The Dish

by Stella Newman

  ‘I’ve brought you elevenses,’ I say to Roger, handing him a plate with one of Adam’s new pastries from yesterday.

  ‘I take it you’ve made up your mind,’ he says, taking a bite, then looking shocked. ‘Haven’t the EU got a law about using this much butter?’ he says, jokingly clutching his chest. He polishes off the croissant in three quick bites, then picks the flaky crumbs from his desk with a licked finger. ‘So – what’s the plan?’

  ‘Monday? Your diary’s free. That’ll give me three days to write it, get legal and subs on it. Do you think everything will be tied up on the Bechdel by then?’

  ‘We’re almost there, housekeeper’s in, driver’s in, we’ve got a final legal over the weekend.’

  ‘Thank you for letting me do this. I know it’s a pain . . .’

  He holds his hand up. ‘You have to follow your instinct – your mother always used to, even if it meant chopping and changing copy at the last minute, and that was a damn sight more painful back then.’

  He gets up from his desk and stands, surveying the layout on the wall. He moves to take it down but I reach out to stop him.

  ‘Let’s just see what happens, Roger. It’s not a done deal.’

  He puts his arm around me and squeezes my shoulder. ‘You’re a good girl, Parker, remember that.’

  Behind us I sense a presence lurking in the doorway. It would have to be her.

  ‘Let’s see what Monday brings.’ He gives me a wink. ‘Sandra, dear, what can I do for you?’

  To: Kiki

  From: Laura

  Subject: Zzzzzz

  I am so bloody bored! Are you having a fag anytime soon? If so I’ll come and hang with you and you can fill me in on all your latest filthy fireman stories.

  To: Laura

  From: Kiki

  Subject: re: Zzzzzz

  We are stupidly busy with turkeys today – I knew this would happen if we ran late on the Bechdel. No time for fags! (Fireman has been fired. He says ‘pacific’ every time he means ‘specific’ – can’t deal!)

  To: Laura

  From: Adam

  Subject: Date night . . .

  Hope the steak turned out well. How are you fixed on Sunday? Would be great to spend the evening together like normal people do. I haven’t been out for so long, is there anywhere you’d like to go?

  To: Adam

  From: Laura

  Subject: re: Date night

  How about you make me that amazing pesto lasagne?

  To: Dad

  From: Laura

  Subject: Round two . . .

  So, I’m going back to LuxEris on Monday. Have been hanging out with the head chef, Adam – I’m pretty sure he wasn’t cooking last time. May need to wear that fake’tache – I don’t want the water waiter to recognise us (not sure I can persuade Roger to wear a dreadlocks wig . . .)

  To: Laura

  From: Dad

  Subject: re: Round two . . .

  Your sister mentioned you’d met this fellow. Have you told him about your review?

  To: Dad

  From: Laura

  Subject: ???

  No! Roger and Jess said not to, and if the food’s better, he’ll never know.

  To: Laura

  From: Dad

  Subject: re: ???

  Well ‘Roger and Jess’ aren’t always right. Perhaps you should tell him anyway – your mother always thought it was better to be transparent about things, makes life less complicated down the line.

  To: Dad

  From: Laura

  Subject: re: ???

  Are you serious?

  To: Laura

  From: Dad

  Subject: re: ???

  Oh Laura.

  To: Jess

  From: Laura

  Subject: Cheers

  Thanks for telling Dad about Adam. And now I have Dad lecturing me on keeping secrets?

  To: Laura

  From: Jess

  Subject: re: Cheers

  Am far too busy for this nonsense. Get a proper job, which doesn’t give you countless hours to sit around getting pissed off about things that happened years ago. You don’t have a monopoly on missing her you know.

  To: Sophie

  From: Laura

  Subject: Grrrrr

  What is it about my family that makes me go from zero to homicidal in five seconds flat?

  Anyway, date night with Adam on Sunday – note time of day: NIGHT! Please come to Wolfie’s tomorrow, please? I know you hate it but I hate it too . . .

  To: Laura

  From: Sophie

  Subject: Crazy woman

  Firstly, there’s nothing wrong with your body.

  Secondly, you’re not going to get thin in one hour.

  Thirdly – I HATE WOLFIE’S.

  But OK, seeing as it’s you. xx

  To: Laura

  From: Adam

  Subject: Herb’s the word

  That pasta needs Ligurian basil and it’s too early in the season but I’ve spoken to my veg supplier and he’s sourcing some Italian greenhouse stuff – next best thing.

  To: Adam

  From: Laura

  Subject: re: Herb’s the word

  Sounds amazing. How about we go to your local first?

  Herb’s the word – why does that sound familiar?

  To: Laura

  From: Adam

  Subject: re: Herb’s the word

  The Duke of York is two minutes from mine, 7 p.m.? The lyric is Blackstreet, ‘No Diggity’ – we were playing it in the kitchen during clean down earlier, and I was dancing.

  To: Adam

  From: Laura

  Subject: Your work schedule

  BTW, are you working on Monday? Am thinking of popping in for early supper – but only if you’re cooking! (And dancing.)

  To: Laura

  From: Adam

  Subject: re: Your work schedule

  I’m always working! Let me know – it’s no reservations but they let VIPs book, and you’re way more of an IP than the knob-head who was throwing his weight around on table 14 earlier. Barnaby Ballen – arsehole critic, bullying the staff and trying to ponce freebies. Still, I have to be nice – don’t want a bad review or Ivan and Erek will go mental . . .

  To: Adam

  From: Laura

  Subject: VIP/VUIP

  No red carpet treatment for me, thanks.

  To: Laura

  From: Adam

  Subject: V.VIP

  Well, if you do come, don’t forget – stay away from the eels. See you Sunday x

  Oh good Lord, I almost forgot to change that line about the mail-order bride . . . What if we do end up running the original review and I hadn’t caught that in time? He’d know immediately it was me – does not bear thinking about.

  I log into the system and delete the phrase. What to put instead . . . My mind’s gone blank. A mish-mash of a dish? Not good, mish and dish make that weird internal rhyme. Mish-mash mouthful of horror? I sound like Barnaby Ballen. A mouthful of horror? Not the best – it’ll have to do for now.

  I re-save the copy, go back in to double-check I’ve spelled mouthful with one ‘L’, then close the document, feeling as much panic as if I hadn’t remembered to change it at all.

  26

  ‘You never said it was Hotter Haunches!’ says Sophie, looking unimpressed as she walks in to the lobby of Wolfie’s Workout two minutes before our class is due to start.

  ‘You wouldn’t have come. Anyway, don’t you want to look like Katja?’ I point to the poster of Katja, tanned and oiled up in a bikini, looking over her shoulder seductively with a 10 kg dumb-bell in each hand. ‘I bet Katja never has a lie-in on a Saturday morning.’

  ‘And I bet Katja’s never had chicken korma, cheese naan and two king-sized Cobras on a Friday night, and I am totally fine with not looking like Katja,’ she says, tying her shoelace as the woman next to us performs an ostentatious toe-touch, her entire forearms flat on the floor. Sophie takes
in her diamond earrings, perfect high ponytail and coordinated pink trainer/Lycra combo, then shakes her head. ‘I swore I’d never do this masochistic bullshit again after the post-James bootcamp.’

  ‘I still can’t believe you let that douchebag torment you about your weight.’

  ‘If I bumped into him now I’d pie him in the face – if that weren’t a waste of good custard. This place is brutal,’ she says, staring at the poster of Wolfgang Wolf in full potty squat, top lip straining, teeth bared, with the words PAIN IS YOUR TEACHER! above his head.

  ‘It’s brutal but it’s only twenty-eight minutes of your week – bosh – then you’re done.’

  The worst twenty-eight minutes of your week, to be fair: eight minutes of uphill sprinting, eight minutes of gruelling floor work, back on the treadmills till you nearly puke, then finally a stretch, and an excruciating group bonding exercise involving high fiving on all fours.

  The rest of our class – a mix of alpha males and females and glamour models, hover at the entrance to Wolf Hall and rush through the doors as the previous class stagger out, their faces the colour of Veruca Salt, mid cardiac arrest – so sweat-drenched they look like they’ve been swimming. Sophie and I are the last to file in – the only ones not branded with Wolfie water bottles or discreet wolf head tattoos, the only ones with BMIs over twenty and unhealthy attitudes.

  Eight-per-cent Body Fat Katja stands at the front, knees pumping as she shouts into her earpiece: ‘Wolf Pack, let me hear you howl!’

