The Dish

by Stella Newman

  ‘Adam, stop!’

  ‘Because I can imagine starting every day with you. I want us to build a future together, I want—’

  ‘What’s he called?’

  ‘His name is Josh.’

  ‘Josh,’ I say, swallowing a huge lump of emotion I haven’t even begun to process yet. ‘That’s a really sweet name,’ I say, standing abruptly. ‘I’m going to go home now.’

  ‘Laura . . .’

  ‘It’s fine, I’m tired.’ It is taking superhuman strength to try and be an adult about this, and if I stay any longer I’ll start acting like a child. I can feel it – disappointment and hurt welling up in me – and I want to do it off-camera.

  ‘Let me at least call you a cab, it’s raining,’ he says, moving to help me as I struggle with the sleeve of my jacket. I pull away from him instinctively, as if he’s about to hit me.

  ‘Laura, please! I don’t want to lose you – we’ve only just found each other. People can make things work if they want to make things work.’

  ‘It’s just a shock, that’s all . . .’ I say, shaking my head to try and dislodge the news from a point where it seems to be lodged, directly behind my eyeballs, making me dizzy.

  And as I walk out in to the dark street a thought comes to me through the haze: you reap what you sow.

  39

  Saturday’s the first truly warm day of the year and Regent’s Park seems to be operating a couples-only policy. Teens with their hands up each other’s tops lie snogging on the grass; thirty-something tired partners push double buggies towards The Garden Café. The old couple with the matching hats are back on the bench, this time in matching cardigans.

  I’m actually in a threesome – one of whom has four legs and is wearing a Juicy velour onesie. Annalex, Sophie and I have been walking, mostly in a large circle, processing the news.

  ‘You look like shit,’ says Sophie.

  ‘Yeah, well – I was up half the night, trying to get my head around it. One hideous thought after another came hurtling at me; it was like dodgeball. Firstly, I felt jealous of this woman—’

  ‘That’s kind of irrational.’

  ‘I have an image of her and Adam going at it, hammer and tongs for a fortnight and then I have a flashback to him and me last weekend and it makes me feel sick.’

  ‘Try not to think that thought.’

  ‘Try not thinking of a pink elephant! And then I think how messed up all this is: I was with Tom nearly a decade and I never have to see his muppet face again; Adam spends two weeks shagging this girl and she’ll be in his life forever.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be worse if they’d been a proper couple? Imagine if they had an entire photo album of happy memories together; Adam didn’t have an issue with the fact you’re divorced.’

  ‘Why should he? I’m not in love with Tom anymore.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she says, coming to a halt by a beautiful cherry tree, bubble-gum pink blossom stuck all over its branches. We sit underneath it on grass more white than green, a blanket of daisies. I lie back and stare at the sky as I run my fingers up through the flower stems. I know this is not the worst thing at all, I do know that.

  ‘Soph, I had entirely reconciled myself to a man with kids; but a newborn love child never entered the equation.’

  ‘I know it’s not ideal. But maybe it’s easier when a kid’s so young? They won’t be resentful of you like an older stepchild might be?’

  ‘And then I have this horrible selfish thought: this little boy will be Adam’s priority, he has to be. But I would like to be the centre of his attention, for a while at least. Adam barely has any time as it is. So now I’m jealous of a baby, how shameful is that?’

  ‘He’s not going to get anything like half the custody. Did you speak to him about what he’s doing about access?’

  ‘He doesn’t know yet. He’s texted and asked me to meet him for lunch tomorrow, he said he wants to talk it all through, about how we go forward from here. Part of me feels I should walk away right now, it’s messy, it’s complicated – it was clearly doomed from day one—’

  ‘Bullshit!’

  ‘But . . . if I think about the last four years, it’s basically been a barren wasteland, temporarily lit up by flares of false hope. Adam wipes the floor with everyone since Tom – including Tom. But I have no idea how it would possibly work with this baby.’ I prop myself up on my elbows; maybe my brain will be able to process all this if it’s vertical.

  ‘It’s Adam’s child, he’s going to have to figure it out. But I reckon he could use some support.’

