Leftovers Read Free

to brighten the other parts of my tired, dull existence …
    OK. Pyjamas: on. Baggy, slightly moth-bitten cashmere sweater: on. Horrendous yet cosy Ninja Turtle slippers, a gift from my brother in 1987: on (I’m serious – I never throw
anything
away). Pan of salted water for the pasta: on.
    Eleven minutes later – absolute happiness. Twirly pasta with a spicy tomato and bacon sauce with loads of melted cheese on top. Eaten on the sofa in front of an episode of
30 Rock
. Just me, Tina Fey and Alec Baldwin.
    My grandma was right about the pasta. My mother was right about those use by dates. And all is right in my world.

Tuesday
    All is about to be a little less right.
    When I reach my desk the light on my phone is already flashing. It’s 7.42 a.m., which can only mean one person: Berenice. I have been summoned. Always ominous with Berenice; she has a way of making you feel like a mass-murderer just by saying your name on an answering machine. I suspect one day I’ll break down in her office and admit to kidnapping Shergar, shooting JFK and hiding Lord Lucan under my bed.
    I rush to the ladies’ to check in the mirror. Could be worse: Tuesday morning bed hair gets pulled back into a bun. Make-up is fine; the early days of the week always see fresh mascara. Catch me on a Friday though and chances are it’s Thursday night’s face. I’m wearing a respectable M&S knee-length burgundy dress that could pass for Jaeger, in the dark. No cleavage or knees on show – extremely important, in light of Berenice’s latest paranoid fixation … Jolly good – I look like a tired, non-sexual, overworked thirty-six-year-old woman who is not having much fun. A carbon copy of Berenice, only five years younger.
    I take the lift up to the fifth floor. Her PA must be at Early-Bird Zumba so I hover awkwardly outside Berenice’s office, waiting for her to notice me through the glass wall. Maybe Sam’s right, I think, as I look at the crown of Berenice’s head. Last week Sam informed me that Berenice has her colour done every nine days at that place off Sloane Square where Cate Blanchett goes to when she’s in town. I have never seen a trace of a dark root in Berenice’s hair. It is always perfect: placid, unthreatening, shoulder-length blonde. Not sexy blonde. But grown-up, good taste, all-my-glassware-comes-from-Conran, ash blonde. Personally I favour brown. Slightly unruly, all-my-glasswear-comes-from-Ikea-or-was-borrowed-from-my-local-pub, mousy brown.
    Sam also told me that Martin Meddlar, our CEO, gets his hair bouffed at Nicky Clarke once a week and puts it down as a work expense. When I asked Sam how he came by this business-critical information he merely raised an eyebrow and said ‘Exactly!’ (Either he’s hacking into Finance’s expenses file, or he’s hacking into London’s chi-chiest hairdressers’ Hotmail accounts. He’s capable of both.)
    I glance over to see if Martin and his bouff are in their vast corner office, but no, the plush leather chair is empty. Generally Martin comes in at 11 a.m., lunches from 12 p.m. with a senior client, then returns slightly drunk at 3.50 p.m. just in time for his driver to take him home at 4.00 p.m. on the dot. (‘The A40 gets totally gridlocked after 4.30 p.m.’)
    Berenice must sense movement, as she finally looks up and beckons me in. She’s been the head of my department for six years and yet I still feel slightly sick with fear every time I have a meeting with her. ‘Susannah, take a seat,’ she says.
    My name is Susie. I know it’s the same name. I know it’s not a big a deal. But the only other person who calls me Susannah is my mother when I’ve done something earth-shatteringly wrong (borrowed her car and forgotten to reset the rear-view mirror; failed to be a successful and married dentist like my brother).
    ‘Fletchers OK?’ says Berenice, staring down at her notepad.
    Good morning, Susie. Are you well? You look a little tired. I know that we work you terribly