It’s 5.50 p.m. and I’m applying a second layer of mascara and a bit of extra cover-up under my eyes in the ladies’ toilets at the research centre. Jeff and Devron are two minutes away. Karly is sitting scowling in the viewing room, tapping away on her iPhone and bitching about her time being wasted.
I’m wondering if this tight red dress Rebecca made me wear was really such a good idea. It has a very low neckline and you can see the top of the middle bit of my bra, but she assured me that this is a good thing. Too late to change now, and if I pull up the top part I’ll only end up revealing too much leg.
Still, it’s dark in the viewing room, I think, as I go back in. It’s dark so that we can look through the one-way glass at the five loyal Fletchers shoppers on the other side. These are the ‘Bingo-Wing Brendas’ that Tom identified as the main audience for Fat Bird pizzas: loyal Fletchers customers in their thirties and forties who are trying to lose weight. In return for their opinions on the three scripts they’ll get a twenty-pound Fletchers’ voucher and ten per cent off their next shop. They sit there, shyly helping themselves to crisps and sandwiches from the table, a couple knocking back the free wine.
The door opens to our viewing room and in come Jeff and Devron. Jeff is looking seriously good. He’s wearing a denim shirt over a white t-shirt, which makes his eyes look amazing, and he’s clean shaven today, which somehow makes him look even naughtier than when he has stubble.
Karly perks up significantly when she sees him and suggests he sits next to her, but fortunately that’s the spare seat between her and me that she’s left to make it obvious that she doesn’t want to sit next to me. (Her and Nick are
deeply concerned
about this research group. It is
not how they like to work
and
really insulting to their seniority
and
if anything needs changing on these scripts, someone else will bloody well have to do it.
)
‘Would you like some wine, Jeff?’ I say, and pour him a particularly large glass to kick-start proceedings.
‘Ssssh, they’re about to start,’ says Karly, though she’s busy tap-tap-tapping away on her iPhone as always.
Eileen, the researcher, begins by asking the group what sort of pizzas they like. When one woman says she likes Sainsbury’s Taste The Difference pizzas, Devron has his first tantrum. And when five minutes later one of the other women says she once had food poisoning from a Fletchers pizza, Devron says to Jeff, ‘She probably ate three pizzas at once, look at the size of her.’ Coming from Devron of all people!
Things go seriously downhill when Eileen takes them through the three scripts. They think the Penelope Cruz route is ‘tacky’, ‘disgusting’ and ‘cheesy’.
‘Perfect – so are the pizzas,’ Jeff whispers to me and I snort down a giggle.
The CGI script is ‘vile’, ‘sexist’ and ‘stupid’ and ‘what on earth has it got to do with food?’ When one of the group says that it was clearly written by a man, as no woman could ever have written such misogynistic tosh, I see Karly grip the sides of her chair like she’s giving birth. And the Celina Summer script is ‘the best of the bunch’, except that ‘all the words in it need changing’ and ‘she’s utterly obnoxious’ and ‘horribly smug about being thin’.
‘Looks like I’m going to have to find a new career!’ I say, as Karly bitches loudly in the background about how stupid these women are; how they haven’t got a clue about humour or creativity; how customer feedback is meaningless; and why are we even researching these scripts two weeks before the shoot anyway – whose dumb idea was
that
?
‘What would you do instead?’ says Jeff. ‘Something with food, right?’
‘Totally! I had this crazy idea for a blog but it’s stayed in my mind for so long – I think maybe there’s something in it.’
‘Tell me,’ he says.
‘It’ll sound really silly,’ I say.
‘No, tell me. I want to know.’
‘Well my grandma, the Italian one, used to say that there’s always the perfect pasta to suit any occasion.’
‘So what, like if you’re starving then spaghetti with meatballs, or something lighter if you’re not that hungry?’ says Jeff.
‘No, no, no. Way more sophisticated than that,’ I say. ‘For example, if you’ve been out and got drunk with an old man you met randomly and felt sorry for, but turns out he’s a randy old goat, and then you wake up the next day feeling sorry for yourself – then that would be conchiglie with bacon, cream and parmesan.’
‘That is quite specific,’ he says.
‘Yes! That’s the point. Or I’ll give you another example. Say you’ve just found out that your ex has taken his new girlfriend to “your” beach in Sicily, and you’re annoyed because now he’ll always associate that beach with her and not you. And also I mean like why does she have to post every single photo on Facebook anyway? … That’s how specific I mean,’ I say, aware that I now sound entirely crackers.
‘That is most definitely specific,’ says Jeff. ‘So then what would that pasta be?’
‘OK. That would be … cream based, because it’s ultimately about comfort. And bacon, because salty fat is the heart stone of all medicine. And peas, because they’re little balls of green delight. And maybe tomato, so you don’t feel like you’re going to get fat off the back of bad news. And then a shape that’s distracting and that can take your mind off it. So that might be bucatini – like spaghetti but with holes down the middle that you can try to whistle through. Or strozapretti. Which means “priest stranglers”. Because it’s sort of unusual and interesting and would take your mind off your ex too, but in a different way because you’d be thinking about strangling a clergyman. Do you get it?’
For some reason Jeff thinks this is all quite funny. ‘You’re insane but I really love that idea,’ he says.
‘What idea?’ says Karly, suddenly interested, though still tapping away on her iPhone.
‘No, nothing,’ I say, embarrassed.
‘Tell her!’ he says. ‘It’s a great idea!’
‘Honestly, Karly, it’s just this dumb thing …’
‘When Susie was little,’ says Jeff, ‘her Italian granny …’
‘Shh!’ I say, knowing Karly will try to humiliate me in front of him.
‘Her granny told her that there’s always the perfect pasta for any occasion and so she’s got this idea that there’s always a perfect shape and sauce for whatever happens to you.’
Karly looks directly at me for a long moment, seems to actually think about it, but then goes back to tapping at her phone.
Jeff shrugs.
‘No, go on,’ says Karly, a smirk creeping across her face. ‘Like what, Susie?’
‘Oh gosh. Like erm … you’ve got an important decision to make, say, and you’re confused … so then you might make a straight shaped pasta, like penne – but smooth penne, not ridged – and combine it with a smooth sauce – no lumps. It just helps you think clearly if you don’t have wiggly pasta or a chunky sauce.’
She keeps typing and I turn to Jeff and shrug. ‘I told you so,’ I whisper. ‘Now she’s going to think I’m even more stupid than she did before.’
‘I don’t think you’re stupid, I think you’re great,’ says Jeff.
‘What’s pesto for then?’ she says, suddenly.
‘Do you mean fresh pesto made in a pestle and mortar?’ My grandma used to make the most delicious
pesto di noce
with walnuts. I’ve never attempted it – you need a good heavy marble pestle and mortar.
‘Pesto in a jar,’ says Karly.
My grandma would never have dreamt of eating pesto in a jar. Still, it works for me, or rather it would do if Dalia hadn’t thrown my jars away …
‘I guess that’s the fastest, easiest way to mainline salt, cheese and oil and still feel mildly healthy … So that would be a mid-week supper after a not-too stressful day, early in the week when you’re still feeling virtuous and have good intentions, say on a Tuesday.’
‘That makes absolute sense,’ says Jeff.
‘Which pasta shape?’ she says.
‘The quickest shape to cook that can also grip the sauce – so ridged penne for that one would be perfect.’
But Karly’s tap-tapping away at her iPhone and ignores my reply.
The door opens and Eileen, the researcher comes in, shaking her head.
‘What’s the verdict?’ says Devron.
‘Well …’ says Eileen, trying to be diplomatic but struggling to know where to start. ‘I’d say the Penelope Cruz route and the CGI with tweezers route are a no-no …’
‘What??’ says Karly. ‘You’re seriously going to listen to five drunken old housewives? They don’t know what they’re talking about.’
‘I always thought the Truth script was the strongest,’ says Devron, nodding sagely.
‘But …’ says Eileen, ‘I think the feedback on the Truth script is worth taking on board. I do understand that the insight behind the script was some sort of confrontational honesty … but I don’t know that this audience particularly warms to the way in which it’s currently expressed.’
Karly is shaking her head so violently she’s making me dizzy.
‘Perhaps …’ says Eileen, ‘a slight change of direction. You could still use Celina Summer but soften it, have her be a little more sympathetic about how hard it is to stay slim, rather than bragging about her own body …’
‘I’m sure we can find a way of doing it if we just have a little look at the words,’ I say, looking at Devron. ‘And frankly if we don’t, we’ll have empty airtime in the central break of
Coronation Street
in a few weeks’ time, so it’s up to us all to be a little pragmatic at this point.’
‘As far as I’m concerned,’ says Devron, ‘if Celina and the pizzas look great and she says the word truth a lot, I think that’s the main thing.’
Karly pulls my arm and takes me to one side. ‘If you change a word on our script, you’ll lose the whole idea. And you’ll lose us. We’re not doing any revisions, I’m telling you that right now. Nick and Robbie are going to go ballistic when they hear about this.’ She grabs her Birkin bag and heads for the door.
‘Right, better get back to Mandy,’ says Devron, putting on his coat. ‘Jeff, are you coming?’
He looks at me and I make the universal gesture for glass of wine and hope it doesn’t look like the universal gesture for hand job.
‘I think I’ll just have a catch up with Susie,’ he says, and Devron nods and leaves.
Finally! I’m sitting in a cosy corner of a bar in Soho with Jeff. Quite drunk. It’s nearly 10 p.m. and we’ve been drinking and having a total giggle since we left the research group. It’s only taken me five weeks to manoeuvre this, but I got there in the end.
Jeff is amazed and appalled at all the things I’m telling him about Karly and Berenice and the agency. He can’t believe the sort of bad behaviour that goes on. I try to explain that it’s this weird chemical reaction that happens when people of average talent get paid far too much to do a job that isn’t that significant.
‘But they’re surrounded by all these arse-lickers pandering to their egos, they become convinced they’re mini-gods,’ I say. ‘The power goes to their heads.’
‘And other bits of them too by the sounds of it,’ he says.
‘Ha! Yeah. Oh and then Robbie, the one who’s always quoting Nelson Mandela, except Robbie’s about as compassionate as Genghis Khan. He’s now making us do this ridiculous “Tweet of the Week” on all our projects. I’ve had to set up a Twitter account for Fat Bird pizzas so that I can be the voice of Fat Bird. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous? Like the world is holding its breath to hear what a person pretending to be a chicken pizza has to say about Kate Middleton’s hair …’
‘What’s the account name?’ he says.
‘Fat Bird pizzas, would you believe,’ I say. ‘But I haven’t started Tweeting yet …’
‘I’ll be your first follower,’ he says, getting his iPhone out.
‘First and last. What’s your Twitter name?’ I say, holding out my hand for his phone.
He pauses for a moment, then hands it over.
Jeffanjill
. ‘Jeff Anjill?’ I say. He nods. ‘What’s that about?’
‘Just a log in,’ he shrugs.
‘Go on then, show us your Tweets.’
‘It’s boring,’ he says, taking his phone back. ‘Boring stuff. It’s more just when I’m bored, I’ve got a handful of mates who follow me. I’m too old for Twitter.’
‘Show me,’ I say, peering over his shoulder.
‘Alright.’ He looks awkward, and hands me his phone.
I scroll down through his Tweets, giggling.
‘What’s this one?’ I say, clicking on a link that says ‘Old Boys Reunion’.
‘That’s just me and some mates from college at the boat race,’ he says.
I click on it anyway. ‘Ha, you look really pissed in that photo. Actually you look a little bit like Jason Statham in that photo … hmmm … but you’ve got nicer eyes.’
‘You’ve got to be joking,’ he says, shaking his head in embarrassment.
‘Let’s see some more … oooh, what’s this one?’ I say, clicking on a link that says ‘Saturday Morning Footy’, which has a photo of him playing five-a-side.
‘Phwoar. You look hot in shorts!’ I say, as I enlarge the section of the photo with him in it. ‘Nice legs.’ I give his thigh a little squeeze.
‘Cheers,’ he says, uncomfortably.
I scroll down a bit more and come to a Tweet from about a month ago that says ‘Birthday Fun!!!’
‘Hey! I bet you’re absolutely hammered in this one!’ I say, laughing, but he’s suddenly gone quiet. The air between us has changed. It’s almost imperceptible but there’s a sense that he has sobered up while I am still drunk. I pause for a moment before clicking and then my finger hits the screen.
Ah. That’ll be why. She’s terribly pretty. They look terribly together. They look terribly happy. I feel terrible; overwhelmed by embarrassment to the point of mortification. And it must be obvious from my face that I am shocked. And yet I have no right whatsoever to be shocked. I never asked him properly if he was single. He never lied and said he was. I just assumed that he was because he was flirting with me. He
was
flirting with me. Boy, was he ever flirting with me.
I swallow hard and try my damnedest to make my face seem exactly the same as it was sixty seconds ago.
Of course
I knew he had a girlfriend, why on
earth
would I feel any sense of disappointment? I haven’t been thinking about him much or waiting for something to happen
at all.
I always flirt outrageously with colleagues and squeeze their legs and letch over them, I see it as the height of professionalism …