OK, so Adam will be annoyed and upset, but he’ll get over it – they’re only words. But all that money wasted, all that effort trying to do the right thing.
I’m so irritated, angry and anxious I take two pills and sedate myself into sleep: it isn’t the end of the world.
But I’m going to have Sandra.
35
The birds wake me at 5.58 a.m. I lie in bed listening to them tweeting – they’re really going for it this morning. After a while they fade, replaced by the sounds of life going about its business. I’m already on my second coffee when Roger calls at 8.00 a.m. ‘Rather annoying turn of events, all things considered. You’re not too upset, are you?’ he says.
‘Pretty unhappy, if I’m honest.’
‘It’ll be forgotten by Thursday.’ Roger’s voice is so mellifluous, he instantly makes me feel calmer. ‘It’s tomorrow’s fish and chip paper – over-priced chip paper at that!’
‘But Sandra—’
‘Don’t worry – the three of us will sit down first thing. I’ll do the talking.’
‘I suppose I could speak to the printers, they do make mistakes – but frankly this is what happens when things change post-deadline,’ says Sandra, blinking innocently at Roger. ‘Deadlines are deadlines for a reason. And such a fuss about a restaurant review. We’ve already had Damian Bechdel’s lawyers on the phone, do you not think that’s a little more pressing?’
I bite down so hard on my lip I’m scared my front tooth might break.
‘Wait until Manderbys actually send a letter before we get our knickers in a twist,’ Roger says impatiently. ‘The issue here,’ he gestures in my direction, ‘is that Laura went to great lengths to make sure her piece was revised.’
‘I didn’t get that impression,’ says Sandra shrugging. ‘She wasn’t at her desk till well after ten a.m. last Thursday, in fact didn’t you visit the off licence on your way in?’
Roger said to let him do the talking but he didn’t specify who should do the punching.
‘All I want is for the revised version to go online,’ I say. ‘Azeem can have it up almost immediately. We can explain it was two visits, two very different experiences.’
‘A ridiculous idea,’ says Sandra. ‘It makes us look sloppy, incompetent and indecisive.’ (Us meaning me.) ‘It draws attention to the mistake, and it will have a detrimental effect on our readers’ opinion of our ability to deliver accurate reporting. This is a restaurant review, not Dewey and Truman.’
Roger scratches the back of his neck, then turns to me with an apologetic look. ‘Laura, I appreciate your logic but I think it’s a case of the proverbial stable door horse bolting.’
‘But it might help mitigate—’
He shakes his head. ‘We’re just going to have to ride the storm on this one. There’s no escaping the fact the paper copy is out there. I’m sorry,’ he says, gesturing for me to go. ‘Sandra – could you stay a moment?’
‘What did the gaffer say?’ says Azeem.
‘No switch,’ I say, heading back to my desk, a feeling of dread creeping over me.
In Roger’s inbox is an email from Henry, our film critic:
Stonkingly brilliant issue (and not just my review, ha ha!). Glad Damian Bechdel got the kicking he deserves – and those nouveau riche restaurant guys. ‘The experience leaves a worse taste in the mouth than your Smoked Shiitake Labneh Scarmoza Foam’ – you tell ’em.
PS Labneh Scarmoza sounds like a Bond villain! Have retweeted the link.
I know I shouldn’t but I send Henry an email from my own account:
Would you mind deleting the retweet . . . slight errors in current copy, sorry.
It’s out there now, but Henry has 43,000 followers on Twitter, and I certainly don’t need it out there to that degree.
From inside Roger’s office comes the sound of voices raised. Damn right. I hope Roger yellow cards Sandra for this. I move towards the door and hear Sandra’s voice: ‘. . . she lacks the dedication, the education . . .’ On second thoughts I’m not sure I want to eavesdrop this conversation.
If I didn’t know for a fact Sandra’s insides are made of metal and plastic, I’d swear her eyes were slightly watering when she finally emerged from Roger’s office.
Must be hay fever; it’s that time of year.
Adam texts me later that night saying he’s been thinking about me all day, and asking what I feel like doing on Sunday. Buying up all the copies of The Voice and building a big bonfire?
Maybe country pub lunch and a walk? The bluebells will be out.
In bed I force myself to push my worries about the review to one side – they’re spoiling the enjoyment of my sex memories. That thing with the condoms . . . I wonder if Adam might need to go to a clinic to get the all-clear? He’d never have enough time in his working day. When I went, after the Tom/Tess/Toss revelation, I spent four hours in a waiting room that was like an episode of Skins – I was the oldest person in there by a decade. There must be a clinic in Soho that’s open on Sundays, perhaps I could suggest that as our date? Bluebells? Or a swab up your willy?
Shall we see what the weather’s like on the day?
Though Adam did say he didn’t have anything, didn’t he? Was he suggesting I might have something; that I was lying when I said I didn’t? That’s doubly insulting, isn’t it? Maybe that’s not what he meant. I try to go back into the memory of that earlier part of the evening but all is dominated by a flashback of the intense humiliation of being shoved off his lap as I begged him for a shag.
No, I don’t want to play back that part of the night at all. I think I’ll just fast forward to the good bits.
36
In my inbox is an email from Sandra sent last night. She hasn’t spoken to me since Roger gave her a bollocking yesterday but now she’s sitting there, jaw grinding overtime as though limbering up for a proper fight. I can’t believe I went home yesterday feeling marginally guilty that Roger almost made her cry, while she must have been at her desk crafting this beauty:
Three years ago, when Fergus Kaye moved on . . .
Moved on? Fired. You know it, I know it, we all know it . . .
I make no secret of the fact I shared with Roger my concerns about you – I did not think you would be an appropriate person to fill Fergus’s shoes.
Fergus did not fill his own shoes! They were those long, pointy-toed brogues – far too rock and roll for a fifty-three year old whose role model is Jeremy Clarkson.
Your immaturity in yesterday’s meeting speaks volumes of your lack of experience and professionalism. Above all, I take great exception to your snide implication I somehow deliberately misled the printers.
She thinks I can’t prove it.
Regardless of the minutiae of who said what to whom on that Friday, you should never have put us in that situation in the first place. Any further and unnecessary resource directed towards this would be unwise.
That looks a little like a threat; and also like a neon sign pointing me to call the printers myself, to get to the bottom of it.
I write a note on my list, to follow it up when she’s not sitting directly within earshot.
Roger’s with Heather all morning, but calls me in at lunchtime. The back walls are free of layouts again and I try to remember that what’s on newsstands today will be forgotten in a month.
‘I wanted to check you’re not still upset,’ he says, smiling gently and offering me a seat.
‘It’s fine, Roger, I understand your position.’ I just don’t like it. ‘Is there anything I can do to help on the Bechdel piece?’
‘Heather and I were actually discussing turkeys!’ he says, shaking his head. ‘It always comes from the direction you’re least expecting. SunFarms are claiming each of their turkeys has two centimetres squared more living space than the figure we cited. I doubt they’ve got a leg to stand on. Much like those poor birds. Still, Heather will hopefully tell the buggers to get stuffed . . .’ he says, looking up at me from under h
is brows to check whether I’m smiling.
‘I’ll buy you lunch if you stop making bad poultry jokes?’
He grins. ‘Deal. So: how’s May looking?’
‘Tonight I’m off to a meatball place in a car park in Shoreditch, then the Clapton Smoke House on Friday and the Ludo Brunelli opening on Monday.’
‘Good – business as usual. Meanwhile, I want your opinion,’ he says, rummaging around till he finds a piece of paper tucked under the FT. ‘Which of these shall I get framed for the wall?’
‘More Elbert Hubbard . . .’
Be pleasant until 10 o’clock in the morning and the rest of the day will take care of itself.
‘I like that one . . .’
It’s pretty hard to be efficient without being obnoxious.
‘That belongs above Sandra’s desk . . .’
If pleasures are greatest in anticipation, just remember that this is also true of trouble.
I just hope that one’s true.
