Jonesy returns his chair to the floor with a bump.
‘Six hundred and twenty pounds on lunch?’ says Roger, holding the receipt up to the light as though checking for a watermark.
‘That was a Fletchers campaign – it was meant to land in March but they pulled it last minute ’cos the product’s fucked – some new range of high protein meals . . .’
Roger takes a closer look at the receipt. ‘Looks like quite a high-protein meal you enjoyed yourselves! What have we got here . . . foie gras, rib-eye steak, Dover sole . . .’
Jonesy extends his arm across the table in an attempt to grab it. ‘Client was there – Devron at Fletchers is a big eater . . .’
‘Big drinker too, by the looks of it – three bottles of the ninety-seven Pauillac? A fine vintage, jolly good . . . What time did you leave then? Let’s see . . .’
‘Rodge! There was loads to discuss with next month’s campaigns—’
‘Six fifty-eight p.m. – that sounds like lunch and dinner,’ says Roger, raising his eyebrows. ‘So in that case how is April looking?’
Jonesy hastily opens his file and flicks to the upcoming issue’s plans. ‘So far we’ve got consecutive back pages booked by Audi, a double-page spread for BA’s Easter campaign pencilled in and the supermarkets are going large on brand ads.’
‘Well turn that pencil into a booking pronto – and how about this month you spend less time down The Ivy and more time selling those pages, Jonesy. Come on!’
Jonesy clears his throat and resettles himself on his chair as his two underlings try to keep from exchanging glances.
‘By the way,’ says Roger, turning to the table. ‘Did anyone see Dolly Parton on TV the other day? Wonderful woman! Maybe we should do an interview with her? Or perhaps we could send someone to Dollywood – I might go myself, I’ve never been to Tennessee.’ He scratches a note out on his pad. ‘Right then, Voice of Youth, what are our friends online up to?’
‘The cats have gone large, obviously,’ says Azeem. ‘#spoiltkitty is trending at nine on Twitter.’
Roger waves his hand dismissively. ‘No one with a real job pays attention to any of that crap.’
‘You have a real job, don’t you?’ I say, remembering the time I heard Roger making peculiar rasping noises in his office. Terrified he was having a heart attack I rushed in, only to find him red in the face and guffawing at Buzzfeed – eleven pictures of cats that look like Rupert Murdoch.
‘I meant, is anything more substantial getting traffic?’ says Roger. ‘Ed Miller’s opinion piece?’
‘Getting a slagging on the blogs but half those trolls clearly haven’t read it,’ says Azeem.
‘You know what Elbert Hubbard would say?’
‘He’s been dead a century,’ says Azeem. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he’d have too much to say about Twitter.’
‘“To avoid criticism, do nothing, say nothing, be nothing” – a lesson for us all,’ says Roger. ‘Right, April’s issue, editorial – Sandra, give us the rundown?’
Sandra smooths the invisible wrinkles on her laminated agenda. ‘Extremely important issue, looks like we’ll finally be in a position to run the Bechdel piece as the leader.’
Jonesy lets out a low whistle.
‘The focus will be on Damian Bechdel – not his brother,’ says Sandra, turning to Heather. ‘Focusing largely on his financial affairs, with a spotlight on the discrepancies within his African charity project.’
‘Still waiting on two key witnesses who are nervous about going on record – if neither comes through, we either hold another month or go purely on the UK business and property empire,’ says Heather. ‘But it would be stronger if we can include the charity angle – several household names are donors.’
‘You finally going to nail him?’ says Jonesy. ‘I saw him on telly the other night – sanctimonious little rat.’
‘What’s the dirt?’ says Kiki. ‘I heard the second wife was Latvia’s highest paid escort before she met him, and now she’s reinvented herself as a cross between Mother Teresa and Angelina Jolie – never misses a photo op in a shanty town, always dressed in nude Louboutins.’
Sandra turns a withering gaze towards Kiki. ‘Katrina, perhaps you’d like to apply for a job at the Sun if that’s where your areas of interest lie?’
