The Dish

by Stella Newman

  ‘What are you saying?’ Just tell me what I should do!

  ‘Your mum picked her battles. She strived to do the right thing – but her primary goal, always, was to protect the people she loved.’

  ‘So I should sacrifice myself?’

  ‘Laura! I’m not saying be a martyr. You have to find the balance between doing the right thing by others – and doing the right thing for yourself. All she ever wanted was for you girls to be happy. My point is – you have to trust your own voice.’

  ‘But Dad – I’m so confused I don’t even know what I think anymore.’

  ‘Then you’d better get off the phone pretty quickly and figure it out.’

  54

  I hold my breath while Heather reads my piece. Her brow creases as she nears the end. She looks up at me with a frown, then finishes and carefully puts the paper down on her desk.

  ‘What do you think?’ I say. ‘I read the Halsbury’s pages twice over – but they were starting to make me feel thick, and quite dizzy.’

  ‘I need to have a closer reading – but I have to tell you, I’m not impressed.’

  ‘You think I’ve overstepped the mark legally?’

  ‘No. I meant your final paragraph.’

  ‘The “PS” bit about Fergus Kaye?’

  ‘No – the bit before you sign off.’

  ‘Oh. That bit.’

  ‘It’s not what Roger would want,’ she says. ‘And I’m not particularly happy with it myself.’ She picks up the article again and looks at it with irritation.

  ‘OK. But it’s what I want.’ Sort of.

  She shakes her head in resignation. ‘Then leave it with me.’

  To: Dad

  From: Laura

  Subject: Thank you

  I did what you said. I found my voice. It’s not necessarily a great one – but it’s all my own.

  To: Laura

  From: Dad

  Subject: You’re welcome

  She would be so proud of you. I am so proud of you.

  To: Laura

  From: Kiki

  Subject: Your nemesis

  Have you spoken to Sandra yet?

  To: Kiki

  From: Laura

  Subject: re: Your nemesis

  No – life is so much nicer this way. Anyway, I’m not sure I’ll need to speak to her ever again.

  To: Laura

  From: Kiki

  Subject: WTF?

  Or are you just being over-dramatic/an optimist?

  To: Laura

  From: Heather

  Subject: Your May column

  OK, I have double-checked in Halsbury’s and am confident you’re clear of the line in terms of the law.

  In terms of what LuxEris’s lawyers are demanding you’re following the letter, if not the spirit of their demand, but I can’t see how they can actually come back at us – you’ve done a great job of hopscotching neatly between the lines.

  Re: your final paragraph – I believe you’ve written this column under stress, and at the last minute, so apologies if I sound like a broken record, but are you quite sure you want to say this?

  To: Heather

  From: Laura

  Subject: re: Your May column

  Yes

  To: Laura

  From: Heather

  Subject: re: Your May column

  Then fine – you don’t need to change a word.

  To: Kiki

  From: Laura

  Subject: May column

  Can you give this a quick sub, my dear?

  To: Laura

  From: Kiki

  Subject: :-(

  You KNOW I would never use any sort of smiley face – nor caps – if I didn’t mean them.

  To: Sandra

  From: Laura

  Subject: May column

  Sandra, please find attached May’s column – which Heather and the subs are now happy with.

  And five minutes after I’ve pressed send, and for the first time in recorded history, Sandra comes over to my desk, looks me in the eye, and says thank you.

  55

  My phone rings as I’m heading to the Tube. I look at the caller ID and my heart leaps, then sinks, then tries to restore itself to the middle ground. Please, please, please.

  Her voice sounds tearful – but they kind of sound like good tears. ‘Laura,’ she says, sniffing loudly down the phone.

  ‘What is it, Gemma?’

  ‘Mr Dawson’s just been in to see Dad . . .’

  I hold my breath, say a silent, urgent prayer.

  ‘They’re ready to bring him round.’

  When I walk into the ward the following morning I notice something’s different. Not Roger – he’s still lying on his back, unconscious – but there’s a strange absence of noise in the surrounding area.

