Leftovers (7 page)

Jeff raises an eyebrow at me. ‘Shall we head to the kitchens then? I’m sure you can’t wait to see the product,’ he says, with a trace of sarcasm.

‘Oh no!’ says Tom. ‘I really wanted to show Susie my slides that set up our brand rationale positioning.’

‘Uh-oh, Thomas. Is this another one of your Death by PowerPoints?’ says Jeff. His tone is light, but Tom bristles nonetheless.

‘This is a mega-strategic, super-high-profile, game-changing project. A lot of rigour’s gone into the thinking.’

‘Mega-strategic
and
game-changing? That sounds very important indeed,’ says Jeff. ‘I thought we were just trying to flog some pizzas?’

‘You don’t have to see the presentation, Jeff. I can take her through the slides and we’ll meet you in the kitchen after?’ says Tom.

Jeff looks me straight in the eye. It is a look filled with conspiratorial naughtiness.
You and I are the same. We are not like Tom. Let’s have some fun.

‘I’ll come with you,’ says Jeff. ‘I might learn how to be mega-strategic and game-changing. But will it be quick? I’ve got another meeting at 10 a.m.’

‘That’ll be fine,’ says Tom.

‘Can you do me one favour though, Tom?’ says Jeff.

‘What do you want?’ says Tom warily.

‘Can we do your presentation over coffee in the canteen? The fluorescent lighting in those meeting rooms makes me lose the will to live.’

Tom weighs this up as if it’s a trap. He takes a breath, then nods. ‘OK. I’ll go and fetch my laptop and meet you guys up there. Grab me a soy chai, would you Jeff?’

‘Will do,’ says Jeff. ‘Take your time.’

We walk through the building to the central lifts. Somehow it feels like we could be on a date, walking in the park rather than in a concrete office block with giant photos of grey, veiny prawns bearing down on us. There’s a crackle of something between us that feels almost visible. I know it’s ridiculous, we only met a few minutes ago, but he is most definitely flirting with me. And not just normal flirting. Mega-strategic, game-changing flirting. Flirting in a way that is totally caveman and presumptive: I, Man, flirt with you. I fancy you. You, Woman, flirt back. You fancy me. Let’s go to the toilets, take our security passes off, and take it from there.

Of course this is probably all in my mind and yet …

‘I like your earrings,’ he says. My hand immediately moves to my ear, and I find myself twirling with my hair.

‘I’ve forgotten which ones I put on,’ I say. ‘Are they the amber ones?’

‘They’re a sort of moonstone,’ he says. ‘They make your eyes look more blue than grey. You’ve got those sort of eyes that change depending on what you’re wearing, don’t you?’

I am definitely not imagining this.

‘So is it Susie with an
ie
or with a
zy
?’ he says, as we get in the lift.

Lift, for once, could you please get stuck, please? I’ve been trapped in these buggers at least once a year for six years, and never, ever with anyone remotely attractive.

‘Susie with an
ie
,’ I say.

‘I once went out with a Suziii who spelt her name with three Is. She used to put little flowers instead of dots on them. It was never going to work out,’ he says.

Aha! Proof that he’s straight too. Excellent. ‘So is it Jeff with a J or a G?’ I say.

‘J, like Jeff Bridges, though obviously he’s got a bit more hair than me. Have you seen
The Big Lebowski
?’

‘Like ten times,’ I say. ‘I think The Dude is based on this guy Sam who I work with …’

Jeff laughs a low, deep chuckle. ‘And there’s me thinking The Dude was based on me.’ he says. ‘Did you see that film the Coen brothers did a few years back, the Western?’

‘
No Country For Old Men
?’ I actually thought it was a touch over-rated but it looks like Jeff loves it, so I don’t want to say I didn’t like it …

‘No,’ he says. ‘I thought it was over-rated. I meant
True Grit
, also with Jeff Bridges.’

‘Oh I loved
True Grit
, with the young girl with the plaits. So great!’

OK, enough of this time-wasting. I need to find out if he has a girlfriend. We’re now entering the canteen. Tom’ll be at his desk already, I haven’t got much time. I’d better ask some smart, open questions.

‘Do you go to the cinema much?’ I say. See if he replies with a ‘we’ …

‘Not as much as I’d like,’ he says. ‘You?’

‘Same. I don’t seem to have much time, you know, day job, and then I’m quite busy. With
my friends
…’

‘Yeah, I know what you mean. Work seems to take up far more energy than it used to when I was in service.’

