The Happiness Recipe

‘Legal are checking trademarks, I’ll confirm end of next week, but it’s a goody,’ he says, waggling a rib in the air like it’s a sixth finger, Anne Boleyn but with pork.

‘Have you researched it?’ I say.

‘No need, I feel it in my gut. Head, heart, guts.’ This is one of Devron’s favourite phrases. It’s the title of some management book he’s obsessed with and every time he wants to justify anything moronic he reels it out. His other favourite phrase is JFDI. Which is like the Nike slogan, Just Do It, but with added swearing.

I smile weakly as the waiter clears our plates.

‘Can I see the wine list?’ Devron says to the waiter, though there’s practically a full bottle on the table.

‘Don’t you like the Bordeaux?’ I say.

‘I just want to look at the list. Do me a favour? Go call Tom, fix up a meeting for Friday with him and Jeff to talk you through the range.’

‘Shall I do it after lunch? Our main courses will be here any minute.’

‘JFDI.’

There’s no reception down here so I pop upstairs and out onto the street. Opposite the restaurant is a dance studio and I pause to watch a class of ballerinas stand at the barre warming up. Beautiful. Their bodies are not like normal people’s bodies. They move so fluidly, it’s impossible to imagine them doing anything other than dancing. I wish I had an innate talent, other than the ability to eat a little bit too much.

I take my phone out to call Tom, Devron’s underling, and find a text from Rebecca: ‘I think the guys paid last night?’ Great. That’s exactly what won’t have happened. I’ve got away with it now, but still … I phone Tom and leave a message, then go back to join Devron and discover the real reason he sent me upstairs. There is now a second bottle of the same Bordeaux open on the table next to the first which is barely touched. I am witnessing a master at work. I’d forgotten that I have to watch Devron like a paranoid hawk at all times. Yet this is a new low – an act of such shameless greed that I almost have to take my hat off to him. Except he’d probably nick my hat and sell it on eBay while I was blinking.

‘Ah look, the mains,’ he says, nodding at two waiters en route with large trays.

The waiter puts my burger down in front of me. I immediately put my master plan into action: grab the burger and hold on for dear life. If Devron wants any he’ll have to fight me for it. For once he is not going to ruin my lunch. Devron looks at the burger. He looks at me. His brain goes into overdrive. Even though it’s dark in here, I swear I can see his pupils dilate. Hell, I can actually see the cogs inside his brain start to rotate. My grip on the burger tightens.

In my years at NMN I’ve learnt a smidgen about Greek mythology; board members often quote the Greeks as a way of making themselves look like intellectuals rather than men who spend all day fantasising about shagging the grads. One thing that comes to me, as my fingers sink into the bun and I struggle to contain the meat, lettuce and tomato inside, is the concept of the Pyrrhic victory. Named after a king who won a battle but lost a war, it loosely equates to a tiny gain offset by a gigantic loss. For, after two delicious bites, my over-tight grip causes the beef to slide from my bun, and Devron, quicker than a Venus flytrap, reaches out, stabs the beef and drags it across the table to his own plate. Game over, and he didn’t even blink.

‘So, Devron …’ I say, wondering how it’s possible that I’ll be paying two hundred pounds for this meal and I’ll still need to pop to M&S for a sandwich on my way back to the office, ‘this brief. Is the airtime still planned for the start of May?’ He nods.

‘OK: I’ll brief a creative team next week,’ I say. ‘That’ll mean shooting the ad after Easter and, and … and …’

‘And what?’

And the barman from last night’s just walked in.

‘And … yes …’ There he is, talking to my waiter, and now he’s turning and shit, yes, he’s looking this way. ‘And … yes … good, yes, Easter.’ Shit. ‘Easter.’

‘Yeah, shoot after Easter,’ says Devron. ‘Blah … blah … blah … timing plan,’ he carries on.

Oh God. The barman is totally staring at me, and now smiling. No, that’s not a smile, that’s a grin! He is grinning in a way that does not bode well.

