The Dish

by Stella Newman

  ‘Perhaps they realise life’s too short,’ says Roger.

  ‘Azeem,’ I say, trying to keep my voice calm. ‘How do these trend curves tend to work? Presumably this will be the peak of the wave, three days in?’

  ‘Depends if it snowballs over the weekend.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s fish and chip paper,’ says Roger.

  ‘Not just tomorrow’s,’ I say. ‘It’s the day after’s, and the day after that.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ says Kiki. ‘The minute Miley Cyrus shows a nipple people will move on.’

  When I get back to my desk, there’s a missed call from Adam. Anxiety pulses through me as I head outside to call him back – I didn’t want to tell him over the phone but I just can’t bear keeping it a secret anymore.

  His voice on the phone sounds tender, embarrassed. ‘Laura – I’m so sorry about yesterday morning . . . It’s been a truly terrible week.’

  ‘Because of the review?’

  ‘Not just that, but I’ll tell you on Sunday, it’s not one for the phone.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he says, pausing. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes. Adam, listen, about yesterday I absolutely—’

  ‘Laura, you were right: I overreacted. I’ve been feeling like a total arse.’

  ‘Please, there’s no need to apologise, in fact I need to tell you, and I should have mentioned it earlier –’

  ‘The thing is, I’ve been thinking about it – and it makes no sense.’

  ‘Er, what doesn’t?’

  ‘Your guy is normally bang on the money. But the avocado salad, the tuna ceviche . . .’ he says, confusion in his voice. ‘I can swear an affidavit, a hundred per cent, I have never let a plate leave the pass like that.’

  ‘Adam, listen to me—’

  ‘Laura – there’s something I need to get to the bottom of.’

  He knows. I should’ve had the guts to tell him sooner. My mouth seems incapable of forming words. All I can hear is my heart beating in my chest.

  ‘You know who wrote the review,’ he says.

  ‘Yes I do,’ I say, then take a deep breath and in a voice so quiet I can barely hear it myself: ‘I did. It was me.’

  ‘So could you find out whether he came in on the last Thursday in February, at around nine p.m.?’

  I almost drop the phone on the pavement. ‘The what?’

  ‘I have this terrible feeling he came in that night.’

  I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging wide open but I can’t seem to move my jaw to close it.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask you to find out if it wasn’t a big deal, Laura.’

  ‘Hang on. Why are you asking me about the timings?’

  ‘Because if that’s when he came in, there are . . . repercussions for me at work.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Please – could you just do this one thing for me?’

  ‘What difference does it make when we visited?’

  ‘It just does.’

  ‘You weren’t there, were you?’ I say, disbelief in my voice. ‘You said you hadn’t had a single shift off. Why did you lie?’

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line. ‘I didn’t lie. I was there at the start of the shift; I had to leave in the middle.’

  ‘But what was so important you had to leave the pass for it?’

  Silence.

  ‘Adam? Are you still there.’

  ‘Laura – I will tell you on Sunday, I don’t want to have this conversation on the phone.’

  ‘And neither do I.’ I can feel my cheeks flush with indignation. ‘You lied about your shift and you’ve been hiding something ever since I met you.’

  His voice sounds guilty. Confused and surprised, but definitely guilty. ‘Now who’s the one overreacting, Laura?’

  ‘What were you doing that night, Adam?’

  ‘I’ll tell you on Sunday, I need to explain properly—’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, you do,’ I say, and I hang up with only one thought on my mind: I knew it: I knew it all along.

  People react in different ways when they find out your husband’s been cheating. Some pity you; awkward smiles, a little pat on the arm – as though adultery has transformed you into a partially deaf maiden aunt. Others (Tom’s parents) behave like it’s your fault. Wifely shortcomings must have driven him to it: pursuing a career path or some other deeply unfeminine behaviour. And then there’s a third group, who treat you like you’re stupid. More than one person asked me, ‘Did you really have no idea?’ Kind of a grim question to ask someone who’s just been punched, metaphorically, in the face. It suggests they’d have known better. There must have been signs? Didn’t he go to the gym more? Leave the room to take calls?