Meatbalzac in Shoreditch is foul: chewy defrosted lobster meatballs drenched in acidic thousand island dressing on stale white rolls. I can’t get out of there quickly enough, but there are severe delays on the Tube home. When I’m finally above ground again I see two missed calls from Adam. He normally wouldn’t phone during service, let alone twice. He’d normally leave a message.
He calls a third time as I’m turning into my street. I very much feel like throwing my phone straight into the canal, but I clear my throat and pick up the call.
‘Laura – can I see you later? Around midnight?’ From the strain in his voice it’s safe to say this isn’t a booty call.
‘It’s a bit late; I don’t want to wake the dog. Could we meet in the morning?’
He sighs loudly. ‘You know what? The way I’m feeling now, that’s probably better. But I’ve only got fifteen minutes. Eight fifteen a.m., there’s a builder’s caff just behind Bank Station. Meet me there.’
37
I’ve run through it a dozen times in my head; I’ve even composed a little tune to accompany it: ‘’Twas me. I wrote it. I’m very, very sorry. I’m really very sorry in-deed. Ta da!’ Not sure if I should do the jazz hands at the end?
Once it’s said, it’s done – it’s out there. The relationship may be done too, but if Adam honestly doesn’t care what critics say, then he should have a sense of perspective. It’s only fluffy stuff, after all.
I’m going to walk into that builder’s caff, lay it down on the table like a copy of the Sun, straight away, job done. He won’t go as ballistic as a teenage Jess, he’s not the type.
Adam’s sitting with a plate of uneaten toast and Marmite, head down over a copy of the magazine. He looks up with a face full of stewed anger.
‘Hey you,’ I say, taking a seat opposite and giving him a small smile. ‘Listen, before you say anything I need to tell you—’
‘You must have known about this?’ He’s already so angry, a vein in his forehead has started to throb.
‘I didn’t know those exact words were going to run but yes, in fact—’
‘You should have warned me.’
‘Yes, I should have.’ I nod, then pause. ‘Although actually – what could you have done about it?’ Stop sidetracking. Tell him. Otherwise this pit is going to get deeper, darker and full of snakes and not adorable, fluffy snakes.
‘I could have braced myself for the impact,’ he says, gripping the side of the table, then puffing out his rage. ‘Sorry. I’m angry. I know it’s not your fault, I’ll be OK in a sec . . .’
‘Don’t apologise, I should have told you – and you say it’s not my fault but actually—’
‘You couldn’t have stopped it.’
‘Erm, yes. Here’s the thing . . .’
‘But seriously!’ He instantly whips himself up into an even bigger peak of rage. ‘How dare he? Who does he think he is? Sitting there, guzzling away like Mr Creosote, some fat pig . . .’
‘Not that fat.’
‘Stuffing his face with lard and statins, some bitter, lonely loser like Anton Ego in Ratatouille. . .’
‘Anton Ego’s really quite sweet once you get to know him.’
‘Vicious! Sticking the knife in, just listen to this venom!
‘The whipped chicken-liver butter was like eating the output of a liposuction clinic . . . A bunch of try hard Noma-wannabees . . . Even Dot Cotton would gag at the level of smoke on the brisket . . .’
‘I don’t need you to read it out, I’m more than familiar with it because I—’
‘You know that’s not a fair description of my food,’ he says, scowling down at the pages.
‘Your food is so much better and that’s why I went—’
‘It’s because he’s a dwarf! Five foot seven? What sort of height is that for a man? He’s a poisonous troll, a little –’
‘Adam,’ I say, holding my hand up to try to quiet him. ‘Please stop talking for a minute, I need to tell you—’
‘I’m no giant but this man really must have a short man complex to be so hateful, all he can do is tear apart someone else’s work.’ He runs his hands through his hair, then raises them in a plea in my direction. ‘I bet he’s never even set foot in a professional kitchen in his life and yet he has the nerve to pass judgement on me.’
‘But . . . I thought he was the one critic you kind of liked?’
‘He clearly knows fuck all about food. And he’s a liar: these are lies! I would never send a plate out like that.’
‘The points about the decor and the service aren’t wrong though.’
‘I can’t believe you’re defending this review!’