‘The army?’ I say, looking at his chest. He’s so broad-shouldered, I could totally see him running through a muddy field in camouflage, carrying an injured colleague on his back to the medi-tent …

‘The army? God no. Why would you think I was a soldier?’

Because I’m totally carried away in some insane fantasy based on your fit body?

‘Me?’ he says. ‘I’m a total wimp. No, I meant service, as in restaurants. I used to run my own pub up in Suffolk. Local, seasonal food, nothing fancy. So, what coffee would you like, young lady? You’re not into this soy chai malarkey too, are you?’

‘Black coffee, thanks.’

‘Good, a proper drink. And any cake or a flapjack?’ he says, eyeing up the selection of goodies on the counter.

In all the years I’ve worked on Fletchers, neither Devron nor Tom has once offered me a piece of cake. I think I love Jeff. Or maybe I just don’t love Devron and Tom. Or maybe I just love cake.

‘That chocolate sponge looks delicious,’ I say. ‘But I can’t be eating cake for breakfast, it sets a bad precedent, don’t you think?’

‘Nonsense. A girl like you should totally have cake for breakfast! Besides, it looks like a giant Suzy Q.’

‘A what?’

‘A Suzy Q! Your name’s Susie and you’ve never heard of a Suzy Q?’ I shake my head. ‘Little American cakes, cream in the middle? Mos Def name-checks them? Go on, get the Suzy Q. You have to, it’s practically named after you. It’s your namesake. Your namecake.’

I let out a pathetically girly little giggle.

‘Go on, it’d be rude not to,’ he says.

‘Really?’

‘Tell you what, if I share it with you does that make you feel any less naughty?’

DO YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND? I sincerely hope not, because this conversation amounts to more foreplay than I’ve had in a year.

‘Deal,’ I say, grinning, and then rapidly not grinning as I see Tom waving to us from across the canteen. ‘Tom’s just walked in.’ I feel like we’ve been caught mid-snog.

‘He’s here already?’ he says. ‘Oh. Right, well I guess we’d better get back to work …’

The man behind the counter comes over to us and gives Jeff a broad smile and a high five. ‘
Hey amigo, qué pasa?
What can I get you guys to drink?’

‘Hey Miguel, how’s it going?
Me pones dos cafes solos y un
“soy chai” por favor
?’ he says, rolling his eyes as the man laughs. ‘Miguel’s teaching me Spanish, and I’m teaching him knife skills. That’s a good deal, isn’t it?’ he says to me.

‘Knife skills! Did you learn those in combat too?’ I say.

‘Those training kitchens at the Little Chef can be deadly!’ he says.

‘I’m terrible at chopping,’ I say. ‘Whenever you see chefs on the telly and they’re looking at someone else while they’re chopping an onion at a hundred miles an hour – it makes me break into a sweat. I’d have my arm off if I did that.’

‘Nonsense, it’s dead easy. You just need to practise. It’s all about confidence. I could teach you some basic skills, it’d take me half an hour?’

‘When?’ I say, too quickly.

‘Anytime. You’ll have to give me your number,’ he says, grinning.

Tom is hovering a few metres away from us, glued to his BlackBerry. Nodding mostly, but also saying, ‘Sure sure, Devron. Fully strategic’ a lot.

‘So tell me – what do you do at the agency then?’ Jeff says. ‘Do you come up with the ideas for the ads?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘A creative team does that.’

‘That’s a relief!’ he says. ‘So you weren’t responsible for that terrible Perfect Bottom pizza campaign? Find your perfect bottom, we’ll give you the right stuffing …’

‘Actually I did work on that,’ I say, blushing. ‘But I didn’t come up with the idea.’

‘Oh,’ he says, ‘sorry. But they were so cheesy.’

I agree. ‘Sold a lot of pizzas though,’ I say, shrugging my shoulders in despair. ‘Double-digit growth, your boss was very happy with those ads.’

‘So what do you do exactly?’ he says, gesturing to Tom to get off the phone, and pointing at his watch. It’s 9.45 a.m. and I’m sure Jeff had to be somewhere at 10 a.m… .

I reach into my wallet and hand him my business card. That way he has my number and my email too. On the front of the card is a black shiny NMN logo, the legs of the three letters melded together so that the whole thing resembles one big, scary, slightly embossed praying mantis.

