‘Wow, good hair, Dad. What’s that called?’
‘Rose? That’s a waterfall plait with a high bun – it took me hours studying YouTube to get the hang of it.’
‘And Milly . . . what happened there?’
‘Oh dear . . . she wanted it to look like the younger Princess from Frozen but she wouldn’t stop fiddling with it. Ooh, here we go!’
Hush descends in the audience as a pianist starts playing and the ballerinas start the dance, moving round the hall in a scattered circle, half-elegant, half chaotic.
‘Wow, Rose is getting good,’ I say, as my niece pretends to pick daisies and places them in an imaginary pannier, her tutu gently rising and falling as she bobs gracefully to the floor.
‘She’s been in character all week. If anyone’s going to be a prima in this family besides Jess . . .’
‘And what is Milly up to?’
‘It looks like an arabesque, though if I’m not mistaken it’s supposed to be a demi-plié.’
Milly’s face is a mix of confusion and panic as she looks towards her sister – two minutes her elder – to check how the move should be done.
‘Jeté derrière,’ cries the teacher, and Rose springs up and down, smoothly, like water in a fountain, the tip of her tongue poking out in concentration.
‘. . . and there’s Milly’s doing La Danse du Pogo Stick, as it is known by our Gallic cousins . . .’ says Dad, his face crinkling in delight.
Milly’s efforts descend into a blur of tulle, pink cheeks and giggling while her sister pirouettes past, confusion now on her face.
‘Rose asked me the other day if Milly was adopted,’ says Dad.
‘You did point out the obvious, didn’t you?’ I say, as the music ends and the dancers come to a stop – their faces a mixture of relief, satisfaction and pride.
‘I’m pretty sure she was joking but you never know with Rose.’
Milly starts waving to Dad, then rushes to give him a hug. Jess takes the camera from Dad’s hands to film Milly as she settles, temporarily, on his lap.
‘Say hello to your aunty,’ says Jess, and Milly’s beaming smile fills the screen as she waves at the lens.
‘Look at this, Law-law!’ she says, wobbling one of her bottom teeth violently for the camera.
I press pause on the video. ‘Has that fallen out yet?’
‘Last night! She hasn’t yet worked out what she’ll spend the Tooth Fairy’s money on but I guarantee it will be purple. Press play again – you must watch the curtain call, Rose does a perfect Princess Kate.’
Back on the video, Milly’s small fingers move towards the screen as she fiddles briefly with Jess’s hair. Then she clambers off Dad’s lap and bounds back to take her place next to her sister. Dad’s gaze stays on the dancers taking their umpteenth bows as the air fills with delighted applause. When he turns back to camera, I notice he is smiling gently, but his eyes are watering.
And it’s hard to know whether the tears are simply brought on by his love for these perfect little imperfect creatures, swirling and curtseying and giving one final twirl for the crowd. Or whether they’re because Dad is thinking – as am I – of the one person who’s missing from the audience.
19
On Sunday I find myself outside a small Victorian terraced house around the back of Angel in a quiet road full of Volvos. I double-check I’ve got the right address, then climb the front stairs and ring the doorbell to Flat 23a.
No answer, but there’s a light on downstairs and I can hear music. I ring again. Still no response. I’ve been burnt like this before: a third date who invited me round, then wasn’t there himself! I check my watch – midday, on the dot. I call Adam’s phone and he picks up on the second ring, blues playing loudly in the background. ‘Sorry, stereo was on, I’ll be right up.’
He opens the door with a broad smile. He’s wearing a grey T-shirt and jeans and he’s obviously been cooking as there’s a tiny smudge of flour on his cheek.
‘Thanks again for being so cool about today,’ he says, leaning in to kiss me briefly on the lips.
I wasn’t aware I had much choice! Just as well I didn’t bother getting a wax, 12 p.m. till 1 p.m. and then he has ‘stuff to take care of’? Still, at least it wasn’t a blow out.
‘We could have re-arranged,’ I say – but I only say it because I’m standing with both feet already in his hall.
‘Sorry again about Tuesday,’ he says, taking my coat, ‘I don’t know where this week has gone.’
