‘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. This Hawksmoor burger is in a different league: a thick, char-grilled patty of Longhorn beef on a brioche bun, all the trimmings. And it was supposed to be mine last night. Brainwave! If I keep a tight grip on it Devron won’t be able to nick any!
Devron beckons the waiter over. ‘We’ll start with lobster, then I’ll get the Chateaubriand, triple cooked chips, beef dripping chips and she’ll have a burger.’
‘Any sides?’ says the waiter.
‘Macaroni cheese,’ says Devron.
‘Good choice,’ says the waiter, sticking his pencil back behind his ear when he should be reaching for his sharpener.
‘Then bone marrow … creamed spinach … and talk me through the ribs,’ says Devron.
‘Tamworth belly ribs, sir? Tender pork, marinaded in maple syrup, chipotle and spices.’
‘Yeah, one of those with the lobster. And we’ll do puddings now – I’ll have the peanut butter shortbread, she’ll have …’
‘I haven’t even looked yet …’ I say.
‘Sticky toffee ice cream sundae,’ says Devron.
Gross. Don’t get me wrong. I’m greedy. I love food. I like to try a bit of everything. I just can’t stand waste. Maybe that’s why I never throw anything away. It’s obviously not like I was a war baby, but fundamentally it offends me to see good food go in the bin. I think it’s because I come from feeders. In my mother’s kitchen food equals love: why would you throw that away, even if it is slightly on the turn?
‘So! Big brief!’ says Devron, pulling his chair closer to the table. ‘Super-high-profile, game-changing – mega-strategic!’ I wonder if he stole this phrase from Berenice, or she stole it from him? I wonder how long I can avoid having to use it myself …
‘We’re developing a range that’s going to do-mi-nate the pizza market!’ he says. (The last ‘market-dominating’ idea Fletchers came up with was savoury chewing gum.) ‘We want TV ads, Twitter, the works. Budget’s mega – four million quid. This time next year we’ll have wiped the floor with every other retailer. Asda? As-don’t, more like. Dominos? Domi-no-nos!’
‘Good one, Devron.’ (I know. It’s bad. But if Berenice were here she’d have fake-laughed for a full minute.)
‘Our research guys report massive growth in low-cal treats, women worrying about cellulite but still wanting to nosh on comfort food.’ He gives me a knowing look as the waiter approaches with our starters. ‘Huge gap in the market and we’re going to fill it with a range of half-calorie pizzas! It’ll be bigger than Fearne Cotton’s arse.’
Does he mean Fearne Cotton or Fern Britton? Fearne Cotton doesn’t even have an arse, as far as I’m aware. (Devron left his wife and kids for Mandy, a girl he met on a boys’ night out at Tiger Tiger. By all accounts Mandy is an avid follower of celebrity culture. In an attempt to look ‘with-it’ Devron often references celebrities, but he sometimes gets a little confused.)
‘Let’s get Fearne Cotton for the campaign,’ he says. ‘Have you got her agent’s number?’
‘Devron, I think if you mean Fern Britton she actually did Ryvita already …’
He pauses, a chunk of lobster flesh half way to his mouth. ‘Oh. Well you guys can fine-tune the celeb, it was just a thought.’ He reaches for the plate of belly ribs and grabs one in his fist. ‘Well? What do you think?’
I think if you’re going to have a pizza, have a pizza. Do things properly or don’t bother.
‘How do they cut the calories so significantly?’ I say.
‘Sell punters half a pizza, ha ha ha!’ says Devron.
‘Seriously, how?’
‘Something to do with fat sprays, flavour substitutes … ask Jeff the recipe guy.’
‘What’s the name of the range?’
‘Legal are checking trademarks, I’ll confirm end of next week, but it’s a goody,’ he says, waggling a rib in the air like it’s a sixth finger, Anne Boleyn but with pork.
‘Have you researched it?’ I say.
‘No need, I feel it in my gut. Head, heart, guts.’ This is one of Devron’s favourite phrases. It’s the title of some management book he’s obsessed with and every time he wants to justify anything moronic he reels it out. His other favourite phrase is JFDI. Which is like the Nike slogan, Just Do It, but with added swearing.
I smile weakly as the waiter clears our plates.
‘Can I see the wine list?’ Devron says to the waiter, though there’s practically a full bottle on the table.
‘Don’t you like the Bordeaux?’ I say.
‘I just want to look at the list. Do me a favour? Go call Tom, fix up a meeting for Friday with him and Jeff to talk you through the range.’
‘Shall I do it after lunch? Our main courses will be here any minute.’
‘JFDI.’
There’s no reception down here so I pop upstairs and out onto the street. Opposite the restaurant is a dance studio and I pause to watch a class of ballerinas stand at the barre warming up. Beautiful. Their bodies are not like normal people’s bodies. They move so fluidly, it’s impossible to imagine them doing anything other than dancing. I wish I had an innate talent, other than the ability to eat a little bit too much.
I take my phone out to call Tom, Devron’s underling, and find a text from Rebecca: ‘I think the guys paid last night?’ Great. That’s exactly what won’t have happened. I’ve got away with it now, but still … I phone Tom and leave a message, then go back to join Devron and discover the real reason he sent me upstairs. There is now a second bottle of the same Bordeaux open on the table next to the first which is barely touched. I am witnessing