Authors: Stella Newman
‘The beef – and make sure you rest it properly at the end.’
‘Thanks.
What did you want to ask me?’
‘I’ve been thinking about what you said – how we never get much time together. I wondered what you were up to Sunday week?’
‘I’m free . . .’
‘And could you take the Monday off work? I’ll go insane if I don’t have a break from that madhouse.’
‘What did you have in mind?’
There’s a pause at the end of the line. ‘A surprise.’
‘I hate surprises.’
‘A nice surprise.
Oh, and you’ll need a passport.’
I hang up and slowly put my phone back in my bag.
‘What did he say?’
‘I might need to buy us a bottle of red to go with those steaks,’ I say, feeling hope surge through me so powerfully, it scares me.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Oh, Sophie, help me. I think he might actually be one of the good ones.’
‘I’ve brought you elevenses,’ I say to Roger, handing him a plate with one of Adam’s new pastries from yesterday.
‘I take it you’ve made up your mind,’ he says, taking a bite, then looking shocked. ‘Haven’t the EU got a law about using this much butter?’ he says, jokingly clutching his chest. He polishes off the croissant in three quick bites, then picks the flaky crumbs from his desk with
a licked finger. ‘So – what’s the plan?’
‘Monday? Your diary’s free. That’ll give me three days to write it, get legal and subs on it. Do you think everything will be tied up on the Bechdel by then?’
‘We’re almost there, housekeeper’s in, driver’s in, we’ve got a final legal over the weekend.’
‘Thank you for letting me do this. I know it’s a pain . . .’
He holds his hand up. ‘You have to follow
your instinct – your mother always used to, even if it meant chopping and changing copy at the last minute, and that was a damn sight more painful back then.’
He gets up from his desk and stands, surveying the layout on the wall. He moves to take it down but I reach out to stop him.
‘Let’s just see what happens, Roger. It’s not a done deal.’
He puts his arm around me and squeezes my shoulder.
‘You’re a good girl, Parker, remember that.’
Behind us I sense a presence lurking in the doorway. It would have to be her.
‘Let’s see what Monday brings.’ He gives me a wink. ‘Sandra, dear, what can I do for you?’
T
o: Kiki
From: Laura
Subject: Zzzzzz
I am so bloody bored! Are you having a fag anytime soon? If so I’ll come and hang with you and you can fill me in on all your latest filthy
fireman stories.
To: Laura
From: Kiki
Subject: re: Zzzzzz
We are stupidly busy with turkeys today – I knew this would happen if we ran late on the Bechdel. No time for fags! (Fireman has been fired. He says ‘pacific’ every time he means ‘specific’ – can’t deal!)
To: Laura
From: Adam
Subject: Date night . . .
Hope the steak turned out well. How are you fixed on Sunday? Would be great to
spend the evening together like normal people do. I haven’t been out for so long, is there anywhere you’d like to go?
To: Adam
From: Laura
Subject: re: Date night
How about you make me that amazing pesto lasagne?
To: Dad
From: Laura
Subject: Round two . . .
So, I’m going back to LuxEris on Monday. Have been hanging out with the head chef, Adam – I’m pretty sure he wasn’t cooking last time.
May need to wear that fake’tache – I don’t want the water waiter to recognise us (not sure I can persuade Roger to wear a dreadlocks wig . . .)
To: Laura
From: Dad
Subject: re: Round two . . .
Your sister mentioned you’d met this fellow. Have you told him about your review?
To: Dad
From: Laura
Subject: ???
No! Roger and Jess said not to, and if the food’s better, he’ll never know.
To:
Laura
From: Dad
Subject: re: ???
Well ‘Roger and Jess’ aren’t always right. Perhaps you should tell him anyway – your mother always thought it was better to be transparent about things, makes life less complicated down the line.
To: Dad
From: Laura
Subject: re: ???
Are you serious
?
To: Laura
From: Dad
Subject: re: ???
Oh Laura.
To: Jess
From: Laura
Subject: Cheers
Thanks for telling
Dad about Adam. And now I have
Dad
lecturing
me
on keeping secrets?
To: Laura
From: Jess
Subject: re: Cheers
Am far too busy for this nonsense. Get a proper job, which doesn’t give you countless hours to sit around getting pissed off about things that happened years ago. You don’t have a monopoly on missing her you know.
To: Sophie
From: Laura
Subject: Grrrrr
What is it about my family
that makes me go from zero to homicidal in five seconds flat?
