‘I just need a little more time.’
‘As you well know, Laura – you don’t have that luxury.’
‘You know what, Sandra? I can have a few more days.’
‘I’m not having you file late again.’
‘I’ll file on Thursday.’
‘Not after last time you won’t.’
‘Sandra – you clearly didn’t bother authorising the copy swap with the printers last month – which is why we’re in this mess in the first place.’
‘Ut-ter nonsense!’
‘No – it is not utter nonsense because I rang PrintPro last week and they told me so.’ I feel my face blazing with fury – and hope to God she can’t tell I’m bluffing.
‘Do you have any idea how busy we were at the end of that week? With the Bechdel case and filling the extra ad pages? I had to prioritise – and you have to learn to do the same: write the apology today.’
So it’s true! I knew it. Why did I even give her two per cent benefit of the doubt?
‘And are you going apologise to me in the meantime?’ I say.
‘Whatever for?’
‘You’ve just admitted this lawsuit is because you didn’t check the supply detail on my fluffy copy.’
‘I’ve done nothing of the sort.’
‘You just said you didn’t follow through because you were prioritising.’
‘How could I possibly have foreseen this debacle happening?’
‘It wouldn’t have! If you’d supplied the right copy!’ I say, trying – and failing miserably – to keep my voice calm.
‘Listen you,’ she says, jabbing her finger at me. ‘You wrote the original review in the first place – don’t go blaming other people for your mess.’
Urgh, I hate it when she’s slightly right.
‘And!’ she says, pointing at me again, ‘do you think Roger needed more stress last week?’
‘What?’
‘What do you think tipped him over the edge?’
I can feel fury running through my veins. ‘What, Sandra?’
‘Do you not think you contributed to his current condition?’
‘Are you actually saying Roger’s heart attack was my fault?’ I know she’d like to say yes but even she wouldn’t dare.
She looks at Heather, finds no encouragement, then turns back to me, her eyes narrowing in fury. ‘Yes,’ she says, jubilantly. ‘Yes, Laura – I am saying that.’
I stop for a moment, my breath taken clean away.
Then I count to ten. And then fifteen. And then I say one more thing I’m going to have to apologise for.
Even if I’d counted to a hundred I don’t think I could’ve stopped myself.
‘I’ve never stormed out of a meeting before,’ I say to Heather, who’s joined me on the pavement outside for a fag.
‘I didn’t know you smoked?’
‘I don’t,’ I say. ‘I mean clearly I do – but I don’t – I have one roughly every seven months, when I’m profoundly drunk or stressed.’ I take a deep drag and feel the familiar comfort of filthy tobacco. I vowed to quit when Mum was in hospital. One of her neighbours’d had two clear, curly pigtail catheters slowly draining murky treacly fluid from his lungs. If you’re willing to risk lung cancer after watching that for five days, your brain’s wired differently from mine.
‘Heather – you don’t think I put Roger in a coma do you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says, putting her arm around me. ‘The man eats saturated fat three times a day and leads an almost entirely sedentary lifestyle. I’m surprised it’s taken this long to catch up with him.’
I take another deep drag and blow it out slowly. ‘And you don’t think Sandra’s going to do me for libel for calling her a stupid bitch?’
‘If it’s verbal it’s actually slander, not libel,’ she says. ‘But either way, it’s not defamatory if it’s true.’
I can’t help but laugh. ‘Heather – can I ask you a favour?’
‘Do you want me to play mediator between you and Sandra?’
‘Not particularly. No – can I at least have another day to write this column?’
‘Tell you what – if you give me something first thing Wednesday, I’ll pencil time in my diary to go through it with you then.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, stubbing my cigarette out. ‘And I do have one more small favour.’
‘Another fag?’
‘That big fat textbook you brought to the first meeting with Roger?’
‘The Halsbury’s?’
‘Does it outline defamation law in a way that someone like me can understand?’
‘The language is straightforward enough.’