My week has lasted a month; the three minutes spent watching JPM chew like a rabid hound on his mackerel sashimi felt like an entire day.
‘And besides, I didn’t want to cancel – I want to borrow your mouth,’ he says, grinning.
‘Any time. Is that Welsh Rarebit I can smell?’
‘Come see!’ He turns on his heel and heads down the stairs.
‘Adam, whoever cuts your hair has missed a bit.’
‘Where?’
‘Just here, at the back,’ I say, reaching out to touch the nape of his neck. His skin is warm and soft. He rests his hand briefly on top of mine to find the spot.
‘Do you want to straighten it out for me?’
‘Me? Now?’
‘I’m not precious, I can’t see the back anyway.’
I follow him into his bathroom. He roots around in his medicine cupboard until he finds scissors, then sits on the edge of the bath and looks at me expectantly.
I move closer and end up standing sideways on to him, half his body touching mine. He must be able to feel my heartbeat quicken against the back of his shoulder through his thin cotton T-shirt. There is silence in the room, but for our breathing, and all I can think about is how great he smells, how I want him to pull me closer, how much I want him to borrow my mouth. The angle would be awkward for kissing, and I’d have to mind these scissors, but our bodies could be entwined in less than two seconds . . .
I try to concentrate, taking a lock of his hair. It’s so thick and soft and shiny I find myself rubbing it slowly between my thumb and forefinger.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind me doing this, Adam?’
He tips his head back and looks at me through dark lashes. ‘I like you doing that.’
Almost imperceptibly he shifts his left arm, which is hanging down by his side. He moves it very slowly, and only a matter of centimetres, until his little finger ends up making contact with my leg, gently grazing the front of my knee. It is the tiniest of moves but it stops my breath.
He doesn’t acknowledge it, I don’t either, but its presence there makes my insides flip over. He shows no signs of moving his finger away but nor any signs of moving it further north. Heavy silence spreads through the room like an aerosol. The skin on Adam’s neck is so smooth, I have a powerful urge to lean over and kiss it. My body leans closer into his and I have to force myself to stand up straight and take a breath.
‘Sorry, Adam, I meant you don’t mind me cutting your hair with nail scissors?’
He looks up at me again with those pale blue eyes. ‘I trust you, Laura.’ I hold his gaze as the remaining air in the room seems to vanish down the plughole. ‘But you might want to hurry up, if you don’t want lunch to burn . . .’ He turns his head to face forward and down again to offer up a better angle for the scissors.
I snip carefully through the strands between my fingers, then brush the stray hairs gently into the bath, blowing delicately to rid his skin of the remaining dark flecks. ‘Do you want me to do that mirror thing behind your head?’
‘You’re all right,’ he says, standing back up and rotating his broad shoulders in a circle. ‘That kitchen’s going to kill me.’ He reaches one arm behind him to massage his shoulder and his T-shirt rides up at the side exposing a firm, flat stomach. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. The lust blazing in my eyes reminds me of a teenage boy at an end-of-term summer disco. I force myself out of the bathroom before I go all out and grope him.
‘Wow, major kitchen e
nvy,’ I say, as we enter a bright open-plan kitchen, flooded with light from a glass wall at the back. Stainless steel and copper pans sit on open shelves alongside kilner jars filled with colourful beans and pulses. ‘So, what’s on the menu then, Chef?’
‘Please don’t call me Chef, it reminds me of work.’
‘All right then, Grumpy, what are you making?’
Laid out on the central island are various metal bowls of ingredients: chopped tomatoes, green chillis, grated Emmental, crispy fried lardons, smaller bowls of coloured salts.
‘You’re getting baked beans,’ he says, taking a cast-iron pot from the oven.
I laugh, and dodge out of his way as he carries the pot to the hob.
‘Oh, I’m serious. Home-made beans and an omelette – given how dismissive you were about the skill it takes to perfect one!’
‘I know it’s not that easy but it’s not exactly open-heart surgery.’
‘Backtracking already? Well, either way,’ he says, sweeping his arm out in front of the array of ingredients, ‘May I present you with the Laura Parker Omelette Bar.’
I clap my hands in delight. ‘You have no idea how much I love an omelette bar, it’s the thing I get most excited about if I ever stay in a posh hotel.’