Anyway, date night with Adam on Sunday –
note time of day
: NIGHT! Please come to Wolfie’s tomorrow, please? I know you hate it but I hate it too . . .
To: Laura
From: Sophie
Subject: Crazy woman
Firstly, there’s nothing wrong with your body.
Secondly, you’re not going to get thin in one hour.
Thirdly – I HATE WOLFIE’S.
But OK,
seeing as it’s you. xx
To: Laura
From: Adam
Subject: Herb’s the word
That pasta needs Ligurian basil and it’s too early in the season but I’ve spoken to my veg supplier and he’s sourcing some Italian greenhouse stuff – next best thing.
To: Adam
From: Laura
Subject: re: Herb’s the word
Sounds amazing. How about we go to your local first?
Herb’s the word
– why does that sound familiar?
To: Laura
From: Adam
Subject: re: Herb’s the word
The Duke of York is two minutes from mine, 7 p.m.? The lyric is Blackstreet, ‘No Diggity’ – we were playing it in the kitchen during clean down earlier, and I was dancing.
To: Adam
From: Laura
Subject: Your work schedule
BTW, are you working on Monday? Am thinking of popping in for early supper – but only if you’re cooking! (And dancing.)
To: Laura
From: Adam
Subject: re: Your work schedule
I’m always working! Let me know – it’s no reservations but they let VIPs book, and you’re way more of an IP than the knob-head who was throwing his weight around on table 14 earlier. Barnaby Ballen – arsehole critic, bullying the staff and trying to ponce freebies. Still, I have to be nice – don’t want a bad review or Ivan and Erek will go
mental . . .
To: Adam
From: Laura
Subject: VIP/VUIP
No red carpet treatment for me, thanks.
To: Laura
From: Adam
Subject: V.VIP
Well, if you do come, don’t forget – stay away from the eels. See you Sunday x
Oh good Lord, I almost forgot to change that line about the mail-order bride . . . What if we do end up running the original review and I hadn’t caught that in time? He’d know immediately
it was me – does not bear thinking about.
I log into the system and delete the phrase. What to put instead . . . My mind’s gone blank.
A mish-mash of a dish?
Not good,
mish
and
dish
make that weird internal rhyme.
Mish-mash mouthful of horror?
I sound like Barnaby Ballen.
A mouthful of horror?
Not the best – it’ll have to do for now.
I re-save the copy, go back in to double-check I’ve spelled
mouthful with one ‘L’, then close the document, feeling as much panic as if I hadn’t remembered to change it at all.
‘You never said it was Hotter Haunches!’ says Sophie, looking unimpressed as she walks in to the lobby of Wolfie’s Workout two minutes before our class is due to start.
‘You wouldn’t have come. Anyway, don’t you want to look like Katja?’ I point to the poster of Katja, tanned and oiled up in a bikini, looking over her shoulder seductively with a 10 kg dumb-bell in each hand. ‘I bet Katja
never has a lie-in on a Saturday morning.’
‘And I bet Katja’s never had chicken korma, cheese naan and two king-sized Cobras on a Friday night, and I am totally fine with not looking like Katja,’ she says, tying her shoelace as the woman next to us performs an ostentatious toe-touch, her entire forearms flat on the floor. Sophie takes in her diamond earrings, perfect high ponytail and coordinated
pink trainer/Lycra combo, then shakes her head. ‘I swore I’d never do this masochistic bullshit again after the post-James bootcamp.’
‘I still can’t believe you let that douchebag torment you about your weight.’
‘If I bumped into him now I’d pie him in the face – if that weren’t a waste of good custard. This place is brutal,’ she says, staring at the poster of Wolfgang Wolf in full potty squat,
top lip straining, teeth bared, with the words PAIN IS YOUR TEACHER! above his head.
‘It’s brutal but it’s only twenty-eight minutes of your week – bosh – then you’re done.’
The worst twenty-eight minutes of your week, to be fair: eight minutes of uphill sprinting, eight minutes of gruelling floor work, back on the treadmills till you nearly puke, then finally a stretch, and an excruciating
group bonding exercise involving high fiving on all fours.
The rest of our class – a mix of alpha males and females and glamour models, hover at the entrance to Wolf Hall and rush through the doors as the previous class stagger out, their faces the colour of Veruca Salt, mid cardiac arrest – so sweat-drenched they look like they’ve been swimming. Sophie and I are the last to file in – the only
ones not branded with Wolfie water bottles or discreet wolf head tattoos, the only ones with BMIs over twenty and unhealthy attitudes.