  ‘It’s far too early in our relationship to be thinking about any of this. A baby? I mean that’s a full-on responsibility.’

  ‘I doubt he’ll ask you to be the wet nurse.’

  ‘Soph – I don’t know if I want to take this on. And this Katie woman . . .’

  ‘Laura, just go along tomorrow with an open mind.’

  ‘You know what’s the worst part?’ I say, picking a daisy, and running my thumb through the centre of its stalk, then threading another daisy through the slit, then another. ‘The thing I’m most upset about is the thing I have least right to be. Even though I understand why he kept it a secret, it pisses me off so royally.’

  ‘Come on, Laura! What was he meant to say? “I’ve fathered a love child with a lying cougar – and I may or may not ever set eyes on this child.” You’d have run a mile from that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t. I’d have told him to sort himself out and come back to me when he knew what his situation was with the baby.’

  ‘That’s bollocks! You’d have judged him on the spot – as a womaniser, irresponsible and too complicated.’

  ‘And he’s none of those things, Soph. I think he’s fundamentally a decent, honest person.’ I say, tipping my head back to feel the sun on my face. ‘Which brings me back to the bloody review. The minute I walk into his house I’ll tell him. And the only possible silver lining to all this is that he’s no longer in a position to take the moral high ground.’

  ‘It’s not that big a deal compared to his stuff anyway. He might even appreciate the irony of the situation.’

  ‘You reckon?’ I say, chucking my makeshift daisy chain back on the grass.

  She nods convincingly.

  ‘Annalex?’ I turn to address the dog directly. ‘Do you think Adam will have a sense of humour about all this?’

  Annalex gazes back at me and appears to give the question formal consideration – then barks once.

  ‘I speak fluent dog,’ says Sophie, picking up my discarded daisy chain and chucking it at my head. ‘And one bark means yes.’

  40

  On the Tube over to Adam’s, Jess’s voice plays in my head in black and white: Adam’s a fully-grown adult, contraception is both parties’ responsibility. Why feel sorry for him?

  But when he opens his front door, pale, exhausted and with two days of stubble, all I want to do is hug him.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d turn up,’ he says, looking at me with a small but hopeful smile. ‘I thought you’d probably still be upset about Friday night.’

  ‘It was all a bit of a shock,’ I say, following him down to the kitchen. ‘But listen – there’s something else I need to talk to you about.’

  ‘Do you want tea or shall I open a bottle of wine? We’re having roast chicken.’

  ‘Open the bottle,’ I say. He pours two glasses, while I silently replay my speech in my head, and he comes to sit next to me.

  I take a sip of wine, then another, then put my hand in my pocket to check the piece of paper is still there. ‘Listen, Adam. One of the reasons I’m here today is because I understand why people keep certain things to themselves. The thing is . . . when I moved back to London, I took the first job I found . . . Adam, whose scarf is that?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘On your chair?’ A beautiful print of purple peonies on a cream silk background.

  ‘Oh, it’s Mum’s,’ he says. ‘Go on?’

/>   ‘Your mum’s here?’

  ‘She just went to get some cream. You were saying?’

  ‘Hang on, you didn’t tell me your mum was having lunch with us?’

  ‘She’s not, she was just helping me with some paperwork earlier and then thought it was a crime I wasn’t making you bread sauce,’ he says, smiling softly. ‘If you think I’m a perfectionist, wait till you see her in action. You were saying, you took the first job . . .’

  ‘When did she go out?’ There’s a Waitrose by the Tube, a Tesco nearer – she’s more Waitrose than Tesco, which gives me an extra five minutes to confess.

  ‘Laura, don’t look so panicked, Mum’s cool. You were saying, you took the first job you found when you came down to London . . .’

  ‘Er, OK . . . I took the first job I could find so I was Roger’s PA full time – which was fine for a while because I was still feeling a little fragile and there was a lot of change in my life. But then after a year an opportunity came up at the magazine, and Roger – because of my coffee background and also because he thought the readers might respond well to a more down-to-earth point of view – well, Roger decided to let me have a go at writing The . . . Adam, has your mum got a key?’

