Pear Shaped

‘Do you like it?’ I ask.

‘Yes. It’s good. One last question.’

One last question! She hasn’t asked me any proper questions, and now she’s about to get rid of me. What a bitch….

‘Do you think that an average brownie is better than none at all?’

What? What sort of a question is that for an interview? Clearly this must be a trick. Is she just finding out if I’m greedy? Or if I genuinely love pudding, or what? I don’t know what she wants me to say, but all I can tell her is the truth. Well, not quite the truth – my honest answer would be ‘if you are stoned, absolutely’. But then if you are stoned, an average brownie is transformed into a superior brownie anyway.

My truth is this: I would rather not eat a brownie than eat an average brownie.

Not because of the calories.

Not because I’m a snob.

But because for me, brownies are sacred; where they’re concerned I don’t do half measures. In the same way that I couldn’t marry a man I didn’t love, or be in a relationship with someone I didn’t respect, or sleep with a man who wasn’t funny.

‘I’d rather have nothing,’ I say.

She looks at me with the merest hint of approval in her eyes.

‘That M&S pudding you brought in,’ she says. Oh no, what is it? I knew there was something wrong. ‘I created that. Freelance. Entirely against the terms of my contract here, but M&S are the best and I couldn’t stop myself. I tried to push through a similar one here last summer and couldn’t get it signed off. The reason I’m telling you this is because I know I can trust you, because I only ever employ people I can trust.’

And that is how I got my job and came to work for Maggie Bainbridge, the best boss in the world.

Now that Maggie is no longer my boss, I only get to see her every few months. She is busy with her new brownie empire and has a wide circle of friends. She’s a 51-year-old single woman, but it’s harder to get a date in her diary than a table at Rao’s.

She has invited me for dinner the night before my planned first date with James. I would really like to stay at home, eat light and sleep properly so I can look my best for tomorrow. But he still hasn’t called, so I don’t know if we’re on or not. Besides, if I don’t see Maggie tonight I won’t get in her diary for ages, so after work I walk over to her flat in Marylebone.

She opens the door in a well-worn apron and the smell of freshly baked bread and roast chicken wafts through to me like a Bisto ad.

‘My God! You’re practically anorexic!’ she says, holding on to my shoulders and examining me up and down before squeezing me close for a hug. Her grey hair smells of fried onions – it’s wonderful.

‘As if! Look at the size of my arse,’ I say, turning around and offering her a feel.

She pinches my bottom. ‘There’s nothing of you, crazy girl. Come and let me fatten you up.’

We sit down in her kitchen and start drinking. If I don’t drink I’ll be thinking about my phone not ringing all night. Even if I do drink I’ll still be on edge, but it’ll dull the focus a bit.

‘How’s that odious little rat doing?’ she asks, holding out a wooden spoon with a dark golden sauce on it. ‘Honey, soy, tamari, toasted sesame …’

‘Devron’s Devron,’ I say. ‘He’s talking about 20% cuts across the board but he’s just upgraded his car to a convertible, and he’s hanging his new suit jacket the wrong way round on his chair so we can all see it’s Prada.’

‘Is he still dating that poor cow?’

‘Mands, yes. It was her nineteenth birthday last weekend, he took her to The Grove, showed us all the picture of the freestanding bath in their suite. With her in it, wearing only bubbles …’

She shakes her head in disbelief. ‘And Eddie, Lisa?’

‘Eddie’s good, Lisa’s angry. The usual.’

Over dinner we talk about her business. She’s just signed a distribution deal with a chain of luxury boutique hotels – each night at turndown guests will find a box of her mini brownies, beautifully wrapped, left on their pillow.

‘How’s the man situation?’ she asks, handing me a bowl of warm ‘blondies’ – her new vanilla brownies that she’s trialling for the hotels. ‘Macadamia on the left, Vermont maple on the right.’

‘Actually, I’m so sorry but do you mind?’ I say, popping to the hall and fishing my phone from my bag. It’s been on silent and I’m convinced that my removal of it from eyeline and earshot will have elicited a call. I vowed I wouldn’t check till I was on the bus home, but lying to yourself is fine, right?

A flashing light!

Fuck. A text from Laura asking if he’s rung yet.

‘What’s wrong?’ says Maggie.

‘Nothing,’ I say, despondently. ‘Just waiting for a call.’ I explain the scenario, and call upon her greater wisdom of life and men: ‘When is he going to call?’

I still believe James will ring. But I fully object to him not having called by now. I am someone who books up my diary weeks in advance to the time and place of meeting. I often check the menu online in advance, as I like to have something very specific to look forward to. I’m not a control freak, I can do spontaneous as well as the best free spirit (sometimes), but I am uncomfortable with uncertainty, and this man is an unknown unknown.

She refills my wine glass. ‘He said definitely this Wednesday?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he called you from China to fix the date?’

I nod.

‘He’ll call. Some men don’t like nattering on the phone. If he doesn’t call, he’s an idiot.’

‘I want him to call tonight.’

‘Out of your control,’ she says, opening a second bottle of wine.

I still believe that willing something to happen can make it happen. I also believe that particular idea is insane. Isn’t that a sign of intelligence, holding two opposing thoughts at the same time, or is that just a sign of schizophrenia?

I wake at three in the morning to a blue light on my phone. A text message. Is James out, drunk? Is he cancelling?

It’s my friend Lee, on a business trip to New York, wanting to know the name of that Vietnamese sandwich bar near Washington Square I was raving about. I text back, turn off my phone and wake again at 5.30am, dehydrated and in a bad mood.

It’s 2.15pm. I’m sitting in a meeting with Ton of Fun Tom, talking about marketing my new products for spring. My phone is on the desk in front of me and I am increasingly anxious, irritable and pissy. To be fair, every meeting I have with Tom makes me feel like this, but today is worse than usual. If James can call me from China, why can’t he call me now that he’s back in town?

‘Sophie, these raspberry and cream trifles – what are they?’

‘They’re trifles, Tom. Clue’s in the name.’

‘Right, yeah, but how does it work?’

‘How does what work?’

‘The cream and stuff?’