  ‘Where is he?’ I say. The bay next door is now empty, not even a bed. ‘He didn’t . . . did he?’

  ‘What, Arthur? Oh no, he’s fine, he’s graduated: they moved him down to High Dependency last night. We’ve got an incoming,’ she checks her watch. ‘Some poor chap, run over, texting while crossing the road – severe head trauma.’ She sighs, she sees it too often. ‘Ah, but Roger’s had another great night. You know we’ve started to wean him off the anaesthetics?’

  ‘How long before he’s awake?’

  ‘It’s a gradual process, every patient’s different – but he should be what you’d consider awake in a day or two.’

  ‘Not talking though?’

  ‘I have a feeling, from what you’ve said, he’ll be trying to talk before we get that tube from his throat.’

  ‘Anne-Marie – do you think coma patients can hear what’s going on around them?’

  ‘Depends on their GCS – but I believe they pick up on their loved ones’ voices and there’s plenty of research suggesting that’s the case.’

  ‘Even if they’re one of the ones that don’t make it?’

  ‘Oh love,’ she says, putting her arm around me. ‘Are you asking because of your ma?’

  The memory of that missed phone call resurfaces like a shark – and though I try again to push it back below the surface, how am I ever going to win against a flipping shark?

  ‘Have a seat,’ she says, pulling a couple of plastic chairs over. ‘I’d get you a cup of tea but we’re not allowed.’

  ‘Thank you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I have these moments . . .’

  ‘You don’t need to explain.’

  But I do. If I tell Anne-Marie, maybe I can stop feeling these feelings. I never want to stop thinking of Mum, when I think about her she’s alive again. But I want to be at peace with this.

  ‘Anne-Marie, the day after my mum’s operation, she was in recovery,’ I say, staring at the floor. ‘She rang but my phone was charging. I saw the missed call but thought I’d call later, and by the time I got round to it her phone was off.’ I feel the ache as if it were yesterday. ‘But if I’d known she was in hospital, of course I’d have called straight back. I would give anything to have spoken to her just one last time.’

  ‘You didn’t know though?’ says Anne-Marie.

  ‘But I feel like it’s my fault – I should have known. I should have picked up on something that was said, the way she was acting before . . .’

  Anne-Marie looks at me with confusion. ‘Why would you be so hard on yourself?’

  ‘Because those precious hours were wasted with Tom. I took them from Mum and gave them to him and that makes me sick with guilt. And after Mum died I was angry with everyone – angry with the doctors, angry with a God I stopped believing in, angry with her for dying . . .’

  ‘But that’s a very common feeling, you know that?’ she says, gently rubbing my shoulder.

  I shrug. ‘That doesn’t help me much,’ I say, smiling softly. ‘The thing is, I know it’s unfair to still blame Dad for keeping it a secret. But I guess it suits me better that way.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well . . . because
if I blame Dad . . . then I guess I don’t have to blame myself.’

  Sometimes it’s easier to be completely honest when you’re talking to a stranger.

  Anne-Marie looks at me kindly. ‘You do realise you don’t actually have to blame anyone? Life’s a lot less painful when you don’t create your own stick to beat yourself with.’

  ‘I should have called her back, Anne-Marie, I wish I’d called her back.’

  ‘Oh love,’ she says. ‘In this job I hear people talk about the things they regret all the time. Things they wish they’d said or hadn’t said, done, or hadn’t done . . . And I always tell them the same thing: don’t hold on to regrets you can’t do anything about. Focus on the ones you can still fix.’

  56

  The Dish

  Mistakes, I’ve made a few . . .

  In April’s issue, due to an administrative error, we published an incorrect review of LuxEris: wrong in tone, wrong in content. I apologise wholeheartedly to my readers for this – and to the owners and staff of the restaurant. Journalists make mistakes, the same way chefs make mistakes – we’re all fallible. The ability to apologise makes us human.

  Had the correct review run it would have said head chef Adam Bayley’s food is fantastic – flavours, textures and execution were on a par with the best in the business. I’m sure whatever he does in his career, his passion, dedication and respect for his customers will shine through.