‘Oh come on, Sandra,’ says Kiki. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t love a bit of gossip as much as the rest of us. Besides, I’m not taking anyone seriously who tells me to donate to charity while they’re wearing six-hundred-pound shoes!’
Sandra lets out a deep sigh. ‘Obviously this piece will be confidential until we go to press, the entire issue will be embargoed and I do not want anyone discussing this or any other editorial outside of these four walls.’
Kiki’s eyes meet mine.
‘We’ll be focusing primarily on Bechdel’s business dealings,’ says Heather. ‘His chief backer when he set up the hedge fund was Serge Kuranikov.’
‘Never ask about the first million,’ says Roger.
‘Bechdel himself is under investigation by the SEC for that fund, which is now in administration, so the start of the piece investigates the money trail. There’s plenty of meat there. We are looking at his annual charity gala, partly because of the drug allegations and partly because those guest lists make for rather interesting bedtime reading . . .’
‘And the brother?’ says Jonesy, nervously.
‘Oh, it’s definitely a family affair.’ says Roger. ‘The brother’s ad agency has done the campaigns for the charity since day one – but the account director has shown us the billing sheets – they’re charging double the rate card.’
‘For a charity project?’ says Jonesy.
‘Exactly – you’d expect that to be done at cost – so the brother’s creaming money off the whole thing too.’
‘So what’s our backup for the cover story if the Bechdel doesn’t happen in April?’ says Kiki. ‘And does this mean we’re going to have a nightmare end of month, subbing it all at the last minute?’
‘The other big feature,’ says Sandra, ‘will be on turkey.’
‘The country or the Twizzler?’ says Jonesy, his face twisting with concern.
‘It’s an eight-page exposé of SunFarms Poultry – horrific animal welfare story, covers toe-clipping, cannibalism, violation of density per square foot allocations in shed birds—’
‘Bollocks,’ says Jonesy, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘How many of the supermarkets are involved?’
‘SunFarms don’t supply into the big four, but they’re part of Fletchers’ supply chain so we will be naming Fletchers, and giving their CEO a right to reply,’ says Heather.
‘And I’m supposed to keep ’em sweet about the fact their ad for Easter Sunday roast turkey will appear on page fifteen while we’re accusing them of torturing the poor buggers on page nine?’
‘Tell them to run a lamb ad instead,’ says Azeem. ‘Or better yet, a nut roast.’
‘Can’t we at least hold it till May?’ says Jonesy.
Roger ignores him and turns to me with a sly smile. ‘Laura, you’re a one-woman encyclopaedia of Things You Wish You Never Knew About Turkeys. Why don’t you tell us all your charming Christmas tale?’
‘Not now, Rog, not appropriate.’ I shake my head violently.
‘Bring a little cheer to the room.’
‘I told you that story off the record!’ Last Christmas, Amber, her animal activist step-brother Rafe and I had ended up stuck in London due to heavy snow. Sophie, bless her, had hosted us at the last minute. All had been surprisingly festive until Rafe had drunk too much fashionable gin and performed a nothing-left-to-the-imagination demonstration of a male turkey being wanked off: truly the mother-of-all-appetite-suppressants. Sophie has only recently started speaking to Amber again and only now in terse sentences.
‘Apparently, the male turkeys have been bred to have such over-sized breasts—’ says Roger.
‘Stop it, Roger.’
; ‘– they can’t mate naturally or they’d break the females’ backs, so the farmers end up having to turn them upside down and manually . . .’
‘Roger!’ I say, catching the appalled expression on Sandra’s face.
‘Oh Parker, you’re such a killjoy. Fine, we’ll save it for the pub. Right,’ he says, checking his watch, ‘What time’s my cab, Laura?’
‘Eleven thirty a.m., table’s at noon.’
‘AOB, team?’
‘One more thing,’ I say. ‘Last month’s charity pub quiz – I’m still missing your ticket money . . . Jonesy and . . .’ I scan my list. ‘Just Jonesy.’
‘What charity was it for again?’ he says.
‘The charity of What Bleeding Difference,’ says Roger.
‘I don’t think we should have to pay, the Daily Metro had their iPhones under the table, googling every bloody answer.’