On the other side it says:

Susie Rosen

Account Director

That should actually say:

Susie Rosen

Person with the greatest responsibility in the western world

(yes, Obama, that is me, not you). The quest for world peace

is one thing. But do you have any idea how challenging it is

to ensure that there’s always a brand new bottle of Heinz

ketchup on hand for Devron’s bacon sandwich when he

comes in for a breakfast meeting?

On the flip side it should have a little note from my mum:

Really, Susannah

You should have gone to dental school like your clever

brother. I don’t care that teeth freak you out. And now

you’re wasting your life away at that agency while Marian

Bentley’s daughter’s just been awarded an OBE for her

charity work. And did I tell you Sylvia’s daughter now

heads up the cancer ward at UCH? And she’s three months

younger than you!

I’d need an A4 business card.

Jeff stares at my job title. ‘Account Director,’ he says. ‘Like accounts as in finance?’

‘No, accounts as in Fletchers is the account, I look after it. Basically I try to make sure a client’s happy with an idea; if there are any changes I then need to make sure the creatives are happy. Once that’s all happened I try to get the ad made, on time and in budget.’

‘Sounds reasonably straightforward,’ he says.

‘If only,’ I say. ‘The problem is that usually clients and creatives have opposing opinions, so it can feel a little bit like piggy in the middle.’

‘Piggy in the middle; I used to hate that game,’ he says, smiling warmly.

‘Me too.’ I smile back.

His face crinkles for a minute. ‘Actually do you mean piggy in the middle? Aren’t the two sides both on the same side in that game?’

I think about it. I’ve been trotting out this analogy for years but of course he’s right.

‘I am an idiot!’ I say. ‘I’m going to have to think of a different game where two sides attack one person … How about dodgeball, where you’re just getting hit all the time?’

‘Nah, in dodgeball there’s no one’s in the middle. I think you mean you’re a whipping boy. Or a whipping girl!’ he says, with a mischievous look.

‘That sounds a bit
Fifty Shades
!’ I say. ‘Oh look, Tom’s done, I think …’

Tom comes over looking mildly flustered.

‘So shall we go through these slides then, Tom?’ I say.

‘You know what?’ says Jeff. ‘I’ve got a better idea. We’re not going to get through these slides in eight minutes and still have time to talk through product. I’m doing some work on cheese next week, but let’s meet up the week after to go through the pizzas. You and me. The product should have moved on by then anyway.’

‘Good idea,’ says Tom. ‘I’ll set up a time.’

‘No, that’s OK, I’ll do it with Susie directly,’ says Jeff, smiling at me. ‘We can do it together. Just the two of us. If that’s OK with you, Susie?’

‘Yes!’ I say. ‘If that’s what you want. That would be more … efficient. And you’re so busy, aren’t you, Tom? That’s a great idea, Jeff,’ I say, meeting his look with a smile.

‘I think I should be there,’ says Tom. ‘To answer any questions.’

‘No!’ I say. ‘I mean, of course you’re welcome to come but I can email you afterwards if Jeff can’t answer something … if that’s OK with you, Tom?’

‘S’pose so …’ says Tom.

‘Listen,’ says Jeff, touching my arm lightly. ‘I’ve got to run. Great to meet you, Suzy Q. Good luck with the whips and I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.’ He looks again at my business card, smiles, then tucks it into his trouser pocket.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ says Tom, after he’s gone. ‘Jeff’s quite outspoken, he’s a bit of a maverick.’

‘Don’t be silly, that’s fine,’ I say. I like mavericks, especially hot ones. ‘Do you know Jeff well then?’ I say.

‘What do you mean?’

Do you know if Jeff has a girlfriend?

‘I mean do you work closely with him?’ I say.

‘Not really. He’s only been here about six months. Right, can I show you these charts?’

If you must. And for the entire hour that Tom’s taking me through the forty-eight slides he’s prepared, the only thing I can think about is the way Jeff touched my arm. And that sly smile on his face when he put my card in his pocket. And the way he looked at me; really looked at me.

It’s been a long time since someone’s looked at me that way.

Some Saturdays I wake up, and before I’ve even managed to get out of bed a little grey cloud comes to join me under the duvet. The weekend should be the highlight of your week, should it not? Should. Now there’s a word.

When Jake and I split up, my best friend Polly told me something her therapist had said after Polly’s first husband, Spencer, walked out on her when she was seven months pregnant:

‘“Should” is the worst word in the English language.’

Funny, because I always thought the worst word was ‘jism’.