‘Then please could I borrow it?’
‘Babe, it’s for you,’ says Amber, taking one look at the chaos in my bedroom, then walking straight out again.
This had better not be Adam turning up in one of those romantic gestures to apologise – my hair is greasy, my face exhausted, eyes tinged with red, I could pass for a wildling, were it not for the Jolen bleach on my upper lip and my old Guns N’ Roses T-shirt.
‘Stop avoiding me!’ says Sophie, steaming into my room carrying two glasses of wine. ‘Your phone’s off and I want to talk. What are you doing?’
‘I’m thinking . . .’ I say, moving the copy of Halsbury’s Laws to the floor, along with my notepad and pen.
‘Oh my goodness, I’d forgotten how tiny it is in here,’ she says, crab-stepping round the edge of the bed, then lying on top of the duvet next to me and handing me a glass. ‘I brought white, I didn’t think Amber would let me over the threshold with anything that could stain. How’s Roger doing?’
‘I popped in after work – he’s stable but Gemma was there and Heather was on her way, so I didn’t stay.’
‘Have you decided what you’re doing about your work bollocks?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s the proverbial rock and hard place. If I say I was wrong – it makes me look unreliable. If I stand my ground, it’s too big a financial risk.’
‘Have you spoken to Adam?’
‘I’ve had a couple of missed calls but he hasn’t left any messages.’
‘Why haven’t you called him back?’
‘I’ve been kind of busy!’
‘Don’t you want to hear what he has to say?’
‘Of course. But if he’s forgiven me, it can wait. And if he hasn’t, I don’t need to know about it right now.’
‘You haven’t told him about Roger?’
‘What – so he’ll be nice to me out of sympathy?’
‘Oh come on, Laura – I’m sure he’d want to be there for you.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
She frowns. ‘But haven’t you at least talked to him about the lawsuit?’
‘He said he’s keeping out of it entirely.’
‘But aren’t you going to tell him about the coffee thing? He knows the truth, he can’t let them do that to you.’
‘He probably doesn’t know the details of the legal stuff, but how could I ask him to put himself on the line for me? It would be career suicide.’
‘He’s their star chef, they wouldn’t fire him.’
‘They sound like total wankers – I have no idea what they’d do.’
‘But he might be able to get them off your back?’
‘I can’t ask him for that kind of favour – not anymore.’
‘Why, because you’ve had a row?’
‘No, because he needs that job.’ I look down into my glass, then take a large gulp. Even now, the thought that Adam has a perfect little boy with this woman makes me feel pathetically jealous. ‘And suppose he was inclined to make some heroic gesture, I wouldn’t want that on my head.’
‘Laura – there’s nothing wrong with making Adam aware of the specifics.’ The look on her face suggests she’s plotting something. ‘If he doesn’t know, then someone ought to tell him – it’s the right thing to do. Then he can decide for himself how he handles it.
’
Oh God – she’s got his bloody email address because of the pecan nut supplier.
‘Soph,’ I say, reaching out gently to touch her wrist. ‘If you’re even thinking of doing something stupid like contacting him – please don’t. You wouldn’t be doing me a favour. I’ve got us all in enough trouble because I didn’t have my boundaries in place – I’m not fudging the lines again.’
‘But he could help you.’
‘Sophie – I don’t need a knight in shining armour. I need to fix this myself.’
52
‘How was his night?’ I say to Anne-Marie, as I stand by Roger’s bedside on Tuesday morning, analysing his monitor. The numbers are all looking OK – I know his healthy ranges by heart. ‘Sats back up to ninety-four?’
‘He’s doing grand,’ she says.
I look at him, lying there so calmly. He has a small smile on his face and I can’t help but think he might actually be able to hear us. Although if he could, he’d also hear the racket Arthur next door is making, swinging a bandaged fist wildly and fruitlessly at his nurse.
‘Arthur’s a little lively for eight in the morning,’ I say.