Eight-per-cent Body Fat Katja stands at the front, knees pumping as she shouts into her earpiece: ‘Wolf Pack, let me hear you howl!’
Twenty men and women, who I’m sure live in four-storey West London houses, not padded cells, get down on all fours and bay at
our leader.
‘Strong Wolves, Lean Wolves, Beautiful Machines Wolves,’ shrieks Katja. ‘Time for some Huff and Puff!’
‘Does she mean these treadmills are beautiful machines? Or that wolves are?’ hisses Sophie, as we attempt to keep up with the sixty-year-old sinewy Iron Granny to our right, pounding uphill at 12 km per hour.
‘Stop talking,’ I say. ‘Makes it harder if you still have an interest
in breathing . . .’
‘Run through the forest! Girls on nineteen and twenty, less chat, more speed! Now on the floor! WORK THOSE HAUNCHES!’
‘These mats smell like my brother’s bedroom when he was fourteen,’ says Sophie, frowning, as we lie down, ankle weights strapped on, failing to replicate the leg lifts everyone else seems to be doing effortlessly.
‘Their weights must be lighter than ours,’
I say, feeling the front of my thighs burning. ‘Oh, please no press-ups – this was meant to be lower body only!’
‘No slacking in the corner! Wolves don’t quit!’ says Katja.
‘Nor do they do tricep curls,’ says Sophie. ‘Bollocks, we’ve still got twelve minutes left, what’s twelve minutes in seconds?’
‘How many weeks to your wedding, Sonia? Two?! Then up to ten kilograms, my love! Now back to
the forest trail! Notch it to the next level! Fourteen kilometres per hour, let me see you FLY!’
‘The only thing flying will be last night’s curry . . .’ says Sophie, turning a deep shade of scarlet.
‘Pilates next time,’ I say, gasping for oxygen. ‘Why does – nobody’s – mascara – even – smudge?’
‘Ladies chatting at the back, stop acting like Wolverines!’
‘Is a wolverine – a real – animal?’
says Sophie. ‘I thought – it was just – Hugh Jackman.’
‘No,’ I gasp, ‘it’s also – a fat – hairy – little – weasel.’
‘Oh!’ she says. ‘Like my old boss, Devron,’ then chokes on her laughter, as the man next to her makes a feral sex grunt, and has to pull the treadmill’s emergency cord.
‘Great work, Wolves!’ says Katja, as we finally haul our trembling bodies towards the exit. ‘And remember, “Red
Meat is Your Friend, Sugar is Your Enemy”! And don’t forget to buy an Isotonic Wolf Juice, available in reception now, in four refreshing fruit flavours!’
‘Urgh, never again,’ says Sophie, wiping the sweat from her forehead with a towel. ‘Quick shower, then lunch? What do you fancy?’
‘What would a wolf eat?’
‘Not Katja, she’s far too bony.’
‘Ooh, did I tell you Adam’s making me this amazing
pasta tomorrow?’
‘Finally – a proper date, at night, with booze!’
‘Adam’s all het up because he can’t source the right Ligurian basil. Little does he know, I’ll be so drunk by the time he lays the table, I’ll be lucky if I can tell pesto from Bolognese.’
Everything is going according to plan! (The plan being: get Adam and myself so steamingly drunk a fumble is inevitable.) We’ve been in the pub half an hour. I’ve bought a bottle of white and have been refilling our glasses like an over-zealous sommelier. I’m tipsy, not full-blown pissed – that can wait till dinner – but having starved myself all day in a last-minute attempt at a flat stomach,
I’ve just sent Adam to buy snacks to soak up a bit of booze.
He’s standing at the bar, waiting to be served, and I can’t help but stare. He’s wearing a checked shirt, jeans and brown leather boots, and even though this is standard issue round here, Adam seems to look smarter than other guys. He’s so at ease with himself, relaxed, and stylish without coming across as prissy. I really wonder what
he looks like without his clothes on though . . . Broad shoulders, strong legs from all the cycling . . .
‘Crisps, cashews and wasabi peas,’ he says, laying three bowls of snacks on the table, and putting his arm round me as he settles back down.
‘I love wasabi peas,’ I say, nestling closer to him. ‘Sophie calls them Russian roulette for the nose.’
‘Like Revels – you never know which one’s
going to be the wrong’un.’