Pear Shaped (34 page)

‘I’d like your thoughts on this,’ he says, handing me a sheet of A4. I expect it to be an outline of some dumb new scheme he’s cooked up – combining Poultry and Fish as Pish or Foultry. Or making us all devise a menu for Mandy’s 21st Roller Disco Birthday Dinner.

But no. It is a list, in Janelle’s handwriting, of all the Phase 4 tastings I have attended in an unofficial capacity in the last three months. That Croissant session, ooh la la! And I’d forgotten all about the Chinese Ready Meal Breakfast buffet. Sixteen meetings in total.

I shrug. I learnt to shrug from the best.

‘Sophie, do you work for Marie in Bakery?’ he says.

‘No, Devron.’

‘And do you work for Jason in Ethnic?’

‘No.’

‘Do you work for Ingrid in Moultry?’

‘Er, nope.’

‘And do you work for Clive in biscuits?’

‘No.’ My, this one could run and run.

‘Do you actually work for me? Devron?’

‘No.’

‘Pardon?’

‘No, thank you?’

I am in such an insanely good mood after quitting that my first instinct is to call James and tell him, let’s not wait till Thursday, let’s go out tonight! Such a bummer that after everything that’s happened he’s still one of the first people I want to share my good news with.

But first there’s a message on my voicemail from Will to call him straight back. I realise that I’m not going to be able to go to Paris with him on Wednesday anymore, and I feel a bit gutted.

‘Will, I’m so sorry, but I’ve got good news and bad.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, I’m pretty great actually. I just handed in my notice.’

‘Congratulations! So, what’s the bad news?’

‘I won’t be able to come to Paris for research with you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, I guess you’ll want to wait and take my replacement, won’t you? I mean, I’m leaving the business …’

‘Don’t worry about that! Consider it your leaving lunch. Actually, that was why I was calling – have you ever been to Hotel Costes?’

‘I’ve always wanted to go.’

‘Great. I’ll book it. I’ll meet you at St Pancras at 6.30am. – It’s a real shame you’re leaving, Soph. You’re one of the best developers I’ve worked with.’

‘I bet you say that to all your clients …’

‘No, truly. You’re dedicated and passionate and you’re always really honest with us. I’ve never worked with someone who’s so considerate of their suppliers.’

‘Stop it, Will! You’re making me blush.’

‘Bet you’re counting the days already. No more Devron picking his nose in tastings …’

‘Oh, my God! Don’t ever tell him I told you that.’

‘Sophie Klein, what sort of a man do you think I am?’

I don’t know. I never gave it enough thought. Until now.

As I put the phone down a smile creeps up on me, and at the back of my mind I know there’s something I was about to do before I called Will, but I can’t quite remember what, and I head off to the kitchen to make Eddie and Lisa some tea.

That evening I call Maggie again.

‘Your voice sounds lighter already!’ she says.

‘I’m working another month, and then …’

‘Yup, the future. I’m proud of you, Sophie.’

‘I need the name of your brioche guy in Paris, please – I’m there on Wednesday with Appletree.’

‘Ah, lovely Will. Send him my regards. I always had a soft spot for Will …’

‘Really?’

‘Absolutely. I always thought you two would make a nice couple …’

‘Me and Will? No, he’s a bit too nice. And you know he was married?’

‘Stop right there. I’m not having this.’

‘What?’

‘You have three choices, young lady. You can either keep that arsehole James on a pedestal and keep any decent guy at arms’ length, because of some stupid nonsense reason …’

‘Maggie …’

‘So he’s divorced! So what? At least he’s capable of a commitment! I mean, that’s a ridiculous reason, one of the silliest I’ve ever heard …’

‘Maggie …’

‘Or you can find another selfish, immature manchild just like James, who’s equally emotionally unavailable and callous. Believe me, there are plenty of them out there, and I know what I’m talking about …’

‘Maggie …’

‘Or you can realise your own worth – you are a talented, smart, gorgeous, real woman – and find someone who is actually interested in making you happy.’

‘Bloody hell, Maggie, I only called to get the name of the brioche guy.’

‘Yes, well … I don’t know his name, but he’s the third stall in at the Canal St Martin market. Get there by 3pm, or he’ll be sold out. And tell him La Madame Anglaise et Difficile says hello …’

The rain is relentless on Wednesday morning and for some reason I feel weirdly down again. Maybe it’s the anti-climax after the excitement of quitting. Maybe it’s just the weather. Or maybe I realise that secretly I’m wishing I was going to Paris with James. Will is lovely but he’s just a bit too straight for me.