  Twenty men and women, who I’m sure live in four-storey West London houses, not padded cells, get down on all fours and bay at our leader.

  ‘Strong Wolves, Lean Wolves, Beautiful Machines Wolves,’ shrieks Katja. ‘Time for some Huff and Puff!’

  ‘Does she mean these treadmills are beautiful machines? Or that wolves are?’ hisses Sophie, as we attempt to keep up with the sixty-year-old sinewy Iron Granny to our right, pounding uphill at 12 km per hour.

  ‘Stop talking,’ I say. ‘Makes it harder if you still have an interest in breathing . . .’

  ‘Run through the forest! Girls on nineteen and twenty, less chat, more speed! Now on the floor! WORK THOSE HAUNCHES!’

  ‘These mats smell like my brother’s bedroom when he was fourteen,’ says Sophie, frowning, as we lie down, ankle weights strapped on, failing to replicate the leg lifts everyone else seems to be doing effortlessly.

  ‘Their weights must be lighter than ours,’ I say, feeling the front of my thighs burning. ‘Oh, please no press-ups – this was meant to be lower body only!’

  ‘No slacking in the corner! Wolves don’t quit!’ says Katja.

  ‘Nor do they do tricep curls,’ says Sophie. ‘Bollocks, we’ve still got twelve minutes left, what’s twelve minutes in seconds?’

  ‘How many weeks to your wedding, Sonia? Two?! Then up to ten kilograms, my love! Now back to the forest trail! Notch it to the next level! Fourteen kilometres per hour, let me see you FLY!’

  ‘The only thing flying will be last night’s curry . . .’ says Sophie, turning a deep shade of scarlet.

  ‘Pilates next time,’ I say, gasping for oxygen. ‘Why does – nobody’s – mascara – even – smudge?’

  ‘Ladies chatting at the back, stop acting like Wolverines!’

  ‘Is a wolverine – a real – animal?’ says Sophie. ‘I thought – it was just – Hugh Jackman.’

  ‘No,’ I gasp, ‘it’s also – a fat – hairy – little – weasel.’

  ‘Oh!’ she says. ‘Like my old boss, Devron,’ then chokes on her laughter, as the man next to her makes a feral sex grunt, and has to pull the treadmill’s emergency cord.

  ‘Great work, Wolves!’ says Katja, as we finally haul our trembling bodies towards the exit. ‘And remember, “Red Meat is Your Friend, Sugar is Your Enemy”! And don’t forget to buy an Isotonic Wolf Juice, available in reception now, in four refreshing fruit flavours!’

  ‘Urgh, never again,’ says Sophie, wiping the sweat from her forehead with a towel. ‘Quick shower, then lunch? What do you fancy?’

  ‘What would a wolf eat?’

  ‘Not Katja, she’s far too bony.’

  ‘Ooh, did I tell you Adam’s making me this amazing pasta tomorrow?’

  ‘Finally – a proper date, at night, with booze!’

  ‘Adam’s all het up because he can’t source the right Ligurian basil. Little does he know, I’ll be so drunk by the time he lays the table, I’ll be lucky if I can tell pesto from Bolognese.’

  27

  Everything is going according to plan! (The plan being: get Adam and myself so steamingly drunk a fumble is inevitable.) We’ve been in the pub half an hour. I’ve bought a bottle of white and have been refilling our glasses like an over-zealous sommelier. I’m tipsy, not full-blown pissed – that can wait till dinner – but having starved myself all day in a last-minute attempt at a flat stomach, I’ve just sent Adam to buy snacks to soak up a bit of booze.

  He’s standing at the bar, waiting to be served, and I can’t help but stare. He’s wearing a checked shirt, jeans and brown leather boots, and even though this is standard issue round here, Adam seems to look smarter than other guys. He’s so at ease with himself, relaxed, and stylish without coming across as prissy. I really wonder what he looks like without his clothes on though . . . Broad shoulders, strong legs from all the cycling . . .

  ‘Crisps, cashews and wasabi peas,’ he says, laying three bowls of snacks on the table, and putting his arm round me as he settles back down.

  ‘I love wasabi peas,’ I say, nestling closer to him. ‘Sophie calls them Russian roulette for the nose.’

  ‘Like Revels – you never know which one’s going to be the wrong’un.’

  ‘The coffee one?’ I say.

  ‘Clearly.’

