Everyone’s talking shite. I’m just breathing it in.

Client dinners are rarely about food. They’re rituals of performance, subtle negotiation, and the quiet endurance of small humiliations. From the first sip of overpriced champagne to the final nod of polite agreement, every moment is curated to maintain relationships, protect reputations, and, most often, leave someone silently paying the price.

07:06 — The Alarm Goes.

The alarm vibrates like guilt.
Today’s the day.
Client dinner day.

I open one eye and immediately remember: it’ll all be me paying.
That’s how this ends. It always is.

Somewhere between brushing my teeth and checking emails, I practise the ancient art of pretending I’m not bothered.
This is the performance.
This is professionalism.
Smile, absorb, invoice.

10:43 — The Outfit Rehearsal.

“Smart casual.”
A phrase invented by someone who’s never known fear.

I stand in front of the mirror rehearsing competence.
Buttoned shirt — too compliant.
Rolled sleeves — too eager.
Open collar — too Ibiza

I land on something that says: approachable, but not available for feedback.

14:12 — The False Calm.

I try to do real work.
But everything today is a prelude — every email just a waiting room for the dinner.

Colleagues hover near my desk pretending not to be relieved it’s me going, not them.
Someone says, “You’ll smash it, mate,” like I’m off to war.
Maybe I am.

17:19 — The Commute to Performance.

The train hums with quiet dread.
I scroll my notes app for small talk prompts

1. “How’s the family?”
2. “Still in that place near the river?”
3. “Kids must be, what, eight now?”

Vaguely interested or just maintaining plausible warmth — who can tell anymore.

The internal pep talk runs: Be confident. Be relaxed. Don’t order the most expensive wine even though you’re paying for it.

18:47 — The Arrival.

The restaurant smells of competence and overcharging.
Everyone’s early. Always a bad sign.

The clients arrive in waves — smiles first, then perfume, then noise.
There’s a choreography to the greeting: half-handshake, half-hug, half-kiss-that-misses.
Everyone pretending they’re delighted.
Everyone slightly damp with effort.

They study the cocktail list with the seriousness of people choosing new identities.
Latin names, heavy on the citrus.

Then one says, “Actually… why don’t we just get champagne?”
Of course.
We nod approvingly, like a congregation watching a miracle we can’t afford.
The agency card will cover it. It always does.

19:23 — The Small Talk Waltz.

We slide into conversation like actors missing their cues.
“How’s the family?”
“How old are your kids now?”

I nod in the right places. Smile on command.
The muscles in my face start to ache around the forty-minute mark — the cramp of courtesy.

Then we shift into work mode.
“How’s the agency — busy?”
“Yeah, really busy at the moment. Resource is always a challenge but, visibility and pipeline is key.” (Subtle nudge to the 10 proposals sitting with the client.)
“Let’s do more together.”
“Explore. Evolve. Spend.”

Every word sounds like it’s been through a procurement filter.
Everyone pretending “next quarter” means something other than “never.”
The clients laugh too loudly at their own stories.
We laugh too, just to prove we still can.

The scallops arrive.
I pretend to enjoy them.
Everyone pretends to notice.

20:17 — The Escape Attempt.

Halfway through the mains, I feel the nicotine ghost stirring.
But the modern world has outlawed smoke and solitude.

So I pre-empted. Bought a vape this morning.

Slip to the toilet like a fugitive, lock the cubicle, puff like a condemned man praying for numbness.
The vapour tastes of synthetic berry and quiet shame.

I look at myself in the mirror and think: This is the real dinner.

20:46 — The Descent into Honesty.

Two bottles in, the mood loosens.

The clients start telling jokes that bend under the weight of their own confidence.
The creative lead calls them “cheeky.”
We all perform laughter like a team-building exercise.

For a fleeting second, someone mentions burnout.
We nod, compassionate and complicit.

Then back to budgets, brand love, and the myth of “partnership.”

21:32 — The Performance Review.

The stories arrive in rounds now.
Cannes. The near-death pitch. The time the intern ordered 300 tote bags in Comic Sans.

Everyone’s desperate to be the funniest person at the table.
The clients win, obviously — they’re the only ones not paying.

I sip wine I can’t taste and wonder if this is what diplomacy feels like.

21:50 — The Political Minefield & Ego Chorus.

The clients steer the chat into politics.
Borderline racist, borderline unethical, slightly scandalous opinions tumble out like confetti.
Colleagues lean in, nodding, laughing a fraction too hard — sycophantic choruses for the boss.
Clear to anyone paying attention: they think he’s a tosser. But no one dares show it.

I nod. Smile. Cheeks now feeling like straps on a straitjacket — pulled, protesting, and way past their limit.

Every phrase a trap. One wrong chuckle, and suddenly you’re “that agency person who doesn’t get it.”

“Yes… interesting point.”
“Hmm, of course.”
“My thoughts exactly.”

I start calculating the bathroom escape — vape preloaded for maximum relief.

22:18 — The Taxi Queue of Regret.

Outside, the air feels too real.

The goodbye is as awkward as the arrival, but now the kiss seems acceptable.
We hover, uncertain, before surrendering to the faintly damp cheek-to-cheek ritual of forced intimacy.
Someone says, “We should do this again soon.”
Everyone lies in unison.

The agency card slips away to settle the bill.
The clients disappear into cabs like royalty retreating from ceremony.

23:01 — The Uber Sermon.

The driver asks how my night was.
I say, “Productive,” which is tragic shorthand for I survived another one.

The city outside blurs — a collage of office lights and people pretending their jobs are love affairs.

I scroll through messages, none urgent, all pointless.

My reflection in the glass looks like someone who used to care.

23:47 — The Quiet After

Home.
Shoes off.
The silence is a relief so pure it’s almost holy.

I sit on the bed, vape in hand, watching the room tilt gently back to honesty.
My cheeks still ache from the smiling.
My wallet still hums with loss.

Tomorrow I’ll call it relationship building.

Tonight, it’s just bruised performance art.

If You’ve Ever Smiled Through a Soufflé You Didn’t Order.

You already know.
It’s not a dinner.
It’s agency PR.
A hostage negotiation with canapés.
And the ransom — inevitably — is you.

– Tom Kite.