  Here’s the thing: I had an instinct. Very early on I felt . . . a twitch in the energy between us. How do you confront your husband with a twitch in the energy between us? It buzzed in my head, a tiny fly – impossible to catch, impossible to ignore. Over time, it moved to my stomach and made itself a home there. I tried to convince myself it was paranoia until it swelled to the point of discomfort, at which point I confronted Tom and he told me the same story: I was paranoid.

  And when I finally had proof, clutched in my hand – he still denied it! I could have forgiven the cheating; possibly even with a ‘friend’. But I couldn’t forgive the tissue of lies it was all wrapped up in.

  At first he claimed their texts were harmless flirtation, Tess had developed a crush – hardly his fault! Of course it was unrequited but he didn’t want to embarrass her and meanwhile why was I snooping in his phone in the first place? The dinner they’d been spotted having? Clearly a work dinner, and he hadn’t realised being married to me meant he was obliged to tell me where he was 24/7. Whoever told me they’d been kissing was a liar, and who was it anyway? Why wouldn’t I tell him? Was I making it up?

  Aaaah! The reason I was imagining this nonsense must be my hormones – were they out of whack? No? OK then, depression – I must still be grieving Mum. Tom even encouraged me to go on antidepressants; he went as far as booking me an appointment with the GP. I married a man callous enough to hide his affair behind the faded cloud of my mother’s death. That really is something to get depressed about.

  But then Tess rang and asked if she could pop by and it was she who ultimately had the balls to admit it. I think she only did it to force Tom to move in with her. And long may they live happily ever after – just not anywhere near me.

  So I have learned the hard way: trust your instinct. Be vigilant. Even the smallest signs are still signs and there are always signs. A tingle in your arms, a throbbing in your head – these are your body’s way of telling you to use your ears: listen more closely. Pay immense attention to the phrasing of sentences. Omission. Circumlocution. I’m not sure what time I’ll be back, is worse than I’ll be back late. It leaves the door open to not come back at all. It slams the door in your face.

  There have been various signs with Adam – signs I chose to ignore. The phone calls, the weird behaviour at his house. But one in particular haunts me: that morning he ran out mid-date. Obviously running out mid-date wasn’t a wonderful sign. The look he’d given me – loaded, guilty – was hardly encouraging. But that wasn’t it either. It was the way he’d answered my question with a deviation. I asked a direct question, he sidetracked me, asked me for tea. It was a classic blocking move, I’ve done it myself plenty this last month. Russell did it too, answered a question with a question – and I waded in, elbows out like a pub brawl and got straight to the bottom of the problem.

  With Adam I let it slide.

  So I guess I’ve known from the start – Adam was too good to be true: he was hiding something.

  I just didn’t want him to be.

  The waitress at the Clapton Smoke House is doing her best to give me great service; it’s not her fault I’ve forgotten what I ordered. And it’s not the chef’s fault I can barely swallow the chipotle short ribs and spicy slaw in fron
t of me. All I can do is stare down at the cabbage shreds on my plate as my mind festers.

  Where do ambitious head chefs rush off to, mid-service on a Thursday night, when they’re meant to be earning a Michelin star?

  Someone they’re scared of: a drug dealer/an angry woman.

  Or someone they’re in love with: a woman.

  If Tom hadn’t cheated I wouldn’t necessarily think it was a woman, but he did, and so I do.

  What did Adam mean when he said there were repercussions at work? Will Max get fired? Will Adam? The review may well be the first time that Adam’s been made aware of how bad Max’s food is. And I guess it wouldn’t have mattered anyway, if it wasn’t now popping up all over Twitter like the measles.

  ‘Was everything OK? Can I get you dessert, coffee?’ says the waitress, looking at the barely eaten food.

  ‘Mmm? Er, no thanks, just the bill.’ I’ll have to come back and eat here again, too, I think, as she clears away the full plates.