  ‘Agreed – they’re an insult to any coffee lover,’ I say, crunching down on a pea with delight. So much in common, he even hates the same Revels as me!

  He takes a couple of peas and casually tosses them in the air, then catches them in his mouth.

  ‘If I tried that I’d have an eye out,’ I say.

  ‘It’s easy, just focus on it as it lands,’ he says, throwing another up into the air, then expertly catching it again. ‘Try.’

  He throws the pea ten centimetres above my head and laughs as it lands on my nose, then bounces on to the floor.

  ‘Told you I’m useless,’ I say, laughing.

  ‘Come here,’ he pulls me closer and gently licks the wasabi powder off my nose.

  ‘I cannot believe you just licked my nose in the pub.’ I cannot believe I quite liked it. ‘Meanwhile, attacking me with a savoury snack – would that be ABH or SBH or what?’

  ‘Oh God,’ he says, ‘I had the biggest row with Max last night. The little shit had ordered some beef from a mate of his, without checking with me – I bet he’s getting a hefty brown envelope in the back door.’

  ‘What, like a backhander?’ I say, taking another large sip of wine.

  ‘Yup,’ he says, taking a strand of my hair between his fingers and twirling it. ‘And they’d charged us for Wagyu but this beef was as tough as goat, I had to make mini burgers with it, no way I could charge a premium for that crap,’ he says, grabbing a handful of cashews.

  ‘What did you say to Max?’

  ‘I read him the riot act. The little bugger tried to claim he knew nothing about it! He’s an idiot, did he think I wouldn’t find out? His signature’s on the paper work! Nothing worse than a liar,’ he says, shaking his head in disgust.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I say, taking another three peas from the bowl and crunching down hard.

  ‘Oh, yeah, I guess you know a bit about that?’ he says.

  ‘Me? A liar?’

  ‘No! I mean your ex. Did you go mental when you found out about the affair?’

  ‘I didn’t actually. It was too much of a shock. I got angrier two weeks later when his mother came round; then I lost it.’

  ‘What happened?’<
br />
  ‘Oh God,’ I say, taking another huge swig of wine. ‘He’d moved in with Tess the previous weekend and he sent his bloody mum to pick up some of his stuff.’

  ‘Total coward,’ he says, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘And I was having a bit of a moment, feeling sorry for myself . . .’

  ‘Every right to,’ says Adam, indignation in his voice, as he takes another handful of peas. ‘Oooh, I just got a spicy one.’ He waves his hand in front of his face as if fanning a flame.

  ‘The heat goes right up the back of your nose!’ I say, taking three more. ‘They’re so addictive, stop me or I’ll have no room left for pasta.’

  ‘Eleven left, then back to mine,’ he says, grinning.

  ‘Anyway, at one point I started crying – not like full-on crying, but still. And you know what she said? “No tears, Laura. We don’t cry in this family.”’

  ‘I’d have punched her.’

  ‘Yeah, well, unfortunately we don’t punch in my family! But I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone as much as I hated her at that moment. And I said: “Thank God I am not your family anymore,” and told her to fuck off out of my house. And this is a woman who has a funny turn if you use the word “toilet” instead of lavatory.’

  ‘Hell yeah,’ he says, leaning back from me so he can give me a proper high five. ‘You must be well glad to be rid of her.’

  I grab a few more peas. ‘Seriously! If that’s not a silver lining!’ I say, biting down hard on one of the peas and feeling a sudden, stabbing pain in my gum. ‘Argh!’ I say, my hand rising to my jaw in reflex. ‘That pea just bit back!’

  ‘What happened?’ He places his palm gently on my cheek.

  ‘Ow, I’m not sure. I think the outside of that pea is stuck in my gum,’ I say, awkwardly.

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘Hang on.’ I poke my tongue to the back corner of my mouth and try to dislodge it.

  ‘Let me have a look.’

  ‘No, this is embarrassing enough as it is . . .’ I poke my tongue back harder and waggle it furiously but the wedge isn’t moving. ‘Maybe more wine will help loosen it?’

  ‘These peas should come with a health warning.’

  I nod, but am silent as my tongue pushes harder against the snack’s edge. Not budging an inch. It’s viciously sharp and spiky and poking straight down into my now tender flesh. This corner of my mouth has been nothing but trouble since I had root-canal work ten years ago at that shonky dentist in Salford.