The Happiness Recipe. Stella Newman

beers and jeans; for deodorant that is in every bathroom cabinet in the nation.

      Our offices are plush and tasteful. They reek of sobriety.

      We’re not wacky, soothe the white walls in reception.

      We are solid, reassure the marble tiles in the first-floor client loos. We won’t take your overpriced t-shirt brand and ‘sex it up’ so that next year the only people wearing it will be gypsies on a reality TV show. Gosh no – not our style at all.

      Take a closer look, whisper the spot-free windows in the second-floor boardroom. Here, borrow this ruler so you can measure how thick the chocolate on our client biscuits is. See? Isn’t that wonderful? Everything’s going to be just fine.

      (It’s a good job clients never take the lift above the second floor. Up on fourth, the creatives inhabit their own little Sodom. Management up on fifth is Gomorrah. The smell of fire and brimstone is masked by copious amounts of Jo Malone Red Roses air freshener but that doesn’t fool me.)

      And then we come to my desk, here on the third floor – home of the account directors. It’s a metaphorical floor plan. Below us are the clients, when they come in for a meeting. Above us, the creatives. We are stuck in the middle of two warring factions, the filling in a sandwich that you would be well advised not to eat.

      I dump my bag on my chair and take a deep breath. Right: I’ve made a decision. Today is going to be a good day. Yes, I’m hungover, which isn’t ideal. But I have a large white coffee in one hand, and a brown paper bag with buttered white toast and Marmite in the other. Caffeine. Salt. Fat. Carb. Chair. Those five nouns: what more could a girl ask for?

      Even better! Jonty’s not here. He’s off on a course all week learning how to manage his workload. Bless, I don’t think he needs any help on that front, he’s given it all to me.

      And in other good news Rebecca is out too, on a shoot, so she won’t be able to nab me over lunch break and try to make me talk about last night. Rebecca is one of those friends who thinks it’s important always to confront the truth. Doesn’t she realise no one ever thanks you for telling them the truth? Denial is a healthy psychological state, designed to protect us from ourselves, and should be respected accordingly.

      So no lunchtime shaming. In fact, today’s lunch is going to be the start of the rest of my life: Devron’s finally briefing me on Project F and I’ll be on the road to promotion. He’ll phone me in a bit to tell me where he wants to be wined and dined. My mother is always telling me how lucky I am that I get to go to the occasional posh restaurant and not have to pay. Maybe it does sound glamorous. Except it’s not like going somewhere fab with your friends. No. It is going somewhere fab with a compulsive freeloading rude buffoon who is a stranger to the concept of shame.

      Sure enough, my phone rings at 10.57.

      ‘S-R,’ he says. Berenice calls me Susannah. Devron calls me by my initials, S-R. He doesn’t think women other than secretaries should be allowed in the workplace and I figure it’s his subconscious mind trying to pretend I’m not a girl.

      ‘So Devron, where do you fancy today?’

      ‘Hawksmoor,’ he says, ‘in Covent Garden. Hello? Are you still there, S-R?’

      ‘Uh-huh …’ I say, trying to replay exactly what interaction I had with the bar staff last night … Did that waitress overhear any of the clown stuff?

      ‘I want steak,’ says Devron. ‘Hawksmoor. It’s a beef place.’

      More than familiar with it thanks, Devron – familiar with the barman, the waitress, the cocktail menu, the cocktail menu … Actually, playing it all back in my head, I don’t remember embarrassing myself in front of the staff … However, I also don’t remember whether I took a cab or the tube home last night … Not worth the risk. ‘We can’t go to Hawksmoor,’ I say, a little too forcefully.

      ‘What do you mean, can’t?’ says Devron, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice. Damn. There goes the golden rule of my job. Never ever use the c-word in front of a client.

      ‘It’s just … we might have trouble getting a table at such short notice … it’s very popular.’

      ‘Janelle’s on the other line getting us one now,’ he says.

      Quick … think. ‘Tell her not the Covent Garden one! There’s a new one! In Air Street! It’s meant to be … much … airier?’

      ‘What’re you on about? The one in Covent Garden’s ten minutes away.’

      ‘If you fancy beef let’s go to Gaucho’s. They do that lovely Argentinian rib-eye …’

      ‘Nah, been there loads. Plus, they’re Argies. Hold on … one o’clock? Yeah, Janelle’s got us in at one, in the bar area. See you there.’

      I hang up and have a terrible, paranoid, hungover thought. I check my wallet. Nope. No receipt. I start texting Rebecca to ask if she paid for our drinks last night because I definitely didn’t. That’s all I need: turn up and find myself on a Wanted poster. Rebecca’s on a shoot though so she’ll have her phone off till lunch.

      No choice: I’m going to have to adopt a disguise, fake moustache not an option. Off to the loo. Right, let’s see what we’ve got to work with today …

      Well, one good thing about having mousy hair and bluey-grey eyes is that you don’t leave a striking physical impression at the scene of a crime. I have the sort of neutral features that you’d describe as nondescript if you were being bitchy; or chameleon-like, if you were Jake, trying to be poetic on our third date. Nothing is too big or small but nothing is special either. If I apply make-up really well I can scrub up to a 7 out of 10. If I’m tired or have no blusher on, these days I can sink to a 3.

      I’ll have to rely on subtle styling. OK, hair was down, or was it up last night? It smells of smoke. Rebecca must have been smoking, so my hair was probably down, which is why it smells of Marlboro Lights. Fine: I’ll stick it up in a bun.

      Yesterday I was in my burgundy dress and heels; today a navy jacket, cream t-shirt and trousers. That’s good, less showy. And I’m in flats so a totally different height, five foot six now, and yesterday I was at least five foot eight.

      Face. OK, not much we can do about this. Yesterday’s eye make-up is still on, but a bit smudged under the eyes, not too bad. I could pop to Boots and buy some red lipstick – oh, the irony … Pass myself 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.