  Whatever Adam’s hiding, one thing’s for sure: there’s no way I’m waiting till Sunday to find out.

  Adam’s sitting in a booth at Maxwells, nursing a bottle of beer. He looks like he hasn’t slept for two days – the dark circles under his eyes are almost purple.

  ‘This was the only place I could think of that’s open late and doesn’t play banging house music,’ he says. ‘The cocktails are good.’

  ‘I don’t want a drink,’ I say, brushing the menu aside. ‘Please, just tell me what’s going on.’

  He takes a deep breath and looks up to the ceiling, then his gaze meets mine – his eyes filled with sorrow. ‘This is totally not how or where or when I wanted to have this conversation.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Please, Laura,’ he says, shifting forward on his seat and taking my hand across the table.

  ‘It’s something major, isn’t it?’

  ‘Promise me you’ll try to understand my side of the story,’ he says, giving my fingers a gentle squeeze.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Adam, just tell me!’ I feel like he’s about to inflict a massive amount of pain on me – the sooner it starts, the sooner it finishes.

  He buries his face in his hands, then looks up at me. ‘OK,’ he says, steeling himself. ‘OK. Right. Last year when I was working in Bray I became quite friendly with one of the front-of-house girls, a waitress called Katie.’

  And so it is: a woman.

  He bites down on his lip, then hesitates.

  ‘Adam . . .’

  ‘A bunch of us used to go out after work to let off steam, she was a bit older, thirty-nine, very outgoing, always the first and last at the bar.’

  Men: they are all the same.

  ‘She’d found a lump a few years before and they’d caught it in time but she’d had some treatment and it’d messed up her chances of having kids. We hung out, we got drunk, I was a bit of a shoulder to cry on.’

  I feel dread, creeping into my limbs. ‘More than a shoulder—’

  ‘Please, let me speak. One night she made a massive play for me and we ended up hooking up. We slept together maybe a dozen times over a fortnight.’

  ‘I don’t want the details . . .’

  ‘It was never going to be anything more – for either of us. And I called it – she partied too much, she was all over the place. Anyway, a month later she quit, we didn’t even swap emails.’

  What was that thing his old boss said about chefs and waitresses? ‘“It’s not a question of if, it’s a question of where and when . . .”’

  ‘Laura. Please. Then my grill chef bumped into her in Chiswick six months later.’

  ‘So she’s back on the scene . . .’

  He takes a huge breath, like he’s about to dive to the bottom of a deep pool. ‘And she was quite obviously pregnant.’

  I laugh, I can’t help it – though it’s the strangest noise I’ve ever made. ‘Ah, wow, Adam – you have a baby! A baby you forgot to mention, that is a touch forgetful!’

  ‘Laura,’ he says, holding his hands out to calm me down. ‘Hold on a minute: she told him it was her ex-boyfriend’s.’

  I turn around and beckon to the nearest waitress. ‘Double vodka and tonic please?’

  ‘Laura—’

  ‘So what? She was shagging both of you at the same time? Has she given you an STD? Is that what the condom thing was about?’

  ‘Laura – I told you I’m clean, I’m not a liar.’

  I bite my tongue but my eyebrows shoot to my hairline. ‘So why are you telling me about her?’

  ‘Because . . . the timings were too close for comfort. And her behaviour, in retrospect –’ His hand comes up and rubs over his mouth as if trying to erase a mark on a whiteboard.

  I take the vodka and tonic from the waitress’s hand before she’s even laid it on the table.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, for a start I think she lied about being able to get pregnant.’

  ‘Yes Adam – I suspect that is a reasonable deduction to make.’

  ‘I mean, Laura – I’m not sure if she was lying about her illness – or whether she was hitting forty and decided to find the nearest sucker available . . .’

  I take a large swig of my drink, then finish it off in one long, slow gulp.

  ‘She seemed . . . very determined to . . .’

  ‘Determined to what, Adam?’

  ‘To seal the deal.’ He shrugs, helplessly.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘To have unprotected sex.’

