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
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
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