it”. None of us grew up with a burning ambition to provide mouthy media executives with Long Island ice teas and fresh towels. It’s just a means to an end until we get into our chosen career.’ This is true. Amongst the ‘floor’ team are various hopeful thespians, writers, fashionistas and musicians. When clearing up at night, you can guarantee someone will break Fame!-like into an impromptu song-and-dance routine using their mop as a microphone.
‘Look …’ Roger sighs again. ‘I really do not mean this in a patronising way …’
‘Which means it will sound exactly that.’
He laughs. ‘Okay, fair enough … it might do. The thing is, you’re not in your twenties any more. There comes a time in life when you have to accept the reality of your situation and simply make the best of it. I’d say you are unequivocally at that point, Vivian, given you are thirty-five years old.’
‘Don’t exaggerate, I’m thirty-four.’
‘Thirty-five on Saturday; and since that is only two days away it’s time for you to create a more secure life for yourself. Because, face facts, this,’ he taps my script, ‘is not exactly lining the coffers and it’s showing no signs of doing so in the near future. At this rate your breakthrough lead role is going to be the sequel to Driving Miss Daisy. Question: do you know what a PEP, ISA or Tessa is?’
‘The more precocious characters from a Dickens novel?’ I joke, but I shift a little irritably in my seat. I don’t want a conversation about the future. I’m not done with the present. The only time span I am totally done with is the past, but I am not going to talk about that either.
‘I’m only saying this because I’m your mate, and I understand your situ,’ explains Roger. ‘I used to be a hot mess too, but I had to change when things got serious with Pete …’ He glances fondly at the framed picture of his husband – a garland of flowers round his neck on their honeymoon in Hawaii – that takes pride of place on the desk. ‘Because he had this crazy idea about wanting us to have security.’ Roger looks back up at me and grimaces. ‘But guess what? Earning then saving can be fun. Having a few quid in the bank means that should you ever want to shake things up a little and do something out of the ordinary – just for you – it’s possible.’
‘Rog! Are you suggesting I might want to go and find myself? Ha! Count me out. I’ve seen Eat Pray Love … What a load of bollocks. Trust me, any woman who spends six months scoffing pasta, pizza and traditionally manufactured Italian ice-cream, then another six months in an ashram thinking about the amount of white flour, wheat and trans-fats she has consumed would end up in a mental institution. Not Bali.’
He tuts. ‘There’s more to life than getting trashed in London every weekend, Vivian.’
‘I know. That’s why God invented budget airlines … so that from the beginning of May to mid-October for less than the price of a round of drinks in one of our capital’s leading nightspots we can go and get trashed in Ibiza instead.’
‘Does that mean you’re going there again this summer?’
Depressingly I can’t, as I am the poorest I have ever been. I don’t know where my money goes. Okay, that’s a lie. I know exactly where it goes: nights out, minicabs on the aforementioned nights out, St Tropez (the tanning mousse not the luxury French seaside resort), Grey Goose vodka (the lowest carbohydrate content of all the brands but the most expensive) and ASOS. I am addicted. It’s the crack pipe of the online fashion world. Every time I enter my three-digit security code I tell myself that it is my last hit but two days later I’ll find myself buying another load of basic vests and skinny-leg trousers … in the style of Tyler Momsen. I am too embarrassed to tell Roger the truth, though, so I blame him.
‘I won’t be heading to the White Isle this year, actually. Since my once reliably up-for-it GBF won his man but lost his sense of adventure,’ I fix him with a pointed look, ‘I haven’t made any plans. I’m assuming you and Pete are already booked into a four-hundred-euro-a-night boutique hotel in Mykonos.’
‘Turkey, actually. Greece is too much of a cliché.’ He smiles at me. ‘Seriously, at least take Fiona’s number and have a chat with her.’
I get out my absolutely knackered old Nokia from my back pocket to show willing. Roger laughs loudly when he sees it.
‘Piss off, Rog, I will get round to upgrading at some point.’
‘Vivian, since you last mentioned you were going to do that, London has bid for the Olympic Games, won the honour to stage them, built the Olympic Park, staged the event and the athletes are now in training for 2016. But if you do, obviously get the new iPhone. It’s genius, I can’t live witho …’
I zone out again and get up from the desk, taking one last glance at the truffles. Ethereal. Ethereal.
Roger cocks his head at me. ‘Vivian? I was saying I’ll text you her number.’
‘Ace. You do that …’ I tell him. ‘Now, can you quit with the concern and return to your usual light bitching – you’re freaking me out.’
He repositions his Joe 90 spectacles and glances down again at my manuscript for Surf Shack. ‘A neurotic yet stubborn and antagonistic mother’, eh? Well,’ he grins, ‘you’ll have to dig deep on the maternal angle. But other than that, you should be fine.’
It’s only early evening but the atmosphere in Burn’s is what British Vogue once described as ‘expensively buzzy’. For many of our members – now that summer is here – Thursday marks the end of their working week. Tomorrow they’ll either head off to a music festival with VIP laminates dangling round their necks or jet off on a European city mini-break. Those with kids will jump into their 4x4s and motor down to the West Country for a relaxing weekend at their second home – usually some sort of traditional fishing cottage, which thanks to a chi-chi interior designer (based in Hampstead, naturally) is now free of any sense of sea-faring tradition bar a Cath Kidston table cloth bearing an anchor motif.
In addition to the restaurant there are four other floors at Burn’s. It’s a similar layout to Shoreditch House – our main competitor – except they have a rooftop pool. Our basement has a cinema, the top floor has a spa and a gym, the first floor has a cocktail bar and alcoves for private dining, whilst the second floor is used as a lounge area. This can be used for business meetings, reading the papers, playing games … whatever. Some members spend all day and all evening here until 2 a.m. when Roger has to ask them to leave so we can close. These die-hards always look panicked when they get booted out, as if the prospect of fending for themselves for the next five hours (until we re-open at 7 a.m. for breakfast) without instant access to Molton Brown toiletries, a decent Caesar Salad and an antique backgammon board is really quite daunting. My job is to flit unobtrusively between all these floors making sure that everything is running smoothly and that all members are happy. They usually are, but today, one of them looks even happier.
‘Oi, Vivian! Over ‘ere a sec, sweet’eart.’ The genuine cockney bark of Clint Parks resonates around the restaurant. The letter ‘h’ has no place in his vocabulary.
I wind my way through the tables and give him a kiss on the cheek. As always, he smells of Envy by Gucci and over excitement. ‘How are you, Clint? I haven’t seen you for a few days.’
‘I’ve been in Tenerife on a nice little freebie, as it ‘appens … judging some beauty contest for a chain of ‘otels. Naturally, I made sure the fittest bird came second so I could cheer ‘er up in my suite afterwards.’ Everyone at the table giggles. Clearly, they aren’t picturing Clint hammering away at some desperate wannabe with vacant eyes.
As the loud, crass, womanising gossip columnist for News Today, you would have thought that Clint is exactly the kind of punter who would have his application for membership at a swish private club like Burn’s revoked as soon as it came before the selection committee, but actually he and his friends are