By the time I change Tubes at Baker Street, I’m in mild-panic mode, a loop of worst-case scenarios in my head. Sunday was so much fun, Adam and I didn’t stop nattering all day but was that only because we were pissed? What if I immediately blab about my review? What if it’s just horribly stilted and awkward? My mouth is so dry I can barely swallow.
At Liverpool Street station I rush to the coffee cart for a double espresso, then head outside to Hope Square, trying to calm down as the mass of commuters floods past me into the city, a life force, all desk-bound to jobs like my sister’s: jobs that make no sense on paper, but make this city pulse and grow, then sometimes shrivel, only to surge back again.
Seven twenty-three a.m., best get a move on. The day has turned out bright but the wind is bitter and I pull my coat tighter as I head along New Street, quickening my pace. When I reach The Peak I turn my gaze up, and up, and up. It’s just an hour of toast and a chat; it’s not a big deal. Even so, my heart beats faster as I step into the glass lift, press the 66th and shoot north at five metres per second, my stomach heading south as we go.
I have no breath, I have no breath, I have no breath left to lose, but my lungs fill with sheer delight as the lift pulls me up through the sky and the city spreads out below. First sight is the church of St Botolph’s, its old bricks and stones bordered by freshly cut grass; next to it the rectangular surprise of a basketball court. A moment later, barely visible through trees, the fattened brackets of Finsbury Circus give way to a Monopoly of streets and houses and stations. As we rise higher, a scattered patchwork of secret gardens and roof terraces unfurls, rainbow parasols halfway to the clouds, while on ground level dense thickets of park emerge, and to the left the still, black ribbon of the Thames. Far out on the horizon the bouncing arc of Wembley swoops a greeting to the whole of the west, you can see for miles and miles and miles.
At the top, the temptation to press the down button is too great, so I do, feeling my stomach flip all over again as I plummet back to the bottom, my ears popping halfway. They could charge for this, I’d pay ten times over.
Time to man up. Time to woman up. Get out of the lift, you idiot! I scan the dining room full of pinstripes and power suits, looking for Adam. The recession is clearly over, in this postcode at least, if they can charge £11.50 for toast and jam and still have a full house at 7.34 a.m. on a Thursday morning.
There he is, in the corner booth by the window. From this angle he’s in three-quarter profile. His nose is strong, with a tiny bump on the bridge, and it makes his mouth underneath look almost vulnerable were it not for his strong jaw, which today is covered in dark stubble. I don’t believe in anything at first sight – well, lust, perhaps. And this is second sight, but still, there is some very basic, hardwired connection between my eyes, my brain, and this man’s face.
Adam turns, notices me, and his face relaxes into a smile. Those pale blue eyes under almost black brows . . . that dimple . . . He must know how good-looking he is, but there’s none of that cock-sure arrogance you normally find with the pretty boys.
He stands to greet me; he smells clean and cool, like cold stone and limes. I try not to sniff him too obviously. I sit in the booth and he slides in close to me, our legs resting lightly together.
‘Sorry I made you get out of bed early, my days are crazy – I didn’t finish calling suppliers till two a.m., then my adrenalin was so shot I couldn’t sleep.’ He rubs his face with his hands until his cheeks colour. I resist the urge to smooth down a tuft of his thick, dark hair that’s sticking up.
‘How do your hours work, anyway?’ Straight in there – where was he last Thursday?
‘I’m doing AFDs at the moment – All Dayers – so eight forty-five a.m. through till one a.m., with the occasional split shift – thirty minutes off at tea.’
‘Exhausting! You must have had a day off since you started?’
He counts on his fingers. ‘Two weeks, four days and I’ve worked every sitting.’
‘Not one shift off?’
‘We barely have toilet breaks. My boss Jonn would go mad if I wasn’t overseeing, and I don’t trust the team. Max, my sous, is the worst: last week I discovered a job lot of silver gelatin he’d hidden in the store cupboard which should’ve been bronze – if you made a panna cotta with that you could play cricket with it.’
78 . . . Cauliflower panna cotta – as hard as a squash ball, less tasty.