‘Sweet Jesus, if he doesn’t stop punching, we’re going to have to tie those paws to the bed,’ she says. ‘Poor soul – must be exhausted!’
‘What time’s the delightful Mr Dawson doing the rounds?’
‘He’s always so busy, it’s hard to judge,’ she says, diplomatically.
‘I saw him sneaking through reception on Sunday and I cornered him – he looked like he wanted to throttle me.’
‘I’m not sure he’s a fan of actual living, breathing people.’
‘I asked him when he might extubate Roger – and he literally sneered and said, “Do you know what extubating is?” I felt like asking, “Do you know what a bedside manner is?”’
‘The man’s a patronising old langer,’ she says, then quickly corrects herself. ‘But a highly skilled doctor.’ She pauses, then looks at me with an awkward smile. ‘How do you know the word extubate?’
‘My mum was in ITU for a while.’
‘Ah, right . . .’ Her eyes ask the question; I shake my head, feeling the familiar tightening in my throat.
I turn back to Roger. Were it not for the tubes and machines, it almost looks like he’s having a lovely dream, a nap after too many Fortnums’ Scotch Eggs and a bottle of Chablis at the cricket. I move closer and watch as his chest moves gently up and down, the ventilator filling his lungs with oxygen, then emptying them for him.
I take his hand. It is cool and dry but heavily swollen from all the fluids they’re pumping him with. ‘Roger, I’m not sure whether you can hear me – especially not over the din next door.’ I look up to see the nurse in the next bay drawing the curtain round Arthur’s bed again. ‘Now Anne-Marie’s your boss today and she says you’ll be fine and she knows what she’s talking about; but I’d appreciate it if you could hurry up and get better sooner rather than later because we miss you. The office is not the same without you: Jonesy has no one to spar with, Azeem looks like a lost kitten, even Lumley seems a little flat.’
I look over to the nurses’ station, where there’s a huddle of low-level activity. I remember the first days when Mum was unconscious, I felt embarrassed talking to her if anyone else was nearby – worried they’d think me foolish for having a conversation with someone who wasn’t really there. But then I stopped caring what anyone else in the world thought because she was there – I knew she was.
There was something I was going to tell Roger, what was it now? Oh yeah, that was it! ‘I tried to find an Elbert Hubbard quote to cheer you up – though you probably know them all already but anyway, this one struck me: “Live truth instead of professing it.” It reminded me so much of you. It doesn’t matter what a person says – the only thing that matters is what they do.’
I look at his hand in mine and catch sight of the deep purple bruises that make me weak every time I see them.
‘Roger,’ I say, smoothing down the bed sheet by his arm. ‘I promise I’ll do my best with this column, but I need you to promise one thing in return: don’t leave. Not yet, you’re nowhere near ready. I’ve got your to-do list and there’s so much on it: the Saints and Sinners issue, golf at Gleneagles, maybe Dollywood in the autumn?’
My eyes fix again on the plastic ventilator tube in his mouth and with all my might I will his lungs to get stronger.
‘Oh, and another thing – you have to have a word with Gemma,’ I say. ‘Her boyfriend sounds perfectly OK and all, but I don’t see her, longer-term, with a man who does six hours of yoga a day. Six hours. To be honest, she seems a little lost – I think she needs your advice, if only so she can go in the opposite direction. And at some point in the future I’m sure there’ll be grandchildren . . . and you have to stick around for them, Roger: you can’t leave before that fun even starts. So yes . . . I know you don’t like being told what to do . . . But please just do this one little thing for us all? Get better. Your heart is strong, I know it is – and it wants to live.’
53
May’s issue is currently being finalised up in our studio. The whole office is so quiet compared to a month ago. It’s not simply because we’re running less controversial stories, or because we’re all privately worrying about Roger. It’s because Roger is the life force of this paper, he’s the heart of it.
