The Dish (16 page)

Still, I’m convinced I’m going to say or do something today that will make Adam realise I’m deeply uncool and far too keen. Even though we’re only meeting for an hour again, I know I’m capable of doing considerable damage in such a short time
.

Sod it: I turn on my bedside light
and root under the bed till I find the equivalent of a horse tranquilliser:
Advanced Food Chemistry
. I’ve read so many books since I started my column but never made it past page 47 of this bad boy. And sure enough, next thing I know my alarm’s going off at 6.00 a.m. and I’ve been using a diagram of an Extended Protein Peptide Chain for a pillow.

Right –
not risking my outfit being the deal breaker;
I pull out my ASOS red jersey dress with the low neck. Clearly too sexy for a 7.30 a.m. date but I love this dress and now it matches the veins in my eyes perfectly.

Bobby’s is lovely – a bright airy space, with a wide selection of freshly baked pastries piled high on platters on the counter, flower pots of fresh mint on every stripped wooden table, and a mix and match of crockery.

Adam’s sitting
inside, head down over the paper, reading intently and when I say hi, he’s caught unawares and looks up almost guiltily.

‘What’s Tuesday like for Capricorns?’ I say, tipping my head to see what he’s so interested in.

He closes the paper quickly and stuffs it by his side. ‘It says, “Don’t be swayed by what a Gemini orders. Tread your own path but why not order the praline brioche?”’

‘You know
what?’ I say, taking a seat. ‘I
was
thinking the praline, or perhaps the chocolate and raspberry croissant.’

‘Actually I could do with ordering both – did I mention I’m doing a new pastry project? One minute . . .’

His phone is ringing and he reaches into his jeans pocket, looks at the caller ID then frowns. ‘Sorry, I have to take this . . .’ He strides outside before answering and stands by
the window, talking animatedly.

I order coffees and pick up his
Daily Metro
to see what he was reading. Not the horoscopes, I’m sure: . . . ‘Energy firms hiking prices in spite of massive profits’ . . . ‘Fathers 4 Justice campaigning for improved fathers’ rights’
. . .

Oh, I see:
that’s
what he was reading, Fergus Kaye’s review of his restaurant. Little fibber, pretending he doesn’t care what
critics write.

10/10: ‘Perfectly executed small plates . . . a simple tomato salad a master class in flavour . . . Cobb salad, festooned with elephantine chunks of avocado . . . ragwort sorbet made me want to scale The Needle and herald its glory . . . The most exquisite interiors since Claridges’ Art Deco bar . . .’

You know nothing, Fergus Kaye.

68. It takes an immense talent to mess up a
tomato salad.

69. The avocado was missing from my London Cobb salad. I double-checked, put my glasses on, used my Torch app: nada.

70. Also missing: the flavour, the texture.

71. Are you quite sure ragwort is edible? Last time I checked it was used to kill horses.

And ‘Exquisite interiors’? Only if your idea of exquisite is Versace meets Liberace at a Bunga Bunga party. Fergus is obviously
still shagging Petronella, LuxEris’s PR girl – of course he’s gushing. If Marina in the
Guardian
had given them top marks I might consider re-reviewing . . .

It’s now 7.46 a.m. and Adam’s still in heated conversation outside. I bet he’ll have to rush off on the dot of 8.30 a.m. Our time together is so limited, I can’t help but calculate he’s been on the phone for twenty per cent of our date.
Might as well catch up on the gossip:

Recipe for Disaster

Celebrity chef Declan O’Brian today announced he is separating from his wife of 14 years. Rumours of an alleged affair had been circulating on Twitter, including one photo showing a sex act taking place in a walk-in fridge.

Humble Pie

O’Brian had previously begged forgiveness from his wife after admitting to fathering a love child with
his PR manager. O’Brian blamed his behaviour on work. ‘People have no idea of the extreme pressures of the professional kitchen, it’s beyond anything imaginable . . .’

Those bomb disposal guys in Iraq might have something to say about that, Declan!

‘Sorry . . .’ says Adam, slipping back into his seat, looking perturbed. He takes a sip of his coffee before realising it’s turned cold.

‘Have you
seen this?’

‘No thanks,’ he says, glancing at the pap shot of a defiant-looking O’Brian. ‘I did part of my apprenticeship with him. The man’s an octopus, thinks his staff are a perk of the job. He used to say “Pick a waitress, any waitress. It’s not about if, it’s about where and when . . .”’

‘Where being the fridge, when being all of the time! Why
do
they call them love children when they’re
invariably conceived in a broom cupboard?’ I say. ‘Not a whole lotta love in that set-up.’

He glances again at his phone.

‘You must have been out with a few front-of-house girls?’

‘It’s not something I’d go out of my way to do again in a hurry,’ he says, briskly.

‘By the way, Adam, were you not going to mention it?’

His face suddenly falls.

‘Aren’t you proud of yourself?’

His voice sounds
almost panicked. ‘Are you being sarcastic?’

‘What?’

He pauses. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘The boy done good?’

‘Laura, how did you . . .’

‘You don’t have to pretend you don’t care what’s written about you, I’d be happy. You don’t look happy?’ In fact he looks almost sick. ‘You must be pleased with a review like that? I mean Fergus is a dick, but still . . .’

He shakes his head, as if
rousing himself from a bad dream. ‘Well . . . I . . . yeah, if it gets Ivan and Erek off my back . . .’

‘Are you OK? You look stressed?’

‘Yep . . . Sorry . . .’ I can feel the vibrations from his leg tapping against the table.

‘Adam, is something wrong?’

‘Back in two secs . . .’ He grabs his phone and heads outside again but this time moves away from the window. He’s gone another ten minutes
and I’m just debating whether to call him, text him, leave the café or order the pastries, when he rushes back in looking panicked.

‘I’m sorry, Laura . . .’

‘It’s fine, we’ve still