The Dish

by Stella Newman

  I’ll call Kiki and Azeem after I’ve met Sophie, and see if they fancy lunch, and I can get the gossip. Now Roger’s on the mend, I think it’s OK if I listen to them bitch about Sandra – as long as I don’t actually join in, I reckon God will forgive me.

  On the way to the station I buy a copy of the Big Issue, and flick through it on the Tube over to Fabrizio’s. Peculiar, doing my normal commute without my job to go to, I feel like a confused corporate homing pigeon who’s lost its way. Come Monday morning, the hard work starts. Jess and I have mapped out a plan. I’m going to call Doug and some of my old contacts; I reckon I can be up and running within a month. There are things, good things, to look forward to.

  When I arrive at Fabrizio’s there’s a small queue at the counter, just spilling on to the street, and as soon as I walk through the door I notice something’s different. Finally! After years of my nagging, and at the exact point I’ve stopped being a regular, he’s started selling food. I peer past the man in front of me’s shoulders, and see on the counter two platters stacked with savoury pastries: Parmesan and bacon brioches, and leek, shallot and Gruyère spirals. They’re perfectly beautiful and somewhat familiar.

  Fabrizio is in the middle of taking payment from a customer but as soon as he finishes he comes round to hug me. ‘Where the fack you been? I thought you were away for one week?’

  ‘I said a month, Fab.’

  ‘But now is nearly two whole months!’

  ‘You’ve missed me?’

  ‘I wanted you to see this,’ he says, waving his arm towards the pastries. ‘Your friend is a genius.’

  ‘Yeah, and my other friend is going to be well pissed off you’re stocking Adam’s stuff and not hers! She’ll give you a bollocking herself in a minute.’

  ‘She coming here too?’ he says, looking surprised.

  ‘Meanwhile, how long have you been seeing Adam behind my back?’

  ‘Only for one week so far – I make the Tweet of the flavours in the morning, sell out by noon,’ he says, gesturing with both hands in a game-over sign.

  ‘So . . . did Adam drop these off this morning?’ I ask, trying to sound nonchalant, but feeling a flutter of nerves when I mention his name, feeling a mild throb of anxiety when I picture him standing where I’m now standing, just a few hours ago.

  ‘He didn’t already tell you the plans?’

  ‘Well, you know . . . he’s been very busy . . .’

  ‘He’s not busy now?’ he says, looking confused.

  Fab clearly knows more about Adam’s work schedule than I do, and I’m not in the mood to go into detail with him about my failed relationship, especially not when the woman behind me is tutting impatiently. ‘Listen Fab, you’re busy – I’m going to head to the back and wait for Sophie. I’ll order when she gets here.’

  ‘I’ll give you a minute to catch up,’ says Fabrizio, and lets out a small sigh of contentment, before turning snappily to the next customer.

  I head towards the back room, pull the curtain to one side and catch my breath because there’s already someone in the room – sitting at the corner table, looking grumpy and exhausted but still entirely gorgeous. His eyes are fixed in my direction, those beautiful blue eyes, and when he sees me he smiles the most wonderful smile – a smile of forgiveness and new beginnings. I cannot believe Sophie told him I’d be here. I am secretly delighted she did that.

  I take a seat next to him and try to calm myself, though I feel like my heart is having a minor event.

  He looks at me with a mixture of affection, amusement and a slight edge of holding back.

  ‘Laura – I’m glad you’re here . . .’

  ‘Adam, I’m glad you’re here too . . .’ I say, trying to conceal quite how overjoyed I am to see him.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here – because you still owe me for that doughnut, and I’ve come to get my fiver.’ His face is serious, but he’s struggling not to smile.

  ‘Oh right, your money . . .’ I say. ‘Of course . . . You know what? I’ll double-check but I think I’ve only got about two pounds on me.’ I open my handbag and reach for my wallet. There’s a pound coin, some shrapnel and the rest is left over from France. ‘Is it OK if I give it to you in euros?’

  ‘Actually – I need it in sterling. I need every penny I can lay my hands on,’ he says, looking mildly panicked. ‘Unemployment beckons, a week from now.’