‘Just shut up and pay the woman, Jonesy, or you’ll have your own nut roast to worry about.’
Jonesy puffs out his cheeks indignantly, then laughs, in spite of himself.
To: Laura, Azeem
From: Kiki
Subject: URGENT
When was the last time you think Sandra got laid?
To: Laura, Kiki
From: Azeem
Subject: re: URGENT
Valentine’s Day, 1843.
To: Laura, Azeem
From: Kiki
Subject: Or perhaps . . .
More recently . . .!
In case you’d managed to erase the horror – thought you might like another view of this charming photo of Sandra and Fergus on the dance floor after the pub quiz . . .
To: Laura, Kiki
From: Azeem
Subject: Help!
I need new retinas . . .
To: Kiki, Azeem
From: Laura
Subject: Enough!
Not having this conversation with you guys on email. And Kiki – delete that from your phone, for God’s sake.
To: Laura, Azeem
From: Kiki
Subject: More gossip!
Meanwhile, Damian Bechdel once propositioned my friend Lexie in Soho House. She said he got his cock out and was so drunk he couldn’t get it back in his trousers. Apparently the wife was sitting next to him the whole time, so high she didn’t blink!
To: Laura, Kiki
From: Azeem
Subject: I AM HUNGRY!
Isn’t it cake o’clock yet, Laura?
To: Azeem, Kiki
From: Laura
Subject: Practice makes perfect . . .
Azeem – In light of your epic fail last week I think you should do it again.
To: Azeem, Laura
From: Kiki
Subject: Mine’s a triple chocolate brownie
Yeah, go on Az – do it for me. No getting high on your own supply this time though –I know your bite marks!
To: Laura
From: Azeem
Subject: PRIVATE
Oh God – I love her.
To: Kiki
From: Laura
Subject: £600 shoes
Do you think Mrs Bechdel’s a bad person just because of her shoes? You’re not averse to a nice shoe yourself, young lady.
To: Laura
From: Kiki
Subject: NSFW
I don’t think she’s bad – I just don’t want to be preached to by an ex-hooker who’s using a starving Asian child as a prop. Meanwhile here’s a link to a photo of Lady Bechdel from her modelling days c.1991. She’s wearing shoes but not a lot else! Don’t click on it when anyone’s standing behind you, it’s fully rancid.
To: Kiki
From: Laura
Subject: urgh
Don’t ever send me stuff like that again. How do I delete my cookies on this computer without having to ask Azeem?
To: Roger
From: Laura
Subject: WORKLOAD
Hope lunch is good – make sure you order the brown sugar tart, it’s worthy of the hype.
Also, is there anything at all that needs doing this afternoon? Have re-formatted the holiday chart, written up notes from earlier and done all your T&Es . . . Am officially at a loose end.
To: Laura
From: Roger
Subject: Re: WORKLOAD
Enjoy the peace while it lasts, Parker.
I won’t be coming back from lunch – don’t stay past 5 p.m.
To: Dad
From: Laura
Subject: Candy Crush
Stuck on level 262, send help immediately!
To: Laura
From: Dad
Subject: Re: Candy Crush
On level 401 darling, 262’s ancient history. Striped candy’s the key.
To: Jess
From: Laura
Subject: Saturday
What time does your Eurostar get in again? 3 p.m. or 3.30 p.m.? I’ll meet you outside the main M&S in St Pancras.
To: Laura
From: Jess
Subject: Do you ever do any work????
I’ve re-attached the word document with my agenda for Sunday. I did already send this to you – do you not archive your emails? Have you bought my biscuits yet?
To: Jess
From: Laura
Subject: You are SO annoying
It would have been quicker just to type: 3.15 p.m. But thanks.
By the way I’ve attached an agenda detailing when I’ll be eating your biscuits between now and tomorrow.
To: Laura
From: Adam Bayley
Subject: Round 2
Afternoon. Just wanted to send you this photo of a stickman I made out of streaky bacon. He was delicious.
Yesterday was the best breakfast I’ve ever had. Can we do it again next Tuesday, same time?
