Authors: Stella Newman
‘Adam – the bill’s on me.’
‘I took care of that already.’
‘Oh, you shouldn’t have . . .’
He shrugs unapologetically. His eyes lock
on mine and I have to force myself to breathe out.
‘Well . . . then . . . Why did you come back? What did you forget?’
‘I forgot to do this,’ he says.
And he pulls me gently towards him.
And kisses me.
‘Parker, what are you up to?’
Sitting at my desk, replaying that kiss. That was a good kiss, a properly good kiss.
‘Roger – I’m sitting at my desk, changing your Eurostar tickets, and if you took ten whole steps from your desk, you’d see that for yourself. What is the point of wearing a pedometer if you’re not going to move?’
‘It has a jolly nice little digital clock on it.’
‘How many
steps have you done this week?’
‘No idea . . .’
‘Let me log in for you . . .’
‘Don’t bother . . .’
‘You told me to keep on top of it . . . six thousand, three hundred and four! You’re about four thousand short already.’
‘Six thousand, three hundred and four? Sounds rather a lot to me.’
‘Roger – I’m going to stop ordering cabs to take you to lunch . . .’
‘Well, you’ll have to do the steps
for me today, I’m afraid.’
‘What’s wrong?’ I walk into his office and nearly fall flat on my face over a golf bag. I haul it off the floor and drag it to a sliver of space in the corner.
‘So? How was it?’ he says. ‘Nice dress by the way, very
South Pacific.
’
‘The date? Oh,’ I say, flopping down in the chair opposite him. ‘It was a bad idea.’
‘Was he different to how you remembered him? Did
he look like the Elephant Man?’
‘Worse – a bit like Paul Newman, those beautiful pale blue eyes but a slightly less perfect nose.’
‘I can see why you’re so upset
.
Oh come on, Laura – stop this nonsense, you’re being neurotic. You have my blessing.’
Maybe Roger’s right and I’m worrying about nothing . . . I was just doing my job . . . still, I fear it may all end in tears.
‘Is that March’s
issue?’ I say, noticing a copy of the magazine in front of him.
‘Checking the type on the classifieds – I woke in the middle of the night with palpitations about the overlap –’
‘They’re fine, I already checked. Have you taken your meds today?’
He waves his hand at a stack of papers on his desk. ‘I took whatever was in Tuesday’s slot.’
‘But it’s Thursday!’ I say, scrabbling under the pile to
find his pill box. Monday to Thursday’s compartments are now empty, the rest of the week’s days still have a little pink statin and a red and white anti-hypertensive, nestling side by side. ‘Roger, I do not appreciate you winding me up about things like that.’
‘And I do not appreciate you treating me like a child, I am capable of taking my medication. Anyway – as I was saying, just checking they
hadn’t ballsed up again but panic over.’
‘Do you want me to keep Print Tender on the agenda for tomorrow?’
He scratches behind his ear. ‘Two cock-ups in nine months . . . Sandra will want to hang them out to dry. Still, I’m a firm believer in learning from one’s mistakes, aren’t you?’
I cross it off the list.
He flicks to my column and nods approvingly.
‘Have you thought any more about Second
Helpings?’ I say.
‘Show me something next month, this month’s too busy; and have you decided about the
New York Times
?’
I was hoping he wouldn’t ask.
‘I’ll hold them off for now,’ he says, ‘but I think you’re being paranoid. Oh, and one more thing?’
‘Yes, Roger?’
‘Could I trouble you for a cup of March’s finest? What’s on the menu this month?’
‘Are you taking the piss again?’
‘Absolutely
not! You know I love that stuff.’
‘OK then . . . March’s blend is a mix of Brazilian and Bolivian, a rich, sweet base, with ten per cent Mexican which gives it an earthiness, and a smidge of Ethiopian for a fruity note.’
‘And what are the farmers’ names?’
‘Roger . . .’
‘And will it taste exactly the same as last month’s?’
‘Roger!’
‘I’m only joking, I think it’s terrific. Three sugars and
cream please and don’t try slipping me sweetener.’
When I left Bean To Cup, Doug, my old boss, bought me an AeroPress coffee maker – £20, a brilliant piece of kit – and every month for that first year he sent me down a kilo of freshly roasted beans. He knew I was struggling and he didn’t want me to be without good coffee. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d lucked upon Fabrizio’s so I brought
Doug’s blends in for the team here – there were only twelve of us back then. And I brought in the AeroPress. And because the AeroPress looks a bit like a bong I did a five-minute all-staff meeting on how to use it. And then I figured I might as well do a mini-cupping session with tasting notes – to give the team an overview of flavour profiles.