  The condoms. I recall with horror how I must have come across on Sunday night – similar desperation, different motivation. I turn to look out of the window: it’s starting to rain.

  When I turn back, Adam looks like he might cry. I don’t want him to cry. I want him to tell me this is all a wind-up.

  ‘She refused to speak to me before the baby was born, but about a month ago I got a call at work . . .’

  I feel a small part of my heart break.

  ‘She knows how unreasonable it is to call mid-service but she said if I wanted to speak it was now or never, so I biked over to West London in the pouring rain.’

  ‘The Thursday night?’

  ‘Your guy couldn’t have shafted me harder.’

  ‘And I met you on that Sunday,’ I say. ‘You said you’d had a bad week . . .’

  ‘Timing is everything, hey?’ He chances a half-smile, which I weakly mirror.

  My brain is trying to put together all these pieces but it isn’t working fast enough. ‘So . . . what happened?’

  ‘She finally admitted it might be mine, and then it took me another two weeks to persuade her to actually go through with a DNA test.’

  ‘That day you ran off?’

  He nods slowly.

  ‘You’ve had the test?’

  He nods again.

  ‘When did you find out? Before we went away?’ If he says yes I will never see him again.

  ‘Two days ago.’

  ‘How do you feel?’

  He pauses and his eyes darken. ‘If you’re asking me would I impregnate her again tomorrow – clearly the answer’s no. If you’re asking do I regret having a son? No.’

  ‘So now what?’ My heart seems to be beating from the middle of my throat.

  ‘I have no idea what Katie will agree to. Mum’s started looking at the legal side of things, but it’s not very hopeful.’

  ‘And you don’t think you could make a relationship work with this woman?’

  He blows out angrily. ‘Not sure a pathological liar is what I’m looking for in a partner . . .’

  Women: we’re not all the same, really we’re not.

  ‘Laura, I’ve been wanting to tell you from the start, I know how much honesty means to you, with your ex and everything.’

  ‘But you kept it a secret anyway?’

  ‘You probably won’t remember, but the day we first met we were walking into Soho and yo
u said I should tell you all my secrets and I thought . . . fuck it, just say it – and I did a dickhead thing and I said it – I did, but . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, “I have a love-child,” but you thought I was joking.’

  ‘You cannot seriously have that as your defence.’

  ‘You laughed and my instinct was to shut up because it did sound exactly like the sort of thing a girl like you would run a mile from. And I didn’t want to lose you because I liked you already.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Laura, from the minute I met you I knew you were a game changer and the more time I’ve spent with you, the more I know it. You make me happy. I have no idea if I’m going to have access to my kid – and if I’m not, then what possible good would it have done to tell you? If I never see him again it’s a painful mess for me and it doesn’t affect you at all. I was going to tell you when it was resolved one way or the other.’

  He tries to take my hand again but I move it to my lap.

  ‘Please – say something, Laura.’

  ‘Can I have the rest of your beer?’

  ‘Are you going to pour it over my head?’

  The bottle is warm from being gripped in his hand these last twenty minutes. I take a small sip and sit, my head nodding of its own accord until I’m finally ready to speak.

  ‘You want to know what I think?’ I think: brilliant. You’ve impregnated some random woman, and for the next eighteen years you’re going to have aggro with her over your son, and as much as I want to take this opportunity to tell you how gutted I am that you kept this from me – I have no stomach for my own hypocrisy. If you’re a liar and a coward, you can add that to ‘I hate coffee Revels’ – just two more things we have in common. I don’t have a leg to stand on, not a foot, not one toe.

  ‘Laura, I know how bad it sounds if you only look at the headline . . .’

  I do so hope he bears that in mind in the near future.

  ‘Maybe it was a mistake not to have told you before now, but there was never a good time.’

  Yup – hold on to that thought too.

  ‘And I figured if you at least got to know me properly, you’d understand I’m not a player. And if you knew me then maybe you’d feel enough to give me a chance, because I feel something very strong for you, Laura. I know it’s only been a month but I don’t think I’ve ever felt this close to anyone—’