Leftovers Read Online Free PDF Page B

off as French … Mind you, red lipstick will only draw attention, and I always feel ridiculous wearing it, like a little girl pretending to be her mother.
    Glasses! That’ll do the trick. They’re in my handbag. Hair back, glasses on, no lipstick. Totally neutral and nothing special. I could walk into a bar like this and a man would look at me for about two seconds and then not look again. It’s at moments like this that I really start to feel my age, these last few tainted years between now and forty when I can still pass for youthful. The time is slipping away from me like an egg white down the kitchen sink – a little dribble at first, then a giant whoosh, and suddenly it’s gone.
    I head back to my desk, a small cloud forming: shake it off. Why am I even worrying about the bar staff approaching me? Ridiculous. Hawksmoor’s a classy establishment. Worst-case scenario they’ll take me subtly to one side, tell me they’ve added the drinks to the bill. In fact I hope they
do
add the drinks to the bill. It’s bad karma running out on a bill, isn’t it? By the time I’ve talked myself into and out of a panic, it’s time to go. Still no text back from Rebecca. I’ll just have to hope for the best.
    Sure enough, it’s fine. When I get to the restaurant and head gingerly down the stairs, neither the barman nor the waitress are anywhere to be seen. All that panic over nothing. I don’t know what’s wrong with me sometimes. I always fear the worst – maybe as a way of preparing myself for life’s constant disappointments.
    Devron’s already at the table with a bottle of wine from the priciest third of the list. He normally only has one glass, then takes the rest of the bottle home to have with his girlfriend. Berenice doesn’t mind – she’ll sign off any client-related expenses without a quibble, even lapdances at Stringfellows when the luxury car team take their client out on a mega jolly. But try to expense a taxi home at 11 p.m. on a rainy winter’s night and she’ll send round an all-staff email, titled ‘KEEP CALM AND CATCH THE TUBE! – AUSTERITY TIMES!’ naming and shaming you.
    ‘What are we having?’ says Devron, handing me a menu. He does mean
we
, not
you
. Devron is one of life’s sharers. Well, a one-way sharer. I too am a sharer. I want other people to try the food I love. I put things on their plates; I eat from theirs. In fact I have no problem eating from a stranger’s plate. Jake and I once had a massive row because he thought I was flirting with a man on the table next to us, when all I really wanted was a taste of his cherry pie.
    However, I cannot share with Devron. When I first started on Fletchers we went to The Ivy. I was so excited, I’d never been. The waiter had barely laid down my pudding when Devron licked the entire back of his spoon like an eight-year-old boy trying to out-gross his sister. Then, as if in slow motion, he plunged it into my untouched chocolate fondant. Since then I’ve developed an over-sensitivity to him touching my food. And he always does touch it. It’s just a question of when. In the past I’ve tried different strategies to avoid him ruining our meals together. Tried pulling the plate away. Tried saying I’m developing a cold sore. Tried licking my own spoon copiously. To no avail.
    ‘Get the burger,’ says Devron.
    ‘Don’t fancy it,’ I say, looking down the menu for the least Devron-friendly dish. ‘You get the burger.’
    ‘I want steak. Get the burger.’
    ‘I had a burger last night, I’ll have grilled fish.’
    ‘You can’t order fish in a steak restaurant. Come on, S-R, look at how good that looks!’ he says, pointing to the table to my left.
    Devron is right though. The burger looks terrific. And I am badly in need of something more substantial than a sliver of white fish. Plus, a MacDonald’s cheeseburger – perfect for a drunken snack – is as much about the excitement of unwrapping that greaseproof paper as anything.