To: Adam
From: Laura
Subject: re: Round 2
Tuesday? Sure. But this time my treat x
To: Sophie
From: Laura
Subject: CHEF UPDATE
OK, so he’s asked me for breakfast again . . .
Don’t think the greasy spoon I go to with Kiki for beans, fried slice and a builder’s arse crack will impress him. The Wolseley’s too posh/I won’t get a table. Big Fat American-style breakfast, waffles, pancakes, etc? Would Will eat a steak at 7.30 a.m.? Or Café Aviv – chefs like all that shakshuka stuff, don’t they?
To: Laura
From: Sophie
Subject: Breakfast, again?!
Go to Justin’s Bakery – only a psychopath doesn’t like a freshly baked croissant.
To: Sophie
From: Laura
Subject: They don’t open till 8 a.m.
I thought breakfast was the new bloody dinner? Wish it was dinner . . . As Lumley says, ‘Why wake up Annie Appetite before you need to?’ The minute I start eating, my body remembers how magnificent food is and wants to keep at it all day. It’s like chocolate or sex – if you go without for long enough you forget why people make such a fuss. But put a toe back in the water . . . Soph, how is he ever going to make a move on me at 7.30 a.m. in a public place?
To: Laura
From: Sophie
Subject: Eureka idea!
Get Fabrizio to start selling my cakes – then you can meet Adam in the back room. Nice and cosy . . .
To: Adam
From: Laura
Subject: Missing strawberries
Here’s a photo of the strawberry tart my colleague Azeem just bought me. Tell me, would any self-respecting pastry chef let a tart leave the kitchen with three strawberries missing?
On Tuesday, how about Bobby’s near Goodge Street? It’s new-wave Australian – avocado on toast, breakfast burritos, etc. My old boss, Doug, knows them so their coffee will be good and apparently their pastries are amazing.
To: Laura
From: Adam
Subject: Perfect
BTW – I was thinking about you ordering the food yesterday and it was making m
e laugh.
To: Adam
From: Laura
Subject: Gobby?
Did you think I was being bossy?
To: Laura
From: Adam
Subject: Not gobby
Not at all! It was refreshing – I’m not used to girls being so forthright.
To: Adam
From: Laura
Subject: Forthright = polite word for bossy, no?
Next time I promise I’ll keep my mouth shut.
To: Laura
From: Adam
Subject: Keep your mouth open!
It’s one of your best attributes!
I meant, Laura – you say what you feel, there’s no bullshit with you – which is a rare quality.
The fact you’re entirely yourself around me makes me feel I can be entirely myself around you. It’s great.
See you Tuesday (I shan’t say Next . . .)
Can’t wait.
x
12
As I watch my sister stride through St Pancras I still can’t quite believe that this super-groomed, Parisian-thin brunette is the same Jess who’d bounce around our front room in a too-tight turquoise Pineapple leotard, making me do backup vocals for ‘Love In The First Degree’. (It didn’t occur to my five-year-old self that Bananarama had three members and if Jess insisted on being Siobhan Fahey I could be one of the other two, but no: Backing Vocalist, Stand behind Siobhan AT ALL TIMES!)
But look at Jess now: she’s turned into the sort of woman who has a uniform instead of clothes. Her weekend uniform never consists of jeans or holey sweaters; rather, a combination of fail-safe capsule pieces – today a cashmere jacket over black trousers, Tod’s loafers and a so expensive it has no branding bag, hooked in the crook of her arm.
‘We’re going to Pied à Tech,’ she says, kissing me hello, then marching for the taxi rank.
‘Oh Jess, I’m in no fit state . . .’
‘All the more reason.’
‘But I wanted to take you to this cute little tea shop . . .’
‘My treat, I choose. Besides, I have to get to Diptyque before five p.m. for Nita’s engagement present. Chartered surveyor. Met him on The Times website,’ she says, arching a perfectly shaped brow.
‘Why don’t you buy Nita something more interesting than a candle?’ I say, ignoring the dating remark. ‘How about ScandiDesign for something a bit different?’
The Dish Page 10