The Happiness Recipe. Stella Newman

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

       Saturday

      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’.

      But no: ‘should’ should be eradicated from the dictionary. (Although you see what just happened there?) ‘Should’ means you want people or situations to be a certain way. But they’re not that way at all. ‘He shouldn’t have abandoned his pregnant wife.’ But he did. ‘I shouldn’t still miss my ex.’ But I do. Weekends ‘should’ be the highlight of the week.

      Yet some Saturdays when I wake up, all I can see before me is a vast stretch of time that I’m supposed to fill up with ‘stuff’. And СКАЧАТЬ