  New restaurants rely heavily on good reviews. Critics are given a short cut to power: power is open to abuse – hence why I write incognito. Money is another short cut to power: hypothetically a rich business can intimidate a poorer one with the threat of years of litigation through sheer financial might. I think that’s bullying, and my mother taught me not to stand for it. So while I’ll apologise for an administrative error, I refuse to apologise for my opinions on eating out, which are these:

  1. A great restaurant should make every customer feel equally welcome when they walk in – and when they walk out they should feel even better, not done over. I’m happy to pay a fair price for quality but I personally feel ripped off being charged £24 for a Heritage Carrot. At that price the carrot should have gone to Eton and dated a Middleton – even if it was Carole.

  2. The restaurant business is called Hospitality for a reason. Yes, technical mastery is important, but so is a generosity of spirit and attitude. If you’re serving a £45 burger – even a foie gras and bone marrow sous vide deluxe £45 burger – throw in the chips too, because potatoes are not expensive. Besides, some things belong together: burgers and chips. Waiters and eye contact. Service and a smile.

  3. Great restaurants create a sense of conviviality. If you look around them, people are relaxed and having a good time – not just rubber-necking to see if that really is Sir Elton over in the corner booth.

  4. Having a menu that’s a checklist of trendy ingredients – yuzu, Tiger’s milk, sea buckthorn – is tiresome. What customers truly crave – pleasure, nourishment, delight – never goes out of fashion. The best meal I ate this year had four ingredients – none of them foraged from a ditch outside Copenhagen. Give me a simple dinner made with love, over a Kimchee-Lobster Shiso-Ramen Steamed Bun made with nothing but cynicism, any day of the week.

  5. For me, the definition of luxury is not drinking a £600 bottle of Krug out of a £134 wine glass, then peeing it into a golden toilet. Luxury is the sheer splendour of sitting on a garden chair on a hilltop eating a bowl of beans with someone wonderful.

  6. At the end of a great meal, coffee should not be an afterthought. Coffee, like service, like bread, is a reflection of the care a restaurant takes in every part of the experience. One of my criticisms in April’s review was regarding the quality of coffee served. LuxEris maintains it was fresh – I was convinced it was instant and the reason I felt confident in my judgement was because I spent ten years working in coffee – at Union Roasters and Bean To Cup. During my career I visited fifty-three farms in eleven countries, I’ve tasted literally tens of thousands of cups. If you’re after proof of my coffee credentials, you can find me on Google – my name’s Laura Parker. However, what I cannot prove is what the liquid in my bone china cup was two months ago – and on the basis the law requires proof: I am wrong.

  Sometimes people have good reasons for keeping secrets. Sometimes those reasons fade or are surpassed by a greater responsibility – in this instance to the truth. This column has been a privilege to write. I’ve eaten at many great restaurants, run by talented people, with heart and soul. I have loved sharing the highs – and occasional lows – with you. For now, it’s time to hang up my knife and fork.

  Bon appetit,

  Laura Parker

  PS Fergus Kaye – ‘Conviviality’ has s-i-x syllables, I’ve counted them out on my fingers and opposable thumbs.

  And I hope you enjoyed my halibut – it isn’t the French name for sea bass – it isn’t even close.

  57

  It’s Sunday, a week and a half later. I’m sitting by Roger’s bedside in a normal ward, reading my horoscope – ‘Full moon in Aquarius, a time of great change’ – when he opens his eyes. He’s been coming back to life slowly but surely. Nine days ago they took away the tube in his throat and now he’s breathing entirely unaided. Last Saturday, he said his first words – Gemma said they sounded something like ‘bloody buggeration’. Since then we’ve celebrated him sitting up in a chair and his first foul steamed cod and watery mash dinner. He’s planning on celebrating the removal of his catheter any day now – we’ll let him do that one in private.