Everyone was slightly awkward at first, because
the noise you make when you’re tasting properly is a weird slurpy, sucking noise as the air hits the back of your throat. But Roger embraced it, and soon everyone else was getting into it, saying they could taste smokiness, and red fruits and of course Azeem – ever the joker – swore he could . . . why, he could actually taste coffee! Roger said anyone who could taste ‘butterscotch and green bananas’
in this brown liquid must have more taste buds than a catfish. (I googled catfish – quite disgusting, one site called them ‘swimming tongues’.) We had such a laugh that day so Roger decided to allocate a budget for Doug’s monthly blend. It wasn’t like I was getting commission – I just wanted the guys to have better quality coffee. Little treats can make a disproportionate difference to one’s happiness
– a fact I was beginning to appreciate.
Everyone seemed very enthusiastic. Everyone except for one individual who didn’t understand what all the fuss was about and didn’t think there was anything special about it and doesn’t it make a mess and what’s wrong with Gold Blend? I tried explaining freeze drying is about as delicious as any other hugely chemical, industrial process but she wasn’t having
any of it. She still sighs every time she walks into the kitchen and finds me using the AeroPress. Maybe that’s why I feel quite so motivated to make five cups a day . . .
As the water’s boiling my mind drifts back to earlier with Adam. When we were riding up and down in that lift, in the beginning I still felt the nerves you feel when you’re in a small enclosed space for the first time with
someone you have a crush on: that acute awareness of where your bodies are in relation to each other at all times. But the self-consciousness quickly faded as we gazed out of the window. Pretty soon I felt like a kid on the best private fairground ride ever. And that first time St Paul’s came into view on our left, Adam said it looked like it was rising up from the past, and the ridiculous thing is
I hadn’t even noticed St Paul’s when I’d ridden up on my own, I’d been so nervous. But suddenly, halfway up our ascent there it was and it was spectacular; hidden one moment, resplendent the next. And each time we rode up, even though I knew it was coming, its beauty took me by surprise.
Tom wouldn’t have ridden up and down in that lift with me seven times. He wouldn’t have done it twice, he’d
have said it was dumb and boring and childish. And Russell would have tried to pull my skirt up to show the City my knickers. But with Adam, every up and down was its own little adventure.
This time next month I’ll be standing here making coffee with this same kettle, this same coffee maker. This time next month I’m pretty sure Adam will be out of the picture but if by some miracle he is still
around on publication day he won’t be in the mood for riding up and down in any lifts with me. This time next month, the only thing that’s certain is that things will not feel as exciting and as hopeful as they feel today.
So I should not allow my mind to linger on a memory of skylines and laughter and kissing in the street, because such moments in life – moments of pure joy and undiluted happiness
– are fleeting.
‘First things first,’ says Roger, walking into our conference meeting on Friday morning with his files wedged under one armpit, and carrying two large brown paper bags with grease marks seeping round the bottom. ‘I’ve got six bacon, and six sausage and egg, don’t look at me like that, Laura, grapes are not sustenance for grown men.’
‘Nor women,’ says Kiki, taking the platter of fruit I’ve
artfully arranged, sliding the grapes, apples and bananas off and replacing them with a pyramid of white, salty rolls. The ad boys descend like they’ve been on hunger strike, Heather, our lawyer, holds back for twenty seconds, and Azeem tries, and fails, to negotiate with Jonesy to swap his bacon roll for sausage.
‘Right, last month’s issue, cracking job, well done,’ says Roger, plonking his
files on the table and rolling up his sleeves. ‘Mick, what are copy sales looking like?
‘Looking at hitting a hundred and twenty-one thousand, three up on the month, with returns on target.’
‘Distribution?’
‘PrintPro were late into depot, but they gave us fair warning and we made up the time in transit.’
‘Hang on just one minute,’ says Sandra, bringing the agenda closer to her nose. ‘I don’t
see Print Tender on here, Laura, why isn’t it on here?’
‘I told her not to,’ says Roger, skimming down the list. ‘Right, Jonesy – ad revenues, what are the scores on the doors?’
‘But after February’s issue I thought—’
‘PrintPro messed up, they won’t do it again. Jonesy, numbers?’
