Authors: Stella Newman
‘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 week.’
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.
To: Laura
From: Jess
Subject: Is there anybody out there?
You’re very quiet this week. It’s Wednesday and you haven’t sent a single picture of a cat wearing jeans and shoes. Are you OK/are you working on the Laura Parker Brand Strategy?
To: Jess
From: Laura
Subject: Copy check
I am OK. Had a good tasting menu on Monday at Ludo Brunelli – what do you think for the last paragraph?
A box of delights to finish: mini chocolate doughnuts, paper-thin buttery shortbread, and tart apple jellies were served in an old-fashioned biscuit tin, gratis. A generous end to a lovely meal.
To: Laura
From: Jess
Subject: Buying you a dictionary for your next birthday – and a thesaurus!
Don’t use the word ‘gratis’ – it sounds poncey. Or like you’re trying to be a gangster. Either way: lose
it.
And what sort of a lightweight word is ‘lovely’?
Not the first that springs to mind when describing you . . . She’s right though. ‘A lovely meal’ is not a highly sophisticated way of describing dinner. But it’s all I can do to put adjective in front of noun at the moment. Oh, and I’ve forgotten a verb in that final sentence . . .
To: Laura
From: Sophie
Subject: I have your earrings
And your hair clip. And one of your socks.
Dare I ask if he replied?
To: Sophie
From: Laura
Subject: V. bad hangover indeed
I shouldn’t have texted him, but Wolfgang Wolf couldn’t have held me back at that point in the Chardonnay. If he hasn’t forgiven me, the least he could do is call to tell me I’m a bitch?
(I hope he hasn’t told his mum, I was hoping she’d adopt me.)
To: Laura
From:
Sophie
Subject: Hmmm
He has no right to get this annoyed. He sounds like one of those people who re-ignites their anger from the embers of the anger-fag they’re just putting out. He’ll calm down sooner or later.
To: Laura, Dad
From: Jess
Subject: And another thing!
Why didn’t you tell us #TheDish is trending on Twitter?
To: Laura, Jess
From: Dad
Subject: You are a Meme!
I finally know
what a Meme is! Immensely proud of you.
To: Jess, Dad
From: Laura
Subject: re: You are a Meme!
DO NOT want to talk about THAT.
To: Laura
From: Kiki
Subject: Fame at last! Your review is going stellar!
Have you seen page 24 of the
Guardian
this morning? They’ve done a piece showing how many weeks you could feed a family of four for the same price as dinner for two at LuxEris – seven weeks
and six days apparently!
To: Laura
From: Azeem
Subject: URGENT
COME TO MY DESK.
To: Azeem
From: Laura
Subject: Sandra is giving me daggers
This had better be some actual work.
‘Azeem, if you show me one more singing toilet I’m sticking my head in a toilet,’ I say, keeping my voice low. (The first toilet mash-up was on Monday: Jonn Zavragin’s head, superimposed on to the lady-toilet, quickly
followed by a photo of all three owners’ heads, rotating like in
The Exorcist
. Some other wag with too much time on their hands then programmed the heads to rap my review, and in the last two days we’ve had Gordon Brown’s head singing ‘Flush Gordon’, a purple toilet singing ‘Tonight We’re Going to Potty Like It’s 1999’
;
and Roger’s favourite – the toilet with a giant clock on a chain which raps
to Public Enema.)
On the screen a basic 1980s computer animation appears, in the style of PacMan. When Azeem presses the space bar, a mini-s
tickman critic trundles into view and chomps his way through the word LuxEris, then enters a cavernous basement, where two mini-hostesses in gold knickers chase him round in a circle, trying to grab his cash.
‘The aim is to get through the meal without getting
fleeced,’ says Azeem, navigating the critic to a pentagonal table, where he waits a full minute before a mini water waiter approaches. Azeem presses down furiously on the arrow keys as the waiter attempts to wrestle the wallet from his trousers – at which point the critic karate chops the waiter and runs for the exit only to be grabbed by the ankles by a giant Russian bouncer who tips him upside
down and shakes his money out of him. The coins tumble to the ground as GAME OVER throbs, centre screen.
Azeem and Roger seem to think this is all great publicity – but that’s because they’re not nearly as paranoid as I am; and also because they’re not responsible for it.