  ‘But you’re doing your own thing, right?’

  ‘Starting to,’ he says, looking up to the ceiling, as if for reassurance. ‘I’ve got half a dozen delis and coffee shops lined up and a few high-end restaurants who buy in their bread. I need more than that – but I have to keep enough time free for the rest of my life. It’s do-able. Other people do it – I guess I can, too.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Adam – you’ll be great. Your pastries are like crack.’

  ‘Do you mean that as a compliment?’

  ‘Of course! Why?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been doubting myself recently . . . since some foul old man in The Voice wrote rather a lot of brutal things about me.’

  ‘Oh, that old man is clearly an idiot. Besides, you shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers.’

  He smiles gently, then his smile fades and he stares at me intensely. I imagine he’s doing what I’m doing: replaying in fast-motion the highs and lows of us. God, I hope he’s feeling what I’m feeling because I feel it now more than ever – but it stops my heart, it scares me so much.

  I can’t figure out what to say to him, there is so much I want to say: I’ve missed you. I want you. Do your best not to hurt me and I promise I’ll do the same. Let’s be one of those couples who are happy – not Facebook happy but truly happy. I look into his eyes, hoping to find a watertight guarantee that together we will make this work – what I see there is as close as I think a person can get.

  We’ve been sitting, contemplating each other for a full minute when he finally breaks the silence. ‘Laura, why did you leave town like that, without even seeing me?’

  If ever there was a time to tell the truth it is now: a time to stop running from the fear of pain, a time to be brave.

  ‘Adam – I feel so much for you, and I have done since the day we met. If I’d seen you before I left, it would have made me feel worse, it would have hurt more and I already felt pretty beaten up. So if I’m honest I was being cowardly.’

  He nods. ‘And that’s why I said we can’t be friends,’ he says, shrugging his shoulders.

  I feel it like a punch in the gut. ‘You don’t want to be my friend because you think I’m a coward?’

  He tuts loudly. ‘I don’t want to be your friend because you and I are way more than friends.’ Are way more than friends – not were – are.

  I take a deep breath and carry on. ‘And I have to be honest about the baby. I can’t pretend to be this amazing, unfazed type who takes it all in her stride. My instant reaction was to freak out. A situation can be rational in your head, but you don’t know how you’ll feel about it until it’s there in front of you.’

  He rubs the back of his shoulder slowly. ‘So . . . the thing is, I still don’t know yet how it’s going to pan out with Katie. I’m asking for access every other weekend and one night a week but he’s so young it might not be practical till he’s at least a year old. I might just get once a month till then – I don’t know. And she could so easily turn round at any point and say I can’t even have—’

  ‘Look, don’t bother explaining,’ I say, biting my lip as I summon up all the courage I can muster. ‘It doesn’t matter what access you end up getting. It makes no difference at all.’

  His face falls. ‘But Laura – surely if I can—’

  ‘Adam, what I said just now – about having things worked out logically in my head . . .’ I pause and take another deep breath. ‘When I saw you with Josh, my overwhelming thought was: I can’t do this. But sitting here with you now – I know in my heart I can’t not.’

  He reach
es out slowly and takes my hand, and his thumb gently rubs mine. We sit quietly, neither of us moving. I feel almost dizzy with the possibilities of what might yet be. After a minute he glances at his watch and tips his head back in irritation.

  ‘You’ve got to go back to work again?’ I say.

  ‘Only one more bloody week, I swear.’ He sighs apologetically.

  ‘Adam – are you looking after Josh this Sunday?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet – if I do, it’ll be in the afternoon. Why?’

  ‘Well, how’s this for a plan? I’ll give you the fiver – in sterling – on Sunday morning and the two of us can sew ourselves a little white flag out of the bread in a bacon sandwich?’

  ‘Now you’re talking. At yours?’ he says, grinning, and edging his chair closer to mine.

  ‘Nope, no bread allowed. But I know this great little place where they do a mean bacon sarnie, and if we get there early enough they might even have a custard doughnut left . . .’