  The human body can be amazingly resilient – as can the mind. Roger can’t remember anything about being in the coma and when I point out Arthur, who’s walked past our ward a few times while he’s doing physio, Roger can’t believe it. ‘I slept through all of that? Bribe one of those nurses quick, and get me some propofol for the next board meeting!’

  Roger’s probably in here for one more week, but he’s doing so well. He’s asked to see May’s issue, and I keep pretending I’ve forgotten it – but I’ll show him tomorrow or maybe Tuesday. I’m here every day, even if only for twenty minutes. Jess made some stupid comment about how empty my life must be that I can find the time to visit Roger every day. She said, until you have kids, not only do you not grow up but you have no idea what ‘busy’ means. I did point out that Dad does almost all her childcare for her – and then I hung up on her – but anyhow, I have wanted to be here every day. I feel grateful I’ve had that time.

  ‘Roger – I’m going down to get a posh coffee, well, a foul, over-brewed one, but still . . . can I get you anything from the shop?’

  ‘You can sneak me back a bottle of Glenfiddich? The twelve-year will suffice, don’t worry about finding the eighteen.’

  ‘I was thinking more like carrot sticks or some prunes?’

  As I’m walking, head down, through main reception, I hear my name being called, twice. I freeze at the sound of his voice. I cannot believe Sophie told him I’d be here: I am pissed off she did that.

  I stand on the spot and he moves toward me, kisses me awkwardly on the cheek. I can’t believe five weeks ago we were in Italy, in bed, and now when his lips briefly touch my face it feels like we barely know each other.

  ‘I’ve tried calling you. I had no idea,’ he says, his eyes sad, his face confused. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Roger?’

  I shrug. ‘There’s not much anyone can do in these situations . . . It’s fine, he’s doing well, back to his old self, almost.’ I smile softly.

  Adam looks down at the ground, then back at me. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the coffee? I would have helped, Laura – there’s no way I would have let that happen.’

  ‘And that’s why I didn’t tell you.’

  ‘I don’t understand?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want you putting yourself on the line for me with some noble gesture.’

  He thrusts his hands in his jeans pocket and his gaze shifts to the floor. �
��It would have been about doing the right thing, Laura – not about doing it for you. And now you’ve gone and quit, and that makes me think your decision had something to do with me.’

  I laugh at the irony. ‘Well, Adam, believe it or not, you big-headed fool, I didn’t do that for you! I did that for myself.’ I smile, but his face is filled with sorrow.

  ‘Laura – I read your column in May’s issue.’

  I feel my face colour. I wrote it in such a rush, and the minute I saw it in actual print I felt silly, having put that personal stuff in about him and me, on top of the hill.

  ‘And I finally got round to reading the review you left in my kitchen,’ he says.

  ‘Oh. I thought you’d have thrown that away.’

  ‘Look – I was angry. And I overreacted. And I was a dick, and I’m sorry.’ He shakes his head slowly. ‘You did me proud, Laura.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t write anything that wasn’t true; I didn’t make up how good I think you are, Adam.’

  ‘Laura – you can’t just walk away from something good –’ He checks himself. ‘From something you’re good at – you have so much potential. My mum said the same.’

  ‘Adam, don’t worry about it. This was my best solution to a shitty problem – it’s not the end of the world.’

  He chews the inside of his lip, then glances at his watch.

  ‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘how are you? You look exhausted.’ He looks like he’s lost weight, though he still looks entirely gorgeous. I’d forgotten how perfect his mouth is, that bottom lip, that beautiful strong jaw.

  He shrugs. ‘More insane than ever . . .’

  ‘How’s Katie? How’s Josh?’

  At the mention of the baby’s name, he visibly relaxes. ‘Yeah, no, that’s good, we’ve made a lot of progress.’

  Adam’s world has very much carried on without me. Why on earth wouldn’t it have, just because mine’s been on hold?

  ‘I looked after him last Sunday night, round at hers,’ he says.

  I smile, though I fear the twitch at the corner of my mouth gives me away.

  ‘Katie and I have been getting on a lot better in the last fortnight –’