‘Thank goodness.’ He dabs his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘I thought you might be disappointed I wasn’t making anything fancier – but I’m more into simple stuff.’
‘“Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication . . .”’ I say, remembering the quote I’d used for the noodle bar review we’ve now dumped for April.
‘That’s very true; you’re so smart.’
‘Oh, it’s not my line! Leonardo da Vinci said it.’
‘Well, he’s very smart, then. And seriously, if you do like simple food, stay well away from my gaff . . .’
‘Actually I was thinking I might come and eat there quite soon . . .’
‘Really? It’s totally overpriced. But if you do – don’t order the eels. That dish is proof Jonn has finally lost it. He wanted something quintessentially English but to him that’s some weird hybrid of Downton and Mary Poppins. He can’t just let ingredients speak for themselves, he has to give everything a punk twist. For example – savoury puddings are big in New York . . .’
88. I don’t care if savoury desserts are trendy in The Big Apple; your Apple and Veal Crumble with tarragon custard made me want to cut out my own tongue.
‘. . . And Jonn basically lets puns, rather than intelligent flavour combinations, dictate his menu, so he came up with Eels Flottante . . .’
A flashback comes to me, of sitting on my bathroom floor with one of those eels trying to slither its way back into my mouth.
‘. . . I have begged Jonn to take that dish off the menu, it’s the most horrible force fit of ingredients that should never be in the same room as each other . . .’
‘“A mail order bride of a dish, a marriage that isn’t fooling anyone . . .”’ I say.
He stops in his tracks. ‘That’s a perfect way of describing it!’
One that will now have to be cut from my review . . .
‘Laura, you do have a way with words, don’t you?’
‘Adam, do you mind if we talk about something else?’
‘You don’t like eels?’
‘It’s not the eels.’
Tell him.
He pauses, looks a little crestfallen. ‘You don’t like it when I talk about work, do you?’
‘Don’t I?’ Now who’s the one answering a question with a question?
‘If I talk about the restaurant you often change the subject. I guess it’s boring for you.’ Now he thinks I’m uninterested and rude.
I really could just tell him, right now. Explain everything, it would all make sense, it’s not that big a deal, as Roger always says, it’s tomorrow’s fish and chip paper. Maybe Adam would appreciate the fact I’ve tried to avoid him talking about his work?
Or maybe he’d think I was a bitch for not telling him sooner.
‘It’s not that, Adam. It’s just . . . people are so defined by their work; there’s more to a person than their job.’
Cop out! Go on: slip it in, make it casual!! Or better yet, ask him: where the hell were you on 27 February, between 9.05 p.m. and 12.14 a.m. even though you’ve already told me you haven’t had a shift off? Why am I asking? Oh, no reason, just making chit chat . . .
Leave it, it’ll ruin today. And besides, if his cooking’s better – re-review: the problem disappears.
‘But being a chef’s not a normal job,’ he says. ‘Your life is your work. It’s in your head and your heart.’
Awesome – I’ll be stabbing him in two body parts then – three if you include his back. Unless . . .
‘Adam, I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. You were saying, about Jonn’s ethos.’
‘You sure?’ The relief in his voice is palpable.
‘I like talking about food. Not eels maybe.’
‘OK then . . . Well, Jonn wanted a savoury twist on Bread and Butter Pudding – I suggested a version with a brioche loaf, bacon jam and a topping of three cheeses.’
‘You had me at bacon jam.’
‘But Jonn wanted to shoehorn afternoon tea into the dish so he layered in Darjeeling-smoked cucumber foam –’
I laugh. ‘Like anyone ever sits down to eat, thinking, “Wow, I am seriously craving a plate of foam today.”’
‘Jonn’s dish doesn’t even make sense conceptually. He used to have the best palate and now he’s just a gimmicky, bloated, coke-raddled sell-out.’
‘That restaurant is so not you, Adam.’
‘I didn’t realise it would be quite so bad – I’m improving the menu and bringing the team up to scratch, but it’s the attitude I find depressing – style over substance. Get my star and get out!’ he says, rolling his eyes skywards. ‘Anyhow, the whole savoury pudding disaster got me thinking about savoury Viennoiserie. Viennoiserie are usually sweet breakfast pastries – croissants, pains au chocolat – normally made using lamination, where you wrap layers of dough around butter.’
