you fancy and like and respect and who you can be yourself with. Find that and you’re very, very lucky. The reason I’m calling you back is because I don’t think you’re a total idiot; I think you might be smart enough to grow up and realise that.’
There is a long silence at the other end of the line.
‘I want to see you tomorrow,’ he says.
‘You can’t, I’m visiting a factory.’
‘I’ll come and pick you up.’
‘No, you won’t, it’s in Sheffield,’ I say.
‘What time do you finish?’
‘What difference?’
‘What’s the address?’
‘I’m not telling you.’
‘I’ll call your boss and offer him a grand to tell me.’
‘Suit yourself,’ I say.
‘Seriously, I want to see you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because.’
‘Because what?’
‘Because,’ he says.
‘Well, I finish at 5pm, so I’ll see you if I see you,’ I say.
‘Give me the address.’
I hang up. This is a man who always gets what he wants. If he wants the address, let him get it.
Favourite part of my job: Phase 4 meetings.
Second favourite part of my job: factory visits.
Appletree is my favourite supplier. Will, my contact there, is a total sweetheart, the most kind, forgiving man in the world. His wife ran off with her second cousin a few years ago, and all he’s ever said about it is that ‘things happen for a reason’; yeah, the reason being his ex-wife’s a weird, cousin-shagging slapper.
I’m here today to see the next stage of development on custard desserts, as per Devron’s instructions. Appletree have been working on the triple layer granola, custard and cream pudding, some flavoured custards (raspberry, ultra-vanilla and butterscotch) – and a flummery – a traditional old English pudding based on oats. Oats are cheap; margins should be high.
‘You’re looking very gorgeous,’ says Will, kissing me hello.
I’m wearing a strappy red sundress, wedge heels, andgood make-up – just in case. ‘I might be meeting a friend later,’ I say.
‘A friend! Oh …’ says Will. ‘I have something for you.’ Will always picks me up from the train station with a little treat for the ten-minute drive to the factory. It’s hot today and he’s brought a mini icebox, inside of which is a rhubarb and custard flavoured ice cream. ‘What do you think?’
I’m determined not to obsess about my weight after the James debacle, but as the ice cream passes my lips, the thought crosses my mind: fat arse.
‘Delicious!’ I say, ‘Can you bring it in under 80p per 500ml?’
‘For you? Anything.’
I catch myself staring at his mouth and wondering why I’ve never noticed how perfect his smile is.
Before we go into the production area we have to get washed and dressed. The handwashing procedure is as thorough as any surgeon’s – I’m an expert at turning a tap on and off with my knees. Then it’s wardrobe time – clompy dark rubber soled shoes, a calf-length white apron, earplugs and a vast blue paper hairnet. I can’t imagine anyone who works in this factory ever has sex with anyone else who works here.
One final dousing of anti-bacterial gel, and then Will opens the double doors and we’re on. The first roomwe walk through is for dried fruit and glacé cherries, and smells like a Christmas pudding, which is not the worst thing a room can smell of, but it’s the next room that’s my favourite. The size of a football pitch, it’s where the main sponge cakes are baked, and it’s like walking off an aeroplane into warm air that smells of vanilla and sugar. The room is full of people bent over the line, sticking dozens of buttons on to triple chocolate birthday gateaux, or waiting for the hopper to dispense a perfect dollop of buttercream that they can then palette-knife between two halves of a Victoria sponge.
I want to stay in this room, always, but we go to another vast room where the chilled products are made, and over to a corner where a mini-line has been set up to trial the flavoured
There is a long silence at the other end of the line.
‘I want to see you tomorrow,’ he says.
‘You can’t, I’m visiting a factory.’
‘I’ll come and pick you up.’
‘No, you won’t, it’s in Sheffield,’ I say.
‘What time do you finish?’
‘What difference?’
‘What’s the address?’
‘I’m not telling you.’
‘I’ll call your boss and offer him a grand to tell me.’
‘Suit yourself,’ I say.
‘Seriously, I want to see you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because.’
‘Because what?’
‘Because,’ he says.
‘Well, I finish at 5pm, so I’ll see you if I see you,’ I say.
‘Give me the address.’
I hang up. This is a man who always gets what he wants. If he wants the address, let him get it.
Favourite part of my job: Phase 4 meetings.
Second favourite part of my job: factory visits.
Appletree is my favourite supplier. Will, my contact there, is a total sweetheart, the most kind, forgiving man in the world. His wife ran off with her second cousin a few years ago, and all he’s ever said about it is that ‘things happen for a reason’; yeah, the reason being his ex-wife’s a weird, cousin-shagging slapper.
I’m here today to see the next stage of development on custard desserts, as per Devron’s instructions. Appletree have been working on the triple layer granola, custard and cream pudding, some flavoured custards (raspberry, ultra-vanilla and butterscotch) – and a flummery – a traditional old English pudding based on oats. Oats are cheap; margins should be high.
‘You’re looking very gorgeous,’ says Will, kissing me hello.
I’m wearing a strappy red sundress, wedge heels, andgood make-up – just in case. ‘I might be meeting a friend later,’ I say.
‘A friend! Oh …’ says Will. ‘I have something for you.’ Will always picks me up from the train station with a little treat for the ten-minute drive to the factory. It’s hot today and he’s brought a mini icebox, inside of which is a rhubarb and custard flavoured ice cream. ‘What do you think?’
I’m determined not to obsess about my weight after the James debacle, but as the ice cream passes my lips, the thought crosses my mind: fat arse.
‘Delicious!’ I say, ‘Can you bring it in under 80p per 500ml?’
‘For you? Anything.’
I catch myself staring at his mouth and wondering why I’ve never noticed how perfect his smile is.
Before we go into the production area we have to get washed and dressed. The handwashing procedure is as thorough as any surgeon’s – I’m an expert at turning a tap on and off with my knees. Then it’s wardrobe time – clompy dark rubber soled shoes, a calf-length white apron, earplugs and a vast blue paper hairnet. I can’t imagine anyone who works in this factory ever has sex with anyone else who works here.
One final dousing of anti-bacterial gel, and then Will opens the double doors and we’re on. The first roomwe walk through is for dried fruit and glacé cherries, and smells like a Christmas pudding, which is not the worst thing a room can smell of, but it’s the next room that’s my favourite. The size of a football pitch, it’s where the main sponge cakes are baked, and it’s like walking off an aeroplane into warm air that smells of vanilla and sugar. The room is full of people bent over the line, sticking dozens of buttons on to triple chocolate birthday gateaux, or waiting for the hopper to dispense a perfect dollop of buttercream that they can then palette-knife between two halves of a Victoria sponge.
I want to stay in this room, always, but we go to another vast room where the chilled products are made, and over to a corner where a mini-line has been set up to trial the flavoured
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