The Happiness Recipe. Stella Newman

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      ‘Are you saying that if I get this right then at Christmas you’ll promote me?’ I say, as softly and gently as a human voice can deliver a sentence.

      Her almost-smile disappears instantly. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’

      ‘I don’t mean to push you, but I’m just trying to be clear what I need to do to …’ What was her awful buzz-word? Mirror her awful buzz-word, speak Berenice back to her. ‘What I need to do to notch it … to the next level …’

      She stares at me as if she’s trying to decide between two identical shades of white paint, neither of which are satisfactory. ‘I need you to exceed my expectations. I need to see a step-change in your performance. I need to be convinced you’re ready for this. You are ready for this, aren’t you, Susannah? I need to see that you’re hungry. Are you hungry?’

      ‘Oh I’m hungry, Berenice. I’m hungry.’

      I’m always hungry.

      I’m the hungriest.

      ‘Can we go and eat?’ I say to Rebecca as I hover over her desk at the end of the day. Rebecca and Sam are the only two reasons I’ve stayed borderline sane at NMN and arguably that border has been crossed a few times of late.

      ‘Not bothered about food but I could murder a drink,’ she says, pointing to a presentation on her screen titled ‘Shlitzy Alcopops – Nurturing The Brand Soul’.

      ‘How can you always drink on an empty stomach?’ I say.

      ‘I’m a professional,’ she says, shutting down her computer and grabbing her coat. ‘Where’s good on a miserable rainy Tuesday?’

      ‘Hawksmoor? Killer cocktails and their burgers are meant to be amazing.’

      ‘First round’s on me,’ she says. ‘Let’s make it a double.’

      Is Rebecca a Leftover then? She’s thirty-three, single, does a bullshit job, drinks a little too much. She happens to be gorgeous: she has huge brown eyes with naturally long, thick curly lashes. She never needs to wear mascara, but when she does, people just stare at her as if her eyes can’t be real. Plus she’s curvy, and leggy! Honestly, if I didn’t know her I’d hate her. But I do know her. So I know that along with being naturally beautiful, she’s also funny, kind and loyal.

      What I don’t know is why she’s single. Other than that she’s playing a numbers game and hasn’t found that mythical ‘one’ yet. And with Rebecca it definitely isn’t for lack of trying. Well, who knows what’s around the corner?

      ‘Best Piña Coladas in London, hands down,’ I say, fishing a yellow cocktail umbrella from my glass and sticking it behind my right ear. Perfect! A little friend for the pink one behind my left.

      ‘Try this,’ she says, holding out her Martini glass. ‘It says on the menu that it’s an anti-fogmatic, and that in the 1820s, doctors recommended it be drunk before eleven in the morning.’

      ‘And you’d be drunk before eleven in the morning, Berenice would love that … Did the barman say he uses coconut sorbet in this?’

      ‘I wasn’t listening to him, I was just looking at him.’ She grins. ‘Did you see his body?’

      ‘Becka, he’s like twenty-two years old.’

      She shrugs. Rebecca has no qualms about letching over younger men. I don’t do it for fear of looking like a cougar, but Rebecca’s not yet old enough to be branded a cougar. Besides, the barman couldn’t keep his eyes off her either.

      ‘Let’s do Piña Coladas every Tuesday,’ I say, taking another swig of my drink. ‘This is almost like being on holiday!’

      ‘This place is great,’ she says, taking in the dark wood panelled walls and old-fashioned table lamps.

      ‘Isn’t it? We’re two minutes from all that tourist crap in Covent Garden but we could be in a New York speakeasy. Where’s my burger, how long since I ordered?’

      ‘Never mind the burger, I think we’ve got company,’ she says, smiling her perfect Juicy Tubed smile at someone behind me.

      Bingo. It never takes more than a couple of drinks in any social setting before Rebecca has attracted male attention. She’s the perfect wing-man. (Wing-woman sounds weird, like a low-budget super hero; Wing-Woman! She has wings and she’s learning to fly!) ‘Pulling partner’ isn’t right either technically, as Rebecca invariably pulls and I don’t. But that’s because she always gets the hot guy and leaves me with the sidekick. Fair enough, I guess I’m the sidekick too. Still, even the leftovers don’t want other leftovers.

      And here we go again.

      ‘Can we buy you beautiful ladies a drink?’ says the better-looking one to Rebecca.

      ‘Have a seat,’ she says. ‘I’ll have a glass of champagne, my friend Ella Umbrella over there will have another Piña Colada.’

      ‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ I say. I’m tipsy already – two strong cocktails on an empty stomach have done me in.

      ‘And a couple of Jäger Bombs too,’ says Rebecca, giving me the look. The look that says ‘Don’t complain your life is boring if you refuse to join me in Living It Up and Getting Pissed On A School Night. Booze! Boys! What more could you want?’

      ‘Rebecca! You know they don’t agree with me …’

      Sixty minutes, two Jäger Bombs and another Piña Colada later, I’m trying to work out where to stick my new green umbrella.

      In Danny, the handsome guy, for droning on about the transfer window?

      In Rebecca, for faking interest so brilliantly, thus leaving me stuck with The Douche Bag?

      Or straight into The Douche Bag? I mean, come on: we both know the deal. We’re meant to politely chat and let the other two get on with flirting. But no.

      I now know Jason is forty, a Virgo, but on the cusp and actually way more Libran.

      He works in equities at a small Swiss firm near London Wall. He’s not being arrogant or anything but he’s bloody good at his job – it’s just a fact.

      He lives in Putney, drives a BM, doesn’t much like films or books unless they’re about real life crime.

      He listens to XFM, thinks Katy Perry’s got nice tits but Adele should lay off the doughnuts.

      He goes down the gym – David Lloyd, Fulham – three to four times a week and does forty minutes on the treadmill at fourteen kilometres an hour ’cos he likes to look good. It’s where he met his last girlfriend, Megan, twenty-five, who was super hot, beautiful blow job lips, ri-di-culous body (the greatest arse in London), but after two years she was pressuring him to commit and he just wasn’t sure she was enough for him and he doesn’t miss her ’cos London’s full of fit birds. Mind you, you don’t want to be dating a woman who’s over thirty. There’s a reason why they’re single.

      I am yet to find Jason’s redeeming features.

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