  ‘A bacon sarnie, a custard doughnut and a new beginning?’ He strokes his chin as he considers it. ‘Hmm. I’m not entirely sure I can do that . . .’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Well, it’s nothing personal, Laura, but I think I know the place you mean, and the last time I went there I was accosted by a lunatic who stole half my breakfast.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘It is! In fact I think this woman was borderline insane – she actually pulled her own tooth out in a pub.’ He clicks his fingers, ‘Like that – didn’t even flinch.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘I believe just for the hell of it. And then she rained down a world of pain on me at work, and she slightly broke my heart,’ he says, lifting my hand to his lips, softly kissing my wrist, and then moving my palm to his chest. He places his other hand on top of it and holds it close.

  ‘It’s still beating, Adam. They’re stronger than you think.’

  ‘And the worst part,’ he says, resting our hands back down by his side, ‘is that in spite of all those things – or perhaps it’s because of them – I’ve grown rather fond of this creature.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘I have.’ He stares at me with an expression full of hope, then shakes his head in wonder. ‘In fact I can’t imagine being quite this fond of anyone else in the foreseeable future.’

  He looks back down at our entwined fingers, then turns to me and smiles, and I know with my whole heart, whatever happens next, whether we make it or not, it won’t be because we didn’t try.

  Acknowledgements

  For starters, many thanks to the fabulous Victoria Hobbs, Pippa McCarthy and Jennifer Custer for good humour, wise counsel and all round brilliance.

  I am immeasurably indebted to Mari Evans for insight, ideas and gentle guidance. And über thanks to the magnificent team at Headline – Vicky Palmer, Frances Gough, Frances Edwards, Katie Bradburn, Katie Corcoran and Frances Doyle.

  This book was so much fun to research, thanks in no small part to the supremely talented chefs who shared their time, passion and knowledge with me: Pete Begg, Marianne Lumb, Dan Doherty, Shams at Patogh, Frankie at Fiendish and Goode, and the greatest baker in the world, creator of The Custard Doughnut, Justin Gellatly at Bread Ahead.

  Thanks to all my friends, always, for love, comedy, fun and games – in particular my early readers – Joy Cotterell, Kathryn Finlay, Belinda Kutluoglu, Felicity Spector, Michelle Grose, Dalia Bloom, Susie Aliband, Bobby Sebire, Phil Thomson and Anna Hayman. And also to Adam Polonsky for Italy and beans, car-aoke, illegible notes and letting me win at Trivial Pursuit that one precious time. Ali Bailey – inspirational beauty and provider of dodgy wasabi peas. Andrew Hart, always there in my many hours of need. Rachel Swift, burger-partner extraordinaire. Gerry Katzman for putting up with my writer’s block grumpiness. Jenny Knight for infinite wisdom and patience. Ann Farragher and Massi Passimonti for Italian lessons, Nima Amjadi for Persian lessons, Baykar Tafi for your nafas. Dominic Fry for advice about a dog, Andy Pullen for your charming bedside manner, Simon Doggett for bringing editorial meetings back to life. Graeme Dunn, superstar, man of many hats, medical-guru extraordinaire, James Harris for bike advice and sartorial inspiration, Eli Dryden for generosity and kindness.

  Clive Jones, curry partner on those dark winter nights and the hot summer ones too,

  Lexie Emerson-White for saving me from my bad self over and over, and for coming to Wolfies with me. Cassie Suddes, canapé-chaser extraordinaire, for helping me research more than a few of the meals in this book – I’m still not mentioning The Notebook. Laura John for schooling me in the finer points of libel law, Elizabeth and Laura Watkins and David Staples, for giving me a room with a fabulous view. Dan ‘Zvuv’ Simmons, for that loving slap in the face, Keren Levy for the date-from-hell story and more, Russell Hardiman – restaurateur extraordinaire – for insider info, Toby Finlay for your helpful feedback, Mum and Dad, for pretty much everything.

  And finally – a huge thank you to my readers for your support and kind words – the icing on my cake.