‘Blah … blah … blue sky thinking … blah … blah … Nike ad …’ says Devron.

‘Absolutely, Devron,’ I say, nodding. Oh no! Now the barman’s scribbling something down … the bill!

‘Blah … blah … super-tight deadlines … share the process early …’

‘Yes, of course …’ I nod. Oh good grief no! He’s coming over. Get back behind the bar, this is not on!

He’s half way across the floor heading towards us. I’ve got to move. Right now.

‘Blah … blah … three weeks on Friday, yes?’ says Devron.

‘Sure, yes, whatever you want, back in a sec,’ I say, darting out from behind the table and heading speedily towards the toilets, head down.

Christ. Lucky escape. How long can I hide in here for? Too little time and the barman will still be lurking. Two and a half minutes? La-di-dah … Quick make-up check … Oooh, nice wall tiles in here, didn’t notice those last night. White rectangular subway tiles, very classic … Right, I think that’s about time.

I pull the bathroom door open to find the barman standing waiting for me, arms folded. He really is embarrassingly good looking: thick black hair and green eyes, with thick lashes. And that body! His black t-shirt stops at the perfect mid point of his arm, showing off perfect, not too large, but very defined, tanned biceps.

‘You again! I couldn’t believe it when I saw you in here!’ he says. Ditto.

‘Well … Sorry,’ I say, ‘but I have to get back to my table …’

‘Hang on a minute,’ he says. ‘I’m glad you’re here, there’s something I didn’t manage to give you guys last night, you ran out before I could get over to you!’

Hurry up and get this over with then.

‘Yep, sorry about that … just give it to me, I’ll sort it,’ I say, holding out my palm and turning slightly away so that Devron can’t see what’s going on.

‘Cool! I didn’t want to hand it over at the table, I thought it might not be appropriate,’ he says, handing me a little green paper umbrella. Ah, nice touch. Giving me the bill inside the umbrella, that’s a classy move. I look over to see if Devron’s watching but he’s otherwise occupied, knuckle-deep in my sundae.

‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ he says.

‘Bad luck opening an umbrella indoors,’ I say.

He smiles. ‘Go on, before you go back.’

I quickly open the little parasol, and sure enough, there’s a figure written down inside. Except there’s no pound sign. And no decimal point. And while the drinks here are expensive, they’re not that expensive. This number’s eleven digits long.

His phone number. Oh my goodness. This super-hot young barman is giving me his phone number. The game is not over yet! – I have still got it going on! I must stop being so hard on myself. Evidently I don’t look bedraggled at all. I look good. Better than good: Very Good. Sexxy. Hot enough to attract this chisel-jawed guy who looks quite like David Gandy. I don’t think anyone this handsome has chatted me up for years. Maybe I’m entering a pre-Mrs-Robinson stage of allure? A little firework of delight goes off inside me. I try not to show a reaction but I’m already grinning like an imbecile.

‘What’s her name?’ he says.

‘Susie,’ I say. ‘It’s Susie.’ Hang on. Her name? What? Whose name? Oh no.

‘Susie.’ He says it like a handshake. ‘Sorry if I was staring at you girls last night, I just think your mate’s properly beautiful. If it isn’t too cheesy, would you ask her to call me?’

I nod silently, trying to keep my smile up.

‘I’m Luke by the way. What’s your name?’

I feel a substantial part of my self curl up into a ball and start to howl, though I stay standing, one arm resting on the door frame, pretending not to be acutely embarrassed.

‘I’m also Susie actually.’ I say, realising that I’m about to pay the bill with my credit card, which clearly says Susie Rosen on it. ‘We’re both Susies.’

‘That’s funny,’ he says.

‘Isn’t it just,’ I say. ‘Ha! We’re like the Two Ronnies … you know, well actually she’s more a Sue-becka. Some people even call her … Becka … Subecka … her middle name’s Becka, that’s why … just to tell us apart …’