‘At least Sundays we’re closed,’ he says, giving me a quizzical look – then realisation dawns. ‘Oh! It’ll get easier after the first month. I should have more of a personal life then.’
He might have been in the far corner of that kitchen . . . For the whole time I was there, though? Still, if I probe any further he’d be within his rights to ask for a lawyer.
He hands me the menu. ‘What do you fancy?’
You. And everything on this menu, but mostly the sausage, eggs and potato scones, with a side order of sourdough. I can’t look that greedy in front of him. ‘Yoghurt, granola and pink grapefruit?’
‘Fibber!’ he says, laughing. ‘Honestly, what do you want?’
‘Sausage, eggs and potato scones with extra sourdough.’
‘My Granny Ailsa used to make the best tattie scones. She used to have to hide them so me and my sister wouldn’t scoff the lot.’
‘My grandma used to do that too!’
‘With tattie scones?’ he says, in surprise.
‘Similar – potato latkes.’
‘My gran used to stand with her spaniel Laddy at her heels, watching us search the kitchen. She’d pretend to be cross when we found her stash, but if I turned and caught her eye she’d have a secret smile on her face.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t cutesy hide and seek round Grandma Esther’s. She once walloped Jess when she caught her with a mouthful and my sister had the audacity to go back for more!’
‘My sister was crazy too,’ he says, laughing as he snaps the menu shut. ‘Right, two sausage, egg and scones – we’ll see if they’re as good as Gran’s.’
‘Oh. Is that wise?’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Do you think grandmas in the afterlife are hovering over us, primed to defend their potato legacies?’
‘I wouldn’t risk it. Ghosts can become quite uppity, you’ve seen Poltergeist.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you,’ he says, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
‘I mean, if I ordered them, you could always try some of mine?’
‘Or I could just order them too? But by the way you’re shaking your head, I’m guessing you’re one of those weirdos who freaks out if two people order the same thing.’ He raises his eyebrows at me indulgently. ‘What would you like me to have?’
‘I don’t mind . . .’
‘Full English with black pudding?’
‘They have an annual black pudding throwing contest near where I used to live, I reckon I’d have won if I’d ever entered.’
‘It’s only the idea that’s off-putting. You’d like it if you didn’t know what was in it.’
‘But I do know – once you know something you can’t un-know it.’
‘Eggs Benedict? No? Why don’t you just tell me what I want,’ he checks his watch. ‘And then we might still have twenty minutes left to talk to each other.’
‘Double stuffed French toast with mascarpone, berries and a side of bourbon glazed bacon?’
‘A heart attack on a plate,’ he says with delight. ‘And ghost friendly.’
A familiar looking waiter approaches and smiles at me in recognition and I automatically smile back.
‘Laura, this is Olly, an old mate.’
‘Nice to see you again,’ he says to me. ‘How’s it all going, Ads? I’m hearing insane shit.’
‘Don’t ask . . . I’m doing hundred-hour weeks, the menu’s too big, the Robata can’t get up enough heat. They spent all that cash on toilets, then bought the grill second hand – cheapskates! Any pot-washing jobs here?’
Olly laughs. ‘Do you guys fancy a little glass of bubbly, on the house?’
‘I’d better not, but Laura enjoys a tipple first thing in the morning, don’t you, dear?’
I shake my head in embarrassment as Olly heads to the kitchen.
‘So how do you know Olly?’ says Adam.
Rather than say, quite innocently, He recognises me because I have eaten here before, my brain freezes. ‘I don’t know him.’
‘He said “nice to see you again”?’
‘He’s your mate – he must have been talking to you.’
Adam shrugs.
‘I guess I just have one of those faces,’ I say. ‘You know, I look quite generic.’
‘Generic?’
‘You know, a common face . . .’
‘I know what generic means but why would you say that about yourself?’
‘Because it’s true. My features aren’t distinctive.’ I cover my eyes with my hands. ‘Tell me, Adam, what colour are my eyes . . .’