Jonesy’s face scrunches up in an attempt to look thoughtful. Jonesy is the perfect foil to Roger – he’s lazy, has
no ethics or morals and is entirely untroubled by doing the right thing. However, he lets his clients win at golf without looking like he’s throwing his game, and remembers all their kids’ names – hence he makes the perfect Commercial Director. ‘Yep,’ he says, tipping back in his chair and passing a hand over his shaved head. ‘Storming month – March closed on eighty-seven k.’
‘Hmm. And if I recall
Feb closed on ninety-two k?’
Jonesy is not stupid, yet he still falls for Roger’s chaotic act, thus continually underestimating Roger’s ability to sniff out the truth whenever there is bullshit in the air.
Roger pauses – then flicks to a small slip of paper in the back of his files. ‘Well Jonesy, it’s reassuring to know that even though our sales are down, your expenses are up . . .’
Jonesy
returns his chair to the floor with a bump.
‘Six hundred and twenty pounds on lunch?’ says Roger, holding the receipt up to the light as though checking for a watermark.
‘That was a Fletchers campaign – it was meant to land in March but they pulled it last minute ’cos the product’s fucked – some new range of high protein meals . . .’
Roger takes a closer look at the receipt. ‘Looks like quite
a high-protein meal you enjoyed yourselves! What have we got here . . . foie gras, rib-eye steak, Dover sole . . .’
Jonesy extends his arm across the table in an attempt to grab it. ‘Client was there – Devron at Fletchers is a big eater . . .’
‘Big drinker too, by the looks of it – three bottles of the ninety-seven Pauillac? A fine vintage, jolly good . . . What time did you leave then? Let’s
see . . .’
‘Rodge! There was loads to discuss with next month’s campaigns—’
‘Six fifty-eight p.m. – that sounds like lunch
and
dinner,’ says Roger, raising his eyebrows. ‘So in that case how
is
April looking?’
Jonesy hastily opens his file and flicks to the upcoming issue’s plans. ‘So far we’ve got consecutive back pages booked by Audi, a double-page spread for BA’s Easter campaign pencilled
in and the supermarkets are going large on brand ads.’
‘Well turn that pencil into a booking pronto – and how about this month you spend less time down The Ivy and more time selling those pages, Jonesy. Come on!’
Jonesy clears his throat and resettles himself on his chair as his two underlings try to keep from exchanging glances.
‘By the way,’ says Roger, turning to the table. ‘Did anyone see
Dolly Parton on TV the other day? Wonderful woman! Maybe we should do an interview with her? Or perhaps we could send someone to Dollywood – I might go myself, I’ve never been to Tennessee.’ He scratches a note out on his pad. ‘Right then, Voice of Youth, what are our friends online up to?’
‘The cats have gone large, obviously,’ says Azeem. ‘#spoiltkitty is trending at nine on Twitter.’
Roger
waves his hand dismissively. ‘No one with a real job pays attention to any of
that
crap.’
‘You have a real job, don’t you?’ I say, remembering the time I heard Roger making peculiar rasping noises in his office. Terrified he was having a heart attack I rushed in, only to find him red in the face and guffawing at Buzzfeed – eleven pictures of cats that look like Rupert Murdoch.
‘I meant, is anything
more substantial getting traffic?’ says Roger. ‘Ed Miller’s opinion piece?’
‘Getting a slagging on the blogs but half those trolls clearly haven’t read it,’ says Azeem.
‘You know what Elbert Hubbard would say?’
‘He’s been dead a century,’ says Azeem. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he’d have too much to say about Twitter.’
‘“To avoid criticism, do nothing, say nothing, be nothing” – a lesson for
us all,’ says Roger. ‘Right, April’s issue, editorial – Sandra, give us the rundown?’
Sandra smooths the invisible wrinkles on her laminated agenda. ‘Extremely important issue, looks like we’ll finally be in a position to run the Bechdel piece as the leader.’
Jonesy lets out a low whistle.
‘The focus will be on Damian Bechdel – not his brother,’ says Sandra, turning to Heather. ‘Focusing largely
on his financial affairs, with a spotlight on the discrepancies within his African charity project.’
‘Still waiting on two key witnesses who are nervous about going on record – if neither comes through, we either hold another month or go purely on the UK business and property empire,’ says Heather. ‘But it would be stronger if we can include the charity angle – several household names are donors.’