I nod my interest, though I know a bit about Viennoiserie, all about cold butter, cold fingers.
‘I’d like your opinion on the pastries in the oven, they’re part of a project I’m doing for myself – but first things first,’ he says, checking his watch. ‘Hold on, bread!’ He bends to take a paper bag from the shelf and as he stands, winces in pain, his hands moving to his lower back.
‘Are you OK?’ I say, moving closer, stopping just short of rubbing it for him.
‘My back’s ruined, and my knees. Occupational hazard, nothing a little Voltarol won’t fix. I should get some physio but I haven’t got a spare moment.’
‘You should make some more time for yourself.’ And for me! Though I can’t work out how he’s ever going to do that. ‘Take a holiday?’
He laughs and hands me the bread. ‘Even just a day away would be better than nothing. Would you mind slicing that, please?’
‘Will you throw something at my head if I don’t slice it straight?’
‘I’ll have you clean the deep-fat fryer,’ he says, grinning.
I give the bread a squeeze. ‘This is St John sourdough isn’t it?’
‘You really know your food.’
‘Crime scene – bacon sandwich . . .’
‘Ah, yes, interest on that doughnut fiver’s accumulating,’ he says, as he grabs an omelette pan and places it on the hob. ‘Slice it about one point five centimetres thick?’
‘Yes, Grumpy.’
‘Why Grumpy?’
‘You said not to call you Chef.’
‘Oh, I’m not grumpy anymore,’ he says, looking directly at me. ‘I’m happy. For the first time since I last saw you.’
Did he just say that? I pause, and look up from the chopping board.
He’s gazing at me with the sweetest expression. He does look incredibly happy and for a second I forget we’re not married, n
ot even a couple and I automatically do this silly thing I used to do with Tom: point my finger at my eye, my heart and then at him – before realising with horror what I’ve just done.
In panic I instinctively turn and walk to the fridge. After ten seconds of standing frozen, staring at the door, I open it – pretend to look for something – and instead stare at the light at the back for two full minutes, as the smell of bread toasting scents the air.
How utterly mortifying. It wasn’t even about Adam. It was just – for a moment there – I thought I was back in domestic bliss. Tom and I ended up using that gesture as shorthand for a hundred things: I’m happy or Thanks for taking the bin out or Your turn to do the dishes. It came to mean so many things – and I feel a desperate need to explain this fact to Adam: of course I didn’t mean ‘I love you’, Adam! I merely wanted to communicate that I’m looking forward to my omelette and beans.
Perhaps he didn’t actually see me do it? Maybe he was reaching for the eggs as I pointed to my eye? Behind me I hear the sound of one egg being cracked, now two . . . Yep, I might have got away with it. And then again, I might not.
‘What do you want in your omelette, Sous?’
‘Er . . . yeah, eggs,’ I say, wishing I could climb into this fridge and freeze off this burning shame.
‘Anything else? You looking for something?’ His voice registers nothing either way. I hear the butter start to sizzle in the pan.
‘Bacon?’ I say, finally turning round. Adam’s deep in concentration, pouring the eggs into the pan and looks up at me with a questioning look.
‘You OK?’
‘Just looking at . . . at that picture on your fridge. Where was that taken?’
‘Two secs.’ He grips the pan, nudges the edge of the omelette with the spatula and deftly folds the eggs into a perfect roll, which he slides on to a plate on which sits the buttered toast. Swiftly he moves to the hob and carefully spoons a swirl of luscious beans in a curve, hugging the side of the toast, then dips his fingers in a bowl of salt flakes and lets them fall in a delicate cascade. He carefully picks a few strands of micro-cress from another bowl, places them on the omelette, then gets a squeezy bottle of dark green oil and traces a delicate scratch over the dish. His whole body is focused yet relaxed. It moves instinctively – as though his muscles are so familiar with every tiny movement they could perform independently of his brain. I can’t help but stare at the flex in his forearms as he works, then down to his fingers – strong, nimble.
The Dish Page 15