To: All Staff
From: Azeem
Subject: Record stats!
Latest retweets: Bechdel – 103,000. Turkeys – 87,000. The Dish/Toilet
– 201,000. Amazing numbers!
To: All Staff
From: Jonesy
Subject: Digital bollocks
Aren’t we missing a trick? Can’t we put Damian Bechdel’s head on a turkey, stick him on a toilet – and put Rihanna’s tits on him for good measure?
To: All Staff
From: Sandra
Subject: USE OF ALL STAFF EMAIL
If you are intent on sending non-work related emails during work hours, please create a separate sub-group
cluster in Outlook.
To: Sophie
From: Laura
Subject: You’re right
Adam
is
out of order ignoring my text! Am thinking about it and am officially pissed off now . . . oh, hang on a minute . . .
To: Laura
From: Adam
Subject: Got your text
We need to talk. Can you come round tomorrow morning before work?
His hair’s still wet from the shower but his face looks so pale and traumatised when he opens the front door, he looks like he’s come up from near-drowning.
‘I brought us some coffee from that little Piaggio van by the station,’ I say, holding out a cup for him. He makes no move to take it – in fact he stares at it like it’s an insult.
‘Listen, Adam, I’m sorry again about everything. I
hope you’re not in trouble at work because of it?’
‘Laura – I can’t talk to you about work stuff anymore,’ he says, folding his arms tightly.
‘Oh, OK, well fine.’ I hold out the coffee again but he ignores it.
‘So I take it you didn’t ask to see me because you’ve forgiven me?’ I say, self-righteousness starting to override my disappointment.
‘What am I supposed to be forgiving you for?’ His
voice is calm, though there’s a spark in his eye that reminds me, scarily, of Sandra.
‘For the fact I didn’t tell you about my column earlier?’
He raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘The fact you wrote the most savage review about my food imaginable, all the while telling me how talented and great you thought I was?’
‘Adam—’
‘Or the fact you repeatedly sat there and talked about the reviewer
like it was someone else? For all I know, you’re not actually a secretary and you were lying about that!’
‘Oh Adam!’
‘Don’t
Oh Adam
me! When I first met you, I thought you were the answer. This funny, feisty girl with an appetite for life, pretty and interesting and smart.’
I can’t help but smile, but this only seems to infuriate him.
‘But more than anything, I thought you were someone who
had values you believed in.’
‘I do.’
‘“Fairtrade” this, “Truth and honesty” that . . .’
‘Can you please take this cup from me? It’s hot.’
‘You are literally the opposite of the person I thought you were.’
‘Not literally,’ I say. ‘You don’t mean that
literally
.’
‘No, it’s true, Laura. As you know, I’m not a huge fan of liars, from my recent experiences with another pathological liar—’
‘That
is a
totally
different scenario—’
‘But it’s not even your lies,’ he says, wrinkling his nose as if there’s a bad smell. ‘It’s your hypocrisy!’
‘You think
I’m
a hypocrite? You’re having a go at me about keeping a secret, a professional secret I had bloody good reason to keep – when you kept
your baby
a secret?’
‘It’s hardly the same!’
‘Correct – it’s not the same
at all
, a baby is an actual
person! A person has far greater repercussions on the future than my review of your stupid overpriced restaurant.’
‘Wow. You thought
you
had immunity because
I
was the victim of an insane woman? You could get away with trying to destroy my reputation and lying to my face?’
‘The victim, ah yes, poor you!’
‘Laura . . .’ he says, his eyes darkening.
‘Adam – I processed your bombshell like a mature
adult, because that is what I am. But you? You’ve just festered all week and blown this stuff up out of all propo
rtion in your head.’
‘The only reason you processed it like
a mature adult—’
‘That doesn’t sound like my voice, Adam.’
‘—like
a mature adult
was because you knew you were hiding something ten times worse!’
‘Oh right! You win the prize for your secret being less horrendous than mine?
What do you want? A gold-star sticker? Or a little statue of a saint with his trousers down?’
‘From the first time I met you it was clear,’ he says. ‘You even said it in St John – you hate chefs, we’re all stupid—’
‘I was joking! You laughed about it!’
‘I didn’t realise you were serious!’