

‘And I hear you had a good time with Daniel McKendall?’

I spoon the froth off my coffee. ‘What did Polly say?’

‘She said you were all over each other on the dance floor, that his marriage is on the rocks, and that you’re going to run off into the sunset together …’ she says, giving me a warm smile.

‘That is beyond stupid,’ I say.

‘And you went on a date to the zoo?’

‘Just as friends,’ I say.

‘You might as well shag him,’ she says. ‘Get some action, why the hell not.’

‘He is mar-ried.’

‘But you’re not.’

‘Oh Dalia, it is bad karma. And of
all
people I am not the type. And nor is Daniel, I’m sure.’

‘He’s still a man though, isn’t he? Sooner or later they all do it.’

‘That is totally not true, how can you say that?’

‘Come on! My ex cheated. And Polly’s ex cheated,’ she says, counting out on her thumb and forefinger. ‘Oh, and so did yours.’ She holds onto the dark red nail of her middle finger. ‘Three out of three. Isn’t that a jackpot? Or even a Jakepot?’

Ouch.

‘Sorry,’ she says slowly rubbing the end of her finger softly. ‘That was unnecessary. I … I’m having a bad week …’ She shakes her head.

‘Which of your exes cheated?’ I say.

She takes a deep breath. ‘You mean Polly didn’t already tell you?’

‘Tell me what? Oh. Oh I see. Oh! I’m sorry.’

‘Look, there’s no need to pretend you’re upset about it, I know you guys don’t like him.’

‘I’m still sorry that he let you down.’

She nods slowly. ‘I can’t really imagine the thought of not seeing him again,’ she says.

I nod. ‘It’s hard.’

‘I just feel so good when I’m with him. Like really alive,’ she says, her eyes starting to fill with tears.

‘But not so good in the times in between …’ I say.

‘I guess so,’ she says, taking a tissue from her bag.

‘Is it definitely over?’ I say. They’ve been on and off for so long now, I don’t know whether this is finally it.

‘Who knows … yes. I think it only happened once, maybe twice. Some girl he met in a bar.’

‘Oh. No. I meant you and him.’

‘I don’t know … I don’t want to think about any of that.’

‘Fair enough,’ I say.

‘And I’m sorry I’ve been giving you a hard time about Jake. I suppose now I get why you’re still so hung up about him.’

‘What?’

‘You know, you kind of block that stuff out.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ she says, quickly shaking her head. ‘I didn’t come here to have a row.’

‘Well then explain what you’re talking about,’ I say, feeling myself start to get angry.

‘When I was last round at yours … oh forget it,’ she says.

‘Say it.’

‘Well I asked what you missed about him, and you said …’

‘And I said everything.’ I nod.

‘Like what?’ she says.

‘His smile, his optimism, his energy,’ I say, counting out on my fingers. ‘The fact that he always gave people the benefit of the doubt. His sense of fun. The way he used to …’

‘… stay out till 4 a.m. on a week night and you didn’t know where he was or who he was with?’ she says.

I ignore her. ‘The way he used to get the papers for me on a Sunday morning, even if it was pouring with rain …’

I can see she’s itching to say something. Something along the lines of, ‘He was probably leaving the flat just so that he could text her …’

I really don’t want to have this discussion. ‘Dalia, you can slag off Jake all you like. The point was, regardless of how it ended, he was on my side. And I miss having someone on my side.’

She grabs my hands in hers. ‘Susie: we are all on your side. I’m not trying to upset you. But you see that relationship through rose-tinted glasses. You never remember the bad bits. I’m not saying he was a total wanker but he was far from perfect.’

‘I do know he wasn’t perfect,’ I say quietly. ‘But no one is.’

And of course I’m selective with my memories. Why would I want to remember every last thing?

A year of feeling paranoid, except it wasn’t paranoia.

Of Jake staying out drinking late with work mates. Or maybe just that one work mate.

Of him picking fights. And that awful birthday weekend, when it hit me like a rock – we weren’t going to make it. And then it was OK, because we had a good week, and then it wasn’t OK because we had a bad month.

That last Christmas, the way he’d looked at me when he’d unwrapped the watch I’d bought him: delight, rapidly followed by guilt.

And then that awful phone call.

‘It is what it is,’ he’d said.

No excuses.

No apologies.

Five little words – two of which he’d used twice, and that were so piddly they’d get a terrible score in Scrabble.

My grandmother had an expression Jake used to love.

‘
Hai delle fette di prosciutto sugli occhi.
’

‘You must have ham over your eyes.’

You must have ham over your eyes which is preventing you from seeing the truth.

I think perhaps I’ve had a whole ham sandwich.

I am proud of myself. I’ve been working hard. I now have a total of twenty recipes up on the blog. I made myself eat pasta for lunch and dinner; tough job but someone’s got to do it.

Today I wrote up posts for these seven recipes: