Leftovers (35 page)

‘You know that Cloud thing you mentioned in Robbie’s Happy Hour?’

He nods.

‘Can you tap into Karly’s old text messages and notes file on her iPhone with it, or is that not something the Cloud keeps?’

‘The Cloud keeps all of it.’

‘Even if she’s subsequently deleted a file?’

‘All of it. What dates do you need?’

‘Just the one: Thursday 12th April, at around 6pm for an hour.’

‘OK,’ he says. ‘I might need to pull a little favour but is Monday morning OK?’

‘That’ll be fine.’

I am still angry when I get home.

Not Oscar the Grouch angry, that’s just a grump. No, I am full on Tony Soprano furious.

OK. Pasta for an angry night, a very angry night, pasta to calm one’s ire and help one think straight …

Right. Rigatoni: it’s nice, it’s short, it’s precise, and it will help me formulate a nice, short, precise plan. And arrabbiata sauce would be the obvious choice – it literally does mean angry. But I fear chilli will only work me into a greater state of apoplexy.

No. Calm. Simple. Clarity of thought: butter, parmesan. Strip it right back to basics:

Fletchers are going to use my idea whether I like it or not.

I could rush out a load more recipes for my blog now – but it’ll take months and months to build up an audience and by that time people will associate my idea with Celina.

Even if I can prove Karly stole it – and with Sam’s help I’m sure I can – then it won’t do much good.

The only thing NMN would worry about is a negative story in the trade press … Damage to their reputation … Whistle blow … So all I can do is encourage them to keep me away from that whistle …

All I want to do is quit anyway … Hmm. Tricky …

By the time I’ve finished my final bite of pasta I’ve figured it all out.

I have called Sam and asked him for another favour.

I have explained the first part of the plan to him and he actually used the word ‘genius’, although I suspect he might have meant ‘lunatic’. And now he is sitting on my sofa with his laptop waiting to brainstorm ideas for an alternative blog with me.

Since my conversation with Berenice last week, I have been so busy thinking about what’s going to happen next week and, more importantly, the weeks after that, that I have not been anywhere near a shop and now I look in slight despair at the contents of my fridge.

‘What time’s lunch?’ calls Sam from the living room.

‘I might have to buy you a pizza,’ I say, taking out a bowl of mashed potato from last night and wondering if I could make it into potato cakes or bubble and squeak … But I promised Sam lunch, and boys – well this particular boy – likes meat. There is that nice chicken stew in the freezer that I could defrost … I think that it might just about stretch …

Sam comes through into the kitchen and looks in horror at my fruit bowl. ‘Jesus Christ, were those once bananas?’ he says.

‘Perfect!’ I say. ‘Do you fancy some banana bread?’

‘Not if you’re using that old shit in it,’ he says. ‘They’re disgusting.’

‘Sam, that’s how you make banana bread,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘The bananas have to be totally over-ripe. You’ve had my banana bread before.’

‘Yeah, but I didn’t realise it was made with bananas that looked like that. And what’s that stuff in the bowl?’ he says, looking over my shoulder at the cold mash.

‘Just go and sit back in the living room and find that thing you were talking about … the digital platform what’s-its-face …’

‘Alright but promise not to poison me if you want my help,’ he says.

I defrost the chicken stew and then find a bit of caramelised onion chutney in the back of the fridge that’s like the crack cocaine of condiments. I stir a dollop through the chicken, stick the potatoes on top with a bit of extra butter and some grated cheese, and shove it in the oven. I’ll give Sam a beer or two now and then he won’t notice if it all tastes a bit weird …

‘Actually, Sam, do you want to help me make the banana bread?’ I say, calling through to him. ‘That way you can make it when I’m not around every day.’

‘I’m not touching those bananas,’ he says. ‘Division of labour, you do what you’re best at and I’ll do the same.’

Fair enough … I mash the bananas, weigh out the flour, sugar and eggs, and chuck in some dark and milk chocolate chips as I’m out of fudge pieces, and stick that in the top oven.

I go back through to Sam who is looking at a website about affiliate marketing and clicks per thousand and all the things I need to start getting my head around. He talks me through the basics, which is all well and good, but I’m avoiding the major problem, which is that I no longer have an idea, as it’s been nicked.

‘I know what I want the new site to look and feel like,’ I say, showing him Ms Marmite Lover’s blog, and Dash and Bella. ‘These two blogs look totally beautiful but they’re also brilliantly written, they have a point of view …’

‘OK,’ he says. ‘Well, you’re never short of things to say, are you?’

‘Yes but my idea has gone!’ I say, as I hear the oven timer go off.

‘If you can have one good idea you can have lots,’ he says.

I open the oven door. Oooh! This chicken thing’s turned out alright! That melted cheese on top’s done the trick. Actually it’s better than alright, it looks delicious.

‘Lunch is served,’ I say, as I take it through to him.

‘Smells amazing,’ he says. ‘What is it?’

‘
Pollo rimasto
?’ I say.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It’s Italian for leftover chicken. Try it, it’s an experiment.’

‘Yep,’ he says, taking a forkful. ‘Good. Really good.’

I watch him as he eats. I love it when someone’s enjoying a meal and they’re oblivious to everything around them – lost in simple pleasure. When he’s finished I offer him the final three bites from my plate and he eats them with gusto. There’s the tiniest bit of mashed potato stuck just above his lip, and I smile to myself, waiting for him to notice. I resist a little urge to lean over and wipe it off with my finger.

By the time I’ve cleared the plates and come back through it’s gone, and he’s settled back on the sofa, laptop resting on his knees, typing and scanning the screen intently.

‘Sam, are those new jeans?’ They’re darker denim than the ones he usually wears at work and they’re smarter. In combo with that navy cotton sweatshirt he has on, he actually looks rather stylish, almost French.

‘Huh?’ he says, looking up briefly.

‘Oh no, nothing, forget it. Anyway, so, ideas, ideas …’ I say. ‘I want the website to be about food, obviously, but I want to do more than just recipes. There are so many brilliant blogs out there, I have to do something different enough to actually stand out and make money.’

‘Agreed, too much competition already.’

‘Right, so I’m thinking maybe do something more visual, like Pinterest …’

He nods.

‘Or maybe have an area of the site where users could swap recipe ideas?’ I say.

He pauses to consider this. ‘They could swap stuff, not just ideas?’

‘Like what?’

‘You know, cookbooks or kitchen bits.’

‘Oh, like Freecycle but with more lemon squeezers?’

‘Yeah exactly. And you could do a social thing too, I don’t know, like a community …’ he says.

‘Or even a dating thing! But instead of people saying
I like walking
and
I like laughing
they could talk about what they like best in a sandwich. That’s more useful information in a prospective partner, isn’t it? Find people who have similar tastes in food to you, matched appetites … Or even unmatched, like Jack and Mrs Sprat …’

‘Perhaps you could combine the community idea with the dating idea,’ says Sam, scratching his cheek. ‘Get together with people in your area who like similar food.’

‘Like a group date, but not in a bunga-bunga way,’ I say. He laughs. ‘More like in a
take the pressure off the date
kind of way …’

‘See?’ says Sam, pointing at me. ‘I told you ideas don’t happen in isolation. You’re full of them.’

‘Yes, but I still don’t have a theme. I don’t want to do something overtly British, that feels dated already, all that stuff last year with the Olympics and the Jubilee … And puddings have been done to death, and so has baking. And I’m not going anywhere near cupcakes …’

‘Doughnuts?’ says Sam. ‘I’m a massive fan of doughnuts. You’d be good at doughnuts, Suze. I think they could be your true calling.’

‘I am a fan of doughnuts, Sam, but I’m not sure that I could build an entire online empire based around them. Besides, it needs to be broader than just one food type. Apparently Peruvian’s the new big thing, but I don’t know anything about Peru. I think perhaps something Italian. That feels like the obvious direction to go in, but not pasta … I don’t know. Maybe it should be wine, not food …’

‘Whatever it is, just make up your mind so we can get started.’

‘OK,’ I say, feeling a sudden burst of energy. ‘I’m going to go and have a look through my recipe files now and start having a proper think.’

‘Do you want me to stay and help?’