‘They’re grey-green, Laura. When the light shines directly in them they’re more green, and that dress is making them look almost blue.’
I feel colour spread up my cheeks.
‘You know who you remind me of?’ he says.
Please don’t say Shaun Ryder.
‘Cate Blanchett.’
I snort with laughter.
‘You do, though,’ he says. Oh dear, I think I love this man.
‘Ah well, that must be who Olly thought I was, she’ll have been in yesterday for a fry-up!’
‘You’ve got a very kind, open face. Quite malleable . . . is that the word?’
‘I think that means good under a hammer. But anyhow, please be quiet because you’re making me blush.’ And while I don’t want to be one of those couples who snogs in restaurants, least of all at 7.39 a.m., I really want you to kiss me RIGHT NOW!
He smiles a naughty little smile, as though he can tell exactly what I’m thinking. ‘By the way, Laura, you should order what you want, it doesn’t matter what anyone else is having.’
‘It’s not what you’re meant to do though, is it?’
He looks at me, perplexed.
‘Not in my family,’ I say. ‘Mum and Dad used to take us out on our birthdays and Jess always used to think the grass was greener, so I’d have to give her half of mine anyway – it made sense to order different things. And God forbid I wanted the same as her . . .’
‘So your menu phobia can be put down to sibling rivalry?’
‘Yes, Sigmund Freud.’ I roll my eyes. ‘So you’ve got a crazy sister too?’
‘Vicky? She’s not crazy anymore, but she was wild when we were kids, always out getting stoned, whereas I was at home, helping Mum in the kitchen, my father in the background muttering I’d turn into a poof. But if I didn’t go and find Mum there, I’d never see her so I was knocking round her knees from the age of five.’
‘She was a chef?’
‘She studied textiles, at Goldsmiths – some of her prints are actually in the V&A.’
‘She must have been great with colour,’ I say, noticing the blue shirt he’s wearing not only brings out his eyes, but has beautiful detailing: sage cross-stitches on delicate cream buttons.
‘But she jacked in everything when she met my father. She’d spend days cooking for his client dinner parties.’
‘She gave up her career for him?’
‘She sacrificed her potential, which is worse,’ he says, his brow creasing.
‘Did she ever feel bitter?’
‘Not the type. Plus, she loved the kitchen, she had Elizabeth David on her bedside table.’
‘My mum was a terrible cook,’ I say, smiling at the memory of the salmon en croute, so slippery it could have swum back to sea. ‘But my dad makes a fine chicken pot pie.’
He raises his brows in delight. ‘Pastry’s sort of my thing. Granny Ailsa again – her shortcrust was so flaky it was like filo. I learnt so much watching her and Mum,’ he says, trying to keep from giggling. ‘Mrs Collins, home ec on a Tuesday, didn’t appreciate my expertise . . .’
‘What did you do?’
‘Just asked if she knew her crème pat from her crème Anglaise.’
‘Crème pat’s thicker, isn’t it?’
‘Exactly, even you know that. She had Larousse on her shelf, she should’ve read it.’
My well-thumbed copy lives on my bookshelf – my triceps were almost Anistonian after a month of reading it in bed.
‘So did you go to catering college?’ I say.
‘Cooking wasn’t the sort of proper job the men in my family did. I studied engineering. Why do you look so surprised?’
‘Engineering’s pretty academic . . .’ And most chefs I’ve encountered left school with not much hope of work outside a kitchen. And if you’re good-looking and funny and clever, then what exactly is wrong with you? Do you have a drug problem?
‘Laura, do you think all chefs are a bunch of unthinking savages?’
‘No! I know running a kitchen is hard, it’s just you don’t hear of many chefs who are . . . brainiacs.’
‘I never said I graduated.’
‘Did you get into drugs then?’
‘Never my thing. You can spot a chef on coke in a heartbeat – their seasoning goes way off – their food tastes of salt before anything.’
That sounds exactly like the food coming out of his kitchen last Thursday.
‘I’m sure Max is still caning it,’ he says, his eyes narrowing.
‘Where is our food?’ I say, partly to change the subject, and partly because it’s 8.02 a.m. and I feel like I’m on Challenge Anneka – I’ve now got only twenty-eight minutes left to make Adam like me.
‘Morning shifts are tough on all the team. Anyway, where was I . . . Max . . .’
‘Engineering!’
‘Yeah, it was going fine, then in my second year I was reading about a group of engineers testing an early steam engine – one day they left it under a wooden shelter and went off to a nearby inn for roast goose. The engine caught fire and burnt to the ground, but all I could think about was that goose. I could practically taste it, smell it. And the following week I told my parents I was dropping out and training to become a chef.’
‘Over a goose?’
‘My father threatened to disown me, he thought it was proof I was gay.’
‘Does he still think you’re gay?’
‘Er . . . not recently, no,’ he says, looking thrown. ‘But anyway, Mum was worse – she thought I should finish my degree and I didn’t want to disappoint her, but you know sometimes you have a feeling?’ He touches his chest. ‘When something feels utterly right?’ He looks at me with slow consideration, in a way that makes my heart beat a little faster. ‘I’ve had that feeling a handful of times in my life and I’ve never been wrong. And if that bleach-haired prat Max sharpens up his act I should have my first star this year.’
‘That’s what it’s all about? Michelin stars?’
He looks surprised. ‘You make it sound like stars don’t matter.’
‘I guess it’s your profile . . .’
‘I don’t care about critics – what’s that quote? “A critic points out how the strong man stumbles” . . .’
Pretty cocky for someone responsible for last week’s horror show. ‘So other people aren’t allowed to have an opinion on your food?’
‘There are loads of people I respect in this business, all of them are chefs. I care what they think and I care what my customers think,’ he says, his face lighting up as Olly approaches. ‘Ah – breakfast is served!’
The scones look amazing – five golden discs of potato, speckled with crusty bits where the mix has browned in the pan. Adam cuts precisely through the French toast, halves the bacon and rearranges the slices perfectly on top. He divides the berries equally, spooning the mascarpone neatly on the side. His handiwork’s a lot better than it was last Thursday.
‘So . . . Michelin stars?’ I say.
‘I want a star so I can get financial backing. I’m done working for other people. I just want a place that’s mine. That’s what I’ve been working towards my whole career,’ he says, smiling softly. ‘That’s what it’s about, what you do with your own name.’
It’s just as well I haven’t used his name in my piece then, I think, resting my cutlery as I ponder whether Roger’s advice might have been wrong.
‘Anyway,’ he says, shyly, ‘I’ve been droning on about my work, I don’t even know what you do? Let me guess. So: polka dot dress, very pretty dress,’ he says, taking a longer appreciative look. ‘You don’t start work till . . .?’
‘Ten a.m.’
‘Lucky you! So media or creative?’
‘Have you been googling me, Adam?’
‘Do people actually do that?’
Do people actually not do that?
‘I don’t even know your surname, Laura, so no, I haven’t been stalking you!’
‘Parker.’
‘Bayley.’
We shake hands again. His is warm and strong; it holds on to mine far longer than mere politeness.
‘Out of interest,’ he says, glancing at my plate. ‘How are those scones?’
‘Amazing! The texture’s so soft and yielding in the middle, then that chewy, crispy coating . . .’
‘And what precisely do I have to do to you to get a bite?’ he says, grinning.
I clumsily scrape the last one onto his plate. He transfers the perfect French toast and examines the scone. He pokes it with his fork, then brings it to his eye as if he’s working forensics before gently tearing it apart to inspect the texture, finally popping it in his mouth.
‘Verdict?’
He chews thoughtfully, then a smile spreads across his face. ‘Laura – did you take maths GCSE?’
‘I got a B. Why?’
‘Then I’m surprised you’re not familiar with the concept of fractions.’
‘We never said we’d go halves!’
‘It was sort of unspoken.’
‘Well, if it was sort of unspoken it didn’t happen.’
‘Ah, so that’s how your mind works. A master of manipulation, evasion and half-truths. You’re not a lawyer are you?’
The Dish Page 8