  ‘She took mine, why?’

  We both look to the ceiling as a light footstep passes overhead and moves down the stairs.

  ‘Adam, they only had single cream at Waitrose, so I’m afraid I had to go to the dreadful Tesc– Oh, is it one o’clock already?’ she says, her face lighting up when she sees me. ‘I didn’t think I’d get to say hello.’

  She comes over and kisses me, then holds me at arm’s length and gives me a sympathetic look. ‘Not the best week, all round?’

  ‘Mum!’ says Adam.

  ‘I’m just saying! Anyway, carry on, I won’t interrupt you two, I’ll just make the bread sauce and head off.’

  Adam flashes me an apologetic smile, and refills my wine glass. ‘Sorry, Laura, go on.’

  Behind us, his mother lines up the ingredients on the counter and stands, hands on hips, surveying the line-up.

  ‘Mrs Bayley –’ I say.

  ‘Anna, please.’

  ‘Anna – thank you so much for letting me stay at your house in Italy. It was the loveliest place.’

  ‘Oh, my pleasure, dear! I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

  ‘We had such a good time,’ I say, looking over at Adam, who flashes me a smile at the memory.

  ‘Adam was quite cross with me that I don’t stock that kitchen like a professional chef, but there’s a fantastic little market in the nearest village on weekdays, and I tend to buy bits and pieces as I need them. He did take you to La Collina I hope?’

  ‘The place with the truffles?’

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful? And so reasonable, not like the nonsense prices they charge at his new place. Adam said you’re into food – have you ever made bread sauce?’

  ‘Never, actually.’

  ‘Mum, we’re in the middle of discussing something!’

  ‘Oh, hush – it’ll only take ten minutes, I’ve already infused the milk, come over here,’ she says, beckoning to me.

  Adam shrugs in resignation. ‘You’d better do what she says, she never takes no for an answer.’

  ‘We can’t open a third bottle,’ says Anna, looking at me with a mischievous smile suggesting that’s exactly what we can and will do.

  ‘I’ll get you a cab home, Mum, you might as well,’ says Adam, looking at his watch.

  ‘Go on then,’ she says, flashing me a smile. ‘It is rather good wine. And I’m having such a lovely time!’

  As am I.

  I’ve learnt how to make world-class bread sauce. I’ve been introduced to the basics of painting on silk; and I am rather drunkenly enamoured with Adam’s mother.

  After the first bottle of wine we bonded about marrying rubbish first husbands. ‘Painful but instructive. Never let a man make you feel less than who you are. Now my daughter, Vicky – she got it right first time round. Slightly boring, dare I say it – but his heart’s in the right place.’

  After the second bottle, when Adam popped to the loo, she gave my arm a little squeeze and told me he seemed happier than she’d seen him in years, and that he deserved a chance. ‘You know it’s about the way you play the hand, not the hand itself.’

  Halfway down the third bottle, she touches on the Katie situation. ‘Always disappointing when a woman behaves quite so badly.’ For a minute, she reminds me of Tom’s mum who always made excuses for Her Golden-Balls Boy Who Could Do No Wrong.

  But then she looks at Adam, and says, ‘You may have been unlucky – but you’re as much to blame as she is. Anyway – I shan’t say “unlucky”, that’s a terrible word. Children can be exhausting, infuriating and frankly a pain in the arse – but they are without a doubt the greatest luck you can have in this world.’

  As a final act of generosity, as she’s leaving she invites me to her flat next Saturday, to share with me the secrets of Granny Ailsa’s shortcrust pastry. We tipsily hug our goodbyes, and it’s only as Adam and I are walking back downstairs that I remember my own secret, with dread. In the now-quiet kitchen, the good cheer still hangs in the air like the smell of roast potatoes, but I feel the imp of truth tugging impatiently at my hem.

  ‘I’m so sorry about all that,’ says Adam, as we stand together at the sink, him washing up as I slowly run a tea towel over the surface of the first plate. ‘She wasn’t meant to stay past the bread sauce –’ He pauses and turns to me with a hopeful look. ‘Do you want to talk about Friday?’