I can’t decide what to wear. The simple navy cap-sleeved dress from Topshop with the tie waist that I can loosen after lunch, or the slightly sexier black jersey one from Whistles … Why am I even thinking of this as a date, I wonder, as I choose the comfortable option. This is not a date, because the last time I went on a date, I drunkenly disgraced myself and was abandoned mid-date, therefore I am not yet ready to date. More to the point, this is a work date, with a colleague. Just because this colleague is polite and thoughtful and doesn’t point out your physical inadequacies does not mean he fancies you.

I grab my umbrella, head for the tube, and when I pop
up the other end at St Pancras, I see Will sitting reading
Private Eye
, waiting for me.

‘Breakfast,’ he says, handing me a paper bag with a toasted ham and cheese croissant in. ‘And I got you a coffee, I’m pretty sure you’re white, no sugar.’

‘Thank you – let me give you some cash …’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Today’s on Appletree.’

On the train I doze off, and wake up when Will taps me gently on the shoulder.

‘We’ll be there in a minute.’

‘Already?’

‘You just conked out the minute you’d finished breakfast,’ he says.

‘Sorry, how rude.’

‘No, it was sweet. You were like a dormouse, curled up over there.’

‘These seats are pretty comfy … I’m not used to business class. Fletcher’s won’t pay for it unless you’re part of the Toolkit.’

‘The what?’

‘That’s what they’ve rebranded the board. The “essential tools to make our strategic engine run” …’

‘… So, Devron must be a power-tool?’ says Will, with a straight face.

‘The biggest,’ I say, trying not to laugh.

‘So what’s the plan?’ I ask, grabbing my bag and umbrella as we head out to the taxi queue.

‘It’s 11am now, table’s at 12.30pm, so I thought we could head down to St Germain, go to Gilles Fevier, then potter back up past the Pyramid and the Louvre on our way to lunch.’

‘Gilles Fevier?’

‘I thought you’d know him? He’s this trendy artisan chocolate maker.’

‘And what’s his packaging like?’

‘Why? Do you want to do some research?’

‘Not particularly. But I feel bad if Appletree are paying …’

‘Soph. Here’s an idea,’ he says, opening the cab door for me. ‘Why don’t you just have a good time and not feel guilty about it. You’ve earned this trip – enjoy it.’

As we drive down the wide boulevards towards the Seine and the city opens up in all its beauty, I decide I’m going to do just that.

The chocolate shop is hilarious. There is a giant photo of Gilles Fevier on each wall, arms folded, long black hair flowing, with the caption, ‘Je suis Artist du Chocolat!’

‘Chocolate artist!’ says Will. ‘That’s a Yorkshire euphemism for something else …’

The chocolates are amazing, mini architectural forms with names such as ‘Destiny’s Dark Satin’, and ‘Paraguayan Orchid’.

‘Can I help?’ says the assistant, after we’ve been pointing and giggling for a few minutes.

‘I’m looking for something a little more pretentious …’ says Will.

‘Pardon?’

‘Do you have any Dairy Milk?’ says Will.

‘Milk? We ’ave The Ecuadorean – a goat’s milk and hibiscus truffle, enrobed in 80% Ecuadorean chocolat with air-dried goat’s milk shavings on top.’

‘Sounds rank, shall we get some?’ Will whispers to me.

‘How much are they?’ says Will.

‘It is done by weight.’

‘Fine, we’ll take two,’ says Will.

Eight euros lighter, we exit the chocolate artist’s studio.

‘I feel sick already,’ I say. ‘Four euros each?

‘When in Rome …’ says Will, popping one in his mouth. ‘Urgh …’

‘Not good?’

‘So not good,’ he shakes his head and hands me the other truffle.

‘I’ll save mine for later,’ I say, putting it in my handbag.

Will’s booked us a table at Hotel Costes overlooking a beautiful courtyard. It’s raining now, and we sit in plush velvet chairs breathing in the generic smell of luxury boutique hotel: tuberose single note perfume, cedar and sandalwood candles. All around us the Eurotrash air-kiss, and push the calories across their plates.

‘I thought you’d like it here,’ says Will. ‘The people watching’s great and the food’s terrific.’

Two bottles of wine, two steaks and a tureen of super-smooth mash later, we’re trying to work out if the old man in tight leather trousers who’s walked past our table four times in the last hour is a) en route to the loo to feed his cocaine habit, b) Peter Stringfellow’s French doppelganger, c) incontinent, d) all of the above.