‘But you’ve said it yourself, the prices are ridiculous, the menu’s fussy and contrived. I think perhaps you’re overreacting a tiny bit.’
‘Laura, I swear, if I ever met him I’d have a hard time not punching him.’
‘Well . . . erm . . . would you punch him if he turned out to be she?’
‘Do me a favour, look at those sentences?’ he says, stabbing his finger at the page.
‘I don’t need to, I know them by heart because I—’
‘That obnoxious, self-confident, swaggering pompous conviction he knows better. That – I’m sorry to say – is a male trait.’ I’m not sure whether he just complimented or insulted me.
‘Well, hang on a minute. Why can’t a woman’s writing be . . . self-assured?’ Ooh, but this ice is thin.
‘I’m not here to have a debate about feminist sentence structures, Laura. I know he’s a man because he’s a dick.’
‘Listen to me, Adam! I am telling you: he is not an anything—’
‘I agree, he’s a piece of shit but he’s clearly a man, because no woman I’ve ever met, no matter how jaded and miserable her pathetic little life was, could be such a complete and utter self-satisfied toxic prick.’ He tears the pages out, rips them in half, chucks them back on the table, then stands and puts his jacket on. ‘I’m sorry, Laura, I don’t mean to take this out on you. But this review is out of order, these are not accurate descriptions of my food and I’m not having it.’
And he’s stomped off before I can try, once more, to get the truth out.
Well fine: it’ll have to wait until Sunday.
He’ll have calmed down by then.
38
‘Double bacon sarnies all round!’ says Roger, jubilantly piling three paper bags on to the boardroom table on Friday morning. ‘Right, let’s make this quick, I’ve got a meeting at the Frontline at . . .?’
‘Twelve thirty,’ I say. ‘Cab’s booked for twelve.’
‘Round the table, copy sales – Mick?’
‘EPOS so far’s huge, we’ll be hitting a hundred and sixty-two thousand if it stays on track.’
‘Any production issues?’
‘Flawless run, PrintPro handled the embargo brilliantly, no leaks.’
If Sandra genuinely had nothing to do with the wrong review, she’d have pointed out that PrintPro picked the wrong co
py off the system. But she’s sitting there looking like margarine wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
‘Jonesy, sterling job, filling those two pages at the last minute, I presume you charged nowhere near rate card?’
‘Rodge, it was so last minute, I had to make it worth their while. Anyway, you won’t be getting much in the way of meat ads for the foreseeable future.’
‘Did you see the SunFarms’ spokesperson on Newsnight? What an absolute bell-end,’ says Roger laughing. ‘Worth publishing just to see him making such a buffoon of himself on camera.’
‘We’ve had an exceptional response to the SunFarms piece in other media,’ says Sandra. ‘However, we’ve also had Fletchers’ Head of PR on the phone yesterday, demanding we print a retraction of the density per square footage allegations.’
Roger waves the comment away. ‘It’ll blow over.’
‘What about Bechdel?’ says Kiki. ‘Is he kicking off?’
‘They were squawking on Tuesday but they’ve gone quiet,’ says Heather. ‘They know we can substantiate our facts.’
‘Tends to shut the lawyers up,’ says Roger. ‘Azeem, go on, I can see you’re dying to talk.’
‘Guys – I know some of you are a little dubious about the value of social media, but I want to share with you some amazing stats. In the last three days, the Bechdel piece has had over sixty-three thousand retweets and the turkey piece has had forty-two thousand.’
‘Do turkeys tweet?’ says Jonesy.
‘Not the ones at SunFarms,’ says Kiki.
‘They gobble, Jonesy,’ says Roger. ‘Have you never seen that marvellous Jennifer Lopez/Ben Affleck clip? And they gave that man an Oscar!’
‘Guys, I haven’t finished: the biggest surprise is The Dish. Since it went online at nine p.m. on Monday, it’s had more traffic than the Bechdel and turkeys combined. That toilet photo’s had almost as many retweets as the latest selfie of Kim Kardashian’s arse.’
‘I’m surprised their PR guys haven’t been on the phone already with some hysteria-laced invective,’ says Heather.
The Dish Page 25