As for Sandra, it’s not as though we used to do daily water cooler chat, but as of yesterday at 11.34 a.m., she’s developed a proxy superpower – the ability to pretend I’m invisible. I wonder if I streaked over to Azeem’s desk whether her pupils would even dilate.
There is literally nothing, officially, for me to do today apart from write my column, but instead I sit at my desk and google ‘post-stent ITU – chances of recovery’ and ‘62-year-old male – mortality rates – medium to heavy cheese-eater’.
God, I hate the Internet! After five minutes of googling Roger’s chances of survival, I’ve developed cold sweats, an increased heart rate, a dry mouth and a tense, nervous headache – which means I’m now having a heart attack. I decide my time might be better spent doing some admin, like tidying my inbox. I click on the last email Adam sent me. It was the day after we came back from Italy – a lifetime ago. He’d sent me a photo of a Selfree – his take on a Selfie – a photo of his face, but made entirely of food: blueberries for eyes, baby Chantenay carrot for a nose, a curve of fettuccine for his smile.
I am so desperately tempted to call him back. Tempted to apologise and tempted to tell him he’s an idiot. I’d like to know how things stand with Katie and the baby, if he’s seen Josh yet. But every time I start thinking about it, it overwhelms me, and if I think about Adam, I feel guilty – because I should be focused on Roger.
So even though the thought of hearing Adam’s voice makes my heart expand a little – I won’t call him. And I’m going to try my damnedest not to think about the sound of his voice, his face, his smile; how happy I felt when I was with him; how much less happy I feel right now.
But there is a call I can’t put off any longer and as I’m walking home, I take out my phone and dial the number I know by heart.
Dad picks up on the second ring – his voice anxious. ‘Finally! I’ve been worried about you. How’s Roger doing?’
‘He’s doing well, fingers crossed. They’re hoping to start weaning him off the ventilator in the next few days. You know what it’s like though, they say one thing and the next day everything changes . . .’
‘I know this must be very hard for you, Laura. Seeing him like that . . . I can imagine what’s going through your mind.’
‘Dad,’ I say, softly. ‘Please, I’m really sorry, but can we not talk about that . . .’
‘Oh. OK then.’ He sounds hurt – and I wish he didn’t because it makes me feel worse.
‘But I do want to ask your advice? I have to write my column tonight. And I’m stuck. Sandra says do one thing, Roger told me to do the oppos
ite, I’m damned either way . . .’
There’s a pause on the line. ‘Laura – I’m not a huge fan of your ex-husband, but do you know the worst thing he did to you?’
I’m pretty sure I never told Dad about the threesome Tom, Tess and her friend had in our marital bed.
‘Er – he made me lose faith in other people?’
‘No, darling.’
‘Then what?’
‘He made you lose faith in yourself.’
There is silence as Dad waits for my reaction. When I give none, he carries on. ‘Over the last four years, you’ve asked mine and Jess’s opinion about everything from what flavour Ben & Jerry’s you should buy, to what word you should use at the end of a sentence.’
‘Because I care what you think.’
‘That’s flattering sweetheart – but you’re a grown up. You have opinions, you always used to have strong ones, so stop asking everyone else’s advice.’
He’s right. Even at lunchtime I texted Sophie asking whether I should buy a Chunky Kit Kat or a regular one.
‘Dad – this is bigger than Phish Food, this is my life. Roger said Mum would have gone full steam ahead into battle. He said she wouldn’t have been a wimp.’
There is another pause on the line.
‘Dad – are you still there?’
‘I am.’
‘Oh good, I thought it might have cut out.’
‘Laura. Roger knew your mother very well. And he’s right, she was a fighter.’
‘So you think I should let it go to court?’
‘But with all due respect to Roger – I knew her pretty well myself.’
‘Dad.’
‘In fact I would go as far as to say I might even have known her a little better . . .’
‘Dad . . .’
‘And while she was one of the bravest people I’ve ever known, she was also someone who carefully weighed up the consequences of her actions with regards to how they’d affect those around her.’
The Dish Page 32