‘I’m going to find out once and for all,’ says Will, following him to the men’s room. ‘Back in a sec, work out what we’re having for dessert …’

While he’s gone I study the pudding menu. I suddenly realise that I’m having proper fun, and this thought strikes me with shock and a bit of panic, like the thought that I might have left my hair straighteners plugged in.

‘Right, what are we having?’ says Will, sitting back down and smiling.

‘I’m not sure there’s any pudding that’ll beat that mash. You decide – excuse me …’

I stagger off to the loo and by the time I return he’s ordered.

‘So,’ he says, ‘that guy who picked you up that time, is he your other half?’

The memory of that day instantly makes my heart hurt, and my reflex is to reach for my wine glass which is empty. ‘Is it ok if we have some more wine?’

‘Sure … are you okay?’

‘Yes, fine. No. No, he’s not my other half. Why?’

‘Just curious. He seemed very pleased with himself, that’s all …’

‘He was … he was a guy I used to know.’

The waiter approaches our table carrying another tureen of mash.

‘Not for us,’ I say.

‘… It is,’ says Will, looking sheepish.

‘Seriously? Good work, William,’ I say, giving him a high five. He smiles with relief and I’m sure it’s the wine working its boozy magic, but honestly his teeth are just unbelievably perfect.

‘It’s 4pm already,’ says Will, helping me on with my coat. ‘We’ve got an hour before we have to be at the station, what do you fancy doing?’

‘There’s the brioche guy Maggie loves, but she said be there by 3pm … Why don’t we go to Colette? It’s a few blocks this way I think.’

‘What’s Colette?’

‘It’s funny.’

We enter the shop and the bulky doorman immediately points to my umbrella and demands I hand it over.

‘Do I have to?’ I say. ‘I’ll forget it, I know I will.’

‘You won’t,’ says Will. ‘It’s pissing down out there. Wow, this place is something.’

The store is full of Japanese people and rich kids and fashionistas desperate to buy something, anything, that will make them feel ahead of the curve. A small teddy made out of wood – 1,000 euros. That’ll show anyone who ever bullied me at school that I AM NOW A WINNER.

‘Look at this scarf,’ says Will, ‘I thought the motif was a crest …’ The repeat pattern is actually two naked busty women humping a snow leopard. ‘845 euros! Bargain. Actually, Sophie, you’ve still got my scarf, so I guess you owe me a scarf, don’t you?’

‘Sure, I’ll get my purse. We could get matching his and hers, do you think they’ll do us a BOGOF?’

He laughs. ‘Seriously, Sophie. Who would actually buy something like this? I’m not being all “we just ate coal for breakfast up North when I was a kid”, but really …’

‘Now that’s more like it,’ I say, spying an electric blue fake fur coat with diamante buttons. I pause to stroke it – it’s softer than the real thing.

‘Try it on,’ says Will.

We have to get security to unhook the coat, which
costs 2,000 Ecuadorean truffles. I slip it on, petrified that in my slightly drunken state I’ll rip it and be forced to re-mortgage my flat.

‘Very glamorous,’ says Will, taking a step back and gesturing for me to do a twirl.

‘Cookie Monster does Vegas, don’t you think?’

‘Diamonds are a bit much, but that shape suits you perfectly. You look great.’

I stop and look at him. I’m sure again it’s just the booze talking but his eyes are the most unusually beautiful slate grey-blue. We’re standing a few centimetres closer than friends. I know I should stop staring but there’s something behind his gaze that makes me unable to break off. What am I doing? Will’s someone I work with, worked with. He’s divorced. He’s a bit short. He lives in another city. For all I know, he has a girlfriend. This is not a date. The booze halo will wear off in an hour, and I’ll feel really silly for even considering there’s any mutual spark here.

‘We’d better get a move on,’ I say, turning round and putting the coat back on its hanger. The assistant swoops and rebolts like the chief jailer.

As we head out I ask the doorman for my umbrella, but he shrugs and says there is no navy umbrella.

‘I left it here twenty minutes ago,’ I say, trying not to sound rude or bratty, but conscious that the rain outside will maximise my hair frizz, and all of a sudden I care very
much about looking pretty and shiny haired in front of Will.

‘No, nothing,’ says the doorman.

‘Don’t worry,’ says Will, ‘we’ll get straight in a cab.’

‘Your hair’s gone all curly!’ says Will, as we take our seats on the Eurostar.

‘I hate it,’ I say, pulling it back into a ponytail. ‘Out of control, crazy, makes me look like Goldilocks …’