‘No, no, you’ve been great, but I want to get cracking,’ I say, standing up and walking him to the door. ‘Oh shit, I nearly forgot, the banana bread …’

‘That smells amazing,’ he says, following me through into the kitchen and peering over my shoulder expectantly, as I take it out of the oven. I hold the hot tin out for him to smell: how could anyone fail to be moved by this warm, vanilla-y, buttery sweetness, with the melted chocolate coming through?

‘Susie, I’ve thought of another thing I could do to help you out,’ he says, hovering as I place the loaf tin on a cooling rack.

‘What’s that, Sam?’ I say, turning to him.

‘I could take this cake off your hands?’

He has set his facial expression to earnest and helpful but as I look at him he breaks into a grin.

‘You would seriously actually do that for me, Sam?’

He nods.

‘But, Sam, I couldn’t possibly impose on you any further. You’ve done so much for me today already …’

‘As long as you promise I’m not going to die on the way home because of those Stone Age bananas …’

‘Ah Sam, there are no guarantees in life. But OK, if you honestly wouldn’t mind relieving me of this horrendous burden, you really would be doing me an
enormous
favour.’

The cake’s too hot to remove from the tin so instead I double-wrap the whole thing in foil and put it in a bag. When I hand it to Sam, he looks properly chuffed – like four of his numbers have just come up on the lottery.

‘Can I actually do this, Sam?’ I say, as we stand by my front door and he puts on his jacket.

‘Of course you can. It’s about time. It’s more than time. You’re finally manning up.’

‘And you’re sure you’re happy to help me with all of this? I mean, I can’t pay you at this point, other than in cake, and it will be a lot of work over the coming months.’

He shakes his head. ‘It’s fine, I’ll enjoy it. Just hurry up and think of your theme.’ I think he’s almost as excited about all of this as I am.

‘And this thing tomorrow with Karly’s Cloud,’ I say. ‘You’re not going to get into trouble for that, are you?’

‘No. Come and see me first thing and I’ll have a printout for you.’

‘Why are you doing all this for me, Sam?’

‘Because I’m on your side,’ he says, without a moment’s hesitation. He pauses to consider it further. ‘And because it feels like justice.’

He hovers in the doorway and allows himself a little smile. ‘And because I can.’

By the time I get into bed I am so buzzy with nervous energy that I can’t sleep.

I lie there and I think:

Sam seems a lot more grown up when he’s not in that mail room. And those new jeans fit him so much better than the old ones he wears at work.

And I think:

I wish I hadn’t given him all of that banana bread. It would have made a brilliant base for a trifle, I could have had a layer of butterscotch custard under the cream. That would have been delicious.

And I think:

I wonder how Daniel McKendall’s getting on. I hope he’s getting on well. I hope he’s happy. I want only good things for him.

And I think:

Having kids forces people into being grown ups. And if you don’t have kids then you can live in prolonged adolescence for a really long time. But then you’ll wake up one day and you’ll be fifty years old and behaving like a teenager. And that is not a good look.

But there is an alternative and you do have a choice. You can push yourself into being an adult.

And finally I think:

If you can take on Berenice then you can take on Karly too. And if you can do that you can literally do anything. She’s a bully. They are all bullies. And if you don’t stand up to bullies, they keep bullying. And it’s time to fight back.

And if you don’t do this now you will never do it at all.

Status report:

• Take a deep breath
  
• Catch up with Sam and then Karly
  
• Happy Hour – speech
  

I didn’t think it was technically possible to feel any angrier than I did last week, but my rage is re-ignited when Sam shows me the exact wording of what he’s retrieved from Karly’s iPhone. I still cannot quite believe she has done this; though why is that? It’s not like I’m the first.

My dad says never do anything when you’re feeling very angry; sit tight. But this extra burst of fury is probably the force that finally propels me up to the creative floor and towards Karly’s office.

‘She’s got no time in her diary until next week,’ says Alexis.

‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘this won’t take long.’

‘You can’t go in there without an appointment,’ she says, but I’m already at the door.

Karly’s sitting flicking through
Campaign
with her feet up on the desk, electric blue Louboutin boots flashing their red soles at me.

‘Hey, Karly,’ I say. ‘I know you’re busy but I just wanted to check something with you on your new pasta script for Fletchers.’