The Happiness Recipe. Stella Newman

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СКАЧАТЬ here to see Tom, get my security pass, then sit down and prepare for the wait. Regardless of who I’m meeting at Fletchers they will always make me wait twenty-three minutes in reception. I can set my watch by it. It’s a basic power play. I am an agency serf: they are the Client Masters. Therefore they will make me sit there while they’re sitting at their desks on Facebook or laughing about last night’s Made in Chelsea. And when their little egg-timer goes off at twenty-three past Meeting Time, they’ll saunter down, pick me up and never once acknowledge this whole charade. I once made the mistake of asking Berenice why we couldn’t just turn up twenty-three minutes late and I could see her right eyebrow twitching with fury as she struggled to restrain herself from slapping me.

      The thing is, I don’t mind waiting. It’s a rare chance to have twenty-three precious minutes to myself. If Berenice were sitting beside me now she’d be on her iPhone, frantically mailing the office about Five Year Plans for World Domination. Thankfully she’s not, so I can relax. I consider trying to source a glass of water. Except that’s an impossible dream because I haven’t got two pound coins on me. Yes, that’s right. If you want a glass of water while you’re waiting in reception, you have to insert two pound coins into a vending machine, which then spits out a small bottle of branded tap water. The trout on the front desk will not give you tap water even if you’ve just run the marathon for Children in Need dressed as Barney the Dinosaur.

      No water. So instead I sit and wait. There’s a copy of the Times on the table and I flick briefly to the food pages. In the ‘My Favourite Meal’ column, there’s a recipe from Celina Summer, some pop star’s wife who’s just launched herself as the next celebrity chef. She’s done a recipe for a chicken sandwich: chicken, lettuce, bread – no butter, not even low-fat mayo. Inspiring stuff, thanks, Celina. Oh great, and your new book, Eat Music, Dance To Food has gone straight into the charts. Still, you do look terrific in a bikini, which is ultimately the thing that matters most in a chef.

      You know what? It’s all very well Jake telling me to write a recipe book, but unless you’re skinny and beautiful you’re not going to be able to compete with these food celebs. Maybe I should flirt more with Devron, persuade him to put me in the next TV ad. No - I’d definitely rather work in the chip shop than flirt with Devron. Or Tom for that matter. Grim, it’d be like flirting with a teenage boy. And not one of those naughty sixth formers at the back of the bus who smokes and gets someone pregnant. No, like the little red-eyed geek at the front of class who puts his arm around his GCSE physics paper so no one can copy him.

      Speak of the devil, here he comes, like clockwork, yep, it’s twenty-three past. Although, hang on a minute, who is that man walking next to him? And I do mean man. (Tom does manage to make everyone around him look more masculine. He’s such a pipsqueak, he always looks like he’s in school uniform when he wears a suit.)

      Oh, but this new man is sexy. I don’t normally fancy bald men but this guy has got something. He looks older, early forties, with a little bit of stubble, but not contrived or manicured stubble; just a little ‘I Am Not A Corporate Man’ stubble. Universe: please let him be the new pizza developer. Please: give me one tiny break.

      Tom greets me with the softest handshake in Christendom. It’s like trying to grasp onto tofu.

      ‘Hey, Su-Su-Sudeo.’

      ‘Hello, Thomas.’

      ‘Tommo, not Thomas!’ Tom likes to be called Tommo, or Ton of Fun Tom. He turns to the guy next to him who is fixing me with very blue eyes and an intense stare, to the point where I’ve started to blush. ‘Let me introduce you to our new development chef who looks after our diet ranges. This is Jeff.’

      ‘Jeff. Jeff the chef?’ I say, holding out my hand and stifling a giggle.

      ‘You think that’s funny?’ he says, shaking my hand firmly. ‘The cleaner on the fifth floor’s called Katrina.’

      ‘Really?’

      He nods. ‘And when I lived in New York I had a doorman called Norman.’

      ‘You’re making that up,’ I say.

      ‘True fact,’ he says, grinning. I sneak a glance at his wedding finger. Yay! No ring.

      ‘We used to have a gardener called Norman!’ says Tom. ‘That was in the old house. When we moved to Oxshott my mother had to let him go.’

      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 СКАЧАТЬ