  ‘Before we do,’ I say, putting the plate down, my arms tingling with fear as the words start to come. ‘I . . . I need to tell you something. The other day, you asked when our critic came in.’

  He looks taken aback. ‘You found out already? I wasn’t expecting you to—’

  I feel almost sick with nerves, my hand trembles as I steady myself on the edge of the sink. ‘It was February the twenty-seventh.’

  ‘Just after nine p.m.?’ His eyes scan my face for the answer, then crease in annoyance when I nod.

  Deep breath, I feel my pulse quickening, here it goes. ‘That’s when we came in.’

  He frowns, then smiles in confusion. ‘You just said we?’

  I nod again.

  ‘You were with him?’ He places the washing-up brush down on the side of the sink as I shake my head. ‘Jesus, Laura – I was going to say . . .’ he says, laughing at the thought, and reaching into the sink to pick up another plate.

  ‘I wasn’t with him,’ I say, feeling cold dread shiver through my body. ‘I . . . I am him.’

  He frowns again, this time without a smile to chase it. ‘What?’

  My voice is heavy as I say it again: ‘I wrote that review.’

  His face crumples in confusion.

  ‘I write that column . . .’

  He shakes his head in slow disbelief as he lets the plate slide back into the murky water.

  ‘. . . And before you go totally apeshit, I need you to read this.’ I take from my pocket the copy of the second review. ‘This was meant to run and Sandra told them to run the other copy, I’m sure of it. When I ate at your place the first time it was . . . bad . . . but then I had a hunch you hadn’t been cooking, so I persuaded Roger to give it a second chance and I came back and wrote this.’ I thrust it towards him. ‘Please read it – because then you’ll understand I was trying to do the right thing, I tried my best. It’s all just very . . . unfortunate.’

  He looks straight through me, like he doesn’t recognise me, then stares down into the soapy water, his chin dropping to his chest.

  ‘Adam,’ I say, carefully balancing the review up on the shelf so it doesn’t get wet, then gently resting my hand on his shoulder. ‘We ran the wrong review. And I know it’s critical but it wasn’t your food, and these things always end up being tomorrow’s fish and chip paper, I mean no one really pays attention to this stuff anyway – it’ll all blow over by next wee
k.’

  His gaze stays fixed in the sink, though I can see his jaw has set firm. I have to say, he’s reacting far more calmly than I’d anticipated.

  ‘So . . . I’m really very sorry, Adam. And I did try to tell you.’

  He turns to look at me, eyes wide. ‘Did you?’ he says, lightly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘On Thursday.’

  ‘Of this week?’

  ‘Adam – when I first met you I didn’t think we’d still be together one month later. And then I thought we’d be running a re-review you’d be pleased with,’ I say, grabbing the review and unfolding the paper so he can start to read it.

  ‘I’d be pleased?’ His eyes skate over the first sentences. ‘A bit shorter than the other one, isn’t it?’

  ‘I should have told you sooner, maybe, but people do make mistakes. As you know.’

  He blows out a long, slow breath, then finally takes his hands from the sink and turns to me. ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘It is . . . “unfortunate”, Laura.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Wow, he’s being amazingly cool. ‘I’ve been feeling so bad about it, Adam, I can’t begin to tell you.’

  He nods again, his eyes closing briefly.

  ‘So . . . shall we finish the washing-up and then maybe go to the pub and we can talk about Katie?’

  He moves his head back sharply, as if avoiding a fist. ‘Katie? Now?’

  ‘Oh. OK . . . well, maybe we can have tea or something tomorrow, or Tuesday if you’re free?’

  He looks down at the floor and shakes his head, then raises his face, finally, to look at me.

  ‘Laura – these things don’t always just blow over.’

  His voice is shaky and I can see anger in his eyes, his pupils tiny dots.

  And I can see what looks like overwhelming disappointment.

  And there is hurt too, quite a fair bit of hurt.

  If I’m honest, he doesn’t really look like a man appreciating the irony of the situation.

  41

  To: Laura