Pear Shaped (29 page)
Ah, kids, hey?
I consider giving them a lecture about objectifying and disrespecting women. Then I think, if I had a McDonalds milkshake, would I flick them with it? Then I consider knocking their heads together, only lightly, mind. Then I think I should probably get off the bus, now.
I think this is going to be a bad day.
And it is. A very bad day.
Noushka’s been in Moscow, no doubt with James.
Thank you, internet, thank you, for making it so easy for the lazy, desk-bound stalker: you don’t need to invest in binoculars, buy a false moustache from Escapade, sit outside your ex-fiancé’s house …
I’ve signed up to Noushka’s Twitter account and have been receiving RSS updates on her every bowel movement:
‘Noushka is in Moscow for a long weekend, Privyet everyone x.’
‘Noushka likes living in London town.’
‘Noushka is in love with her new Lara Bohinc necklace.’
‘Noushka adores Dior!’
I think about James’s money. If he didn’t have £12 million, he would not attract a girl like Noushka. But the money is as much a part of James as his nose or the scar in his right eyebrow. It is his nature to compete, to conquer and to win.
‘Noushka is up all night at the Sanderson
.’
‘Noushka loves breakfast in bed at the George Vx x’
It’s like a plate of rancid oysters, each more toxic than the last.
Two weeks ago, I read one that said ‘Noushka is very very happy.’ I then had to cross-reference to her blog and fansite to check she hadn’t got engaged. Relief! She’d just landed a contract with a distributor for the toenail polish.
Today I read ‘Noushka is sad, boo hoo,’ and my heart leaps.
No. They haven’t split up. Mona-Coco has hurt her paw in Geneva. Here’s a photo of Mona-Coco in a little velvet sling, with Swarovski crystals on it.
Geneva. That’s where James’s dad lives …
I have a new party trick.
I can make myself sick just by thinking about James kissing Noushka. No, honestly – I can sit at my desk, looking at Twitter, and within sixty seconds I can be locked away in the toilet cubicle, vomiting. Time me.
See? I’m back. The light on my phone is flashing. A message, saying my 2% fat custard sample is downstairs.
‘Devron, there’s a first kitchen sample from Appletree, do you want to taste it?’
‘Please.’
I go down to despatch. The boys in despatch cannot locate my custard. ‘Check on reception, Soph.’
Reception look blankly in my direction. Back to despatch. Nothing. I go back to Devron’s desk. ‘I’m really sorry, I can’t find it.’ He shakes his head. ‘Devron, I’ll find it.’
Janelle takes me to one side. ‘You should never have let that happen. You’re really pissing Devron off.’
Christ almighty, it’s a pot of custard. ‘Okay.’
An hour later, the slightly brain damaged guy who works in the mailroom puts the custard on my desk. I smile weakly and send Devron an email telling him his custard has arrived. He ignores it.
Three hours later, Janelle invites me for ‘a friendly catch-up with Devron’.
‘Janelle, is this about the custard?’
She shrugs. Of course she knows. Devron is about as discreet as a weeping cold sore. The minute your back is turned in this place the knives come out, and not the butter knives either.
‘Because that guy in despatch had it. In his trolley.’ She shrugs again.
Devron takes me to a quiet corner of the canteen.
He puts on ‘Sympathetic Face 2A’ and tilts his head to one side. He needs to trim his nose hair. ‘How are you getting on?’
‘Okay, thanks. A lot better. The counselling really helped, and I’m taking some medication, too.’ I feel my throat start to constrict but take a deep breath and dig my nails hard into my palm to keep the tears in check.
‘The thing is, if this isn’t what you need in your life right now, you don’t need to come in.’
‘Oh God, I wouldn’t dream of not coming in. I mean, it’s good to have a purpose, stuff to do every day. It’s great to tick things off a list.’
‘Okay. But you won’t be letting us down if you don’t want to be here.’
‘No, thank you, that’s very thoughtful of you but I totally want to be here.’
‘The thing is – I’ve had some 360 feedback about you.’
360 feedback, aka gossip, aka ‘a slagging’.
‘Apparently, you’re not fully contributing in meetings.’
I shake my head.
‘I have personally seen you staring out of the window when I’m talking.’
Yeah, do you actually remember that meeting we had a few weeks ago where I revealed to you that I had been ditched by my fiancé and was possibly on the verge of a nervous breakdown? Do you remember, Devron, I shamed myself by crying in front of you, and you offered me a fluff-covered Murray Mint as consolation for my ruined
life? Do you think maybe, Devron, just maybe, that might have something to do with it?
‘And you don’t look happy in marketing forums.’
Devron, petal, two things: firstly, you should see how happy I look in my own time, lying on my bathroom floor in foetal position, howling like a dog. If the floors in Fletchers’ loos weren’t so filthy I’d be doing that here, so count your blessings. Secondly, I have never in my career looked happy in a marketing meeting. ‘Oh.’
‘Look, I know how you feel. When I split up with my wife, I felt properly down.’ Yes, well, you abandoned her and your two kids for a 17-year-old with a tongue ring, so as much as I am moved by our parallel plights, I’ll spare the tears.
‘But I threw myself into my job 110%, I didn’t mope around and wallow, I worked my arse off. I see you leave on the dot of 6pm.’
You have no idea how hard it is for me to get out of bed in the mornings, Devron.
‘And it’s affecting your colleagues; you just disappeared last week and they didn’t know where you were. They’re not sure whether to invite you to their meetings.’
Oh, I am
terribly sorry
, colleagues, i.e. Ton of Fun Tom. Here’s an idea: why don’t you
not
invite me to your meetings. I’ll send you a photo of a raspberry, with a big sticker on it saying ‘RASPBERRY’, and then you
won’t need my input anyway now, will you? Everyone’s a winner.
‘Another thing, Sophie.’
I cross my arms and then uncross them and try to play nice.
‘I’ve heard that if something is not desk specific, you’ll assume you can eat it.’
‘Is this about that Chocolate and Pear Crumble? I didn’t realise it was the only sample that existed …’
He holds his hand up in a stop sign.
‘You don’t seem to be engaged.’ Nice choice of words, Devron. Very sensitive. ‘And you really need to get engaged quickly, do you understand?’
If he says that word once more, I’m going to smash his face in.
‘110% engaged or we’ll need to meet with HR more formally next time.’
I bite my bottom lip so hard I can taste the blood, and stand up to leave.
‘Are we good?’ he says.
‘No, Devron, we are definitely, absolutely, 110% not good,’ I say, and I walk out of the room and out of the office and possibly out of my job.
To be fair, I do sympathise with the man. I wouldn’t want a loon working for me either. It’s not helpful when you’re en route to the loot.
Possibly not the best timing for a first date with a sexy architect, when you’re clinically depressed, full of rage, self-loathing and a week’s worth of cake and have just stomped out of the day job.
Still, no point cancelling now – tonight could be the start of something new and exciting!
Or not.
Even though I’m home from work prematurely, I have to lie down, calm down. I set my alarm but then hit snooze too many times, and finally roll out of bed twenty minutes before I’m meant to meet Jack.
I then spend thirty minutes staring into my full wardrobe wondering why I have nothing to wear.
Nothing fits, NOTHING FITS.
I don’t feel like dressing sexily, but I force myself into a pretty, stripy dress, clean my teeth, put mascara on for the first time in a week and rush out the door. In the mirror in the entrance hall I see that I’ve only put mascara on one eye and my face has no colour, so I haul myself back upstairs, put on more mascara and too much blusher. The blusher brush makes me sneeze and the mascara prints a perfect join-the-dots smile under my eye.
By the time I’ve remade my face, found a cab and gone via a cashpoint, I’m forty minutes late. Jack is sitting at a table reading the paper and the minute I see him, I realise I shouldn’t have agreed to meet. His nose is smaller than James’s. He’s shorter than James. He is not James.
‘So sorry I’m late, let me get you a drink,’ I say, hovering over him. ‘Wine?’
He moves to stand and greet me but I head to the bar before he’s halfway out of his chair.
Now I may be out of a job, but for some reason this feels like a cause to celebrate, plus I feel shitty about turning up so late, so I decide to treat us to a stupidly extravagant bottle. I study the wine list for a good five minutes, during which time I try to work through my normal first date exit strategies: emergency phone call from a friend. Big meeting in the morning. Headache. I can’t use any of these, Jack was friends with my granny. I’m going to have to stay for at least two hours.
I pick a £50 bottle of sparkling wine, the second priciest, purely on the basis that the menu describes it as ‘biscuity’. I realise just as the barman opens it, that this bottle, the most expensive I have ever bought, is from that world famous wine-growing region: Sussex.
‘I’m really sorry, but can I change my mind about the wine, I didn’t realise it was English.’
‘It says it clearly on the menu,’ says the barman.
‘Yes, but it’s called Nyetimber, that’s not an English word.’
‘It says Sussex, England just after it says Nyetimber …’
‘I didn’t see that.’
‘Well, I’ve just popped the cork. So, no. We can’t change it. Anyway, it’s very good,’ he says. ‘It does say English on the list.’
‘You shouldn’t trick people like that.’
‘What, luv?’
‘Calling it a foreign name like that … it’s lying.’
‘Pin number,’ he says.
I stab in my pin and stare at the bar top. Jack looks over my shoulder at the barman as I walk back to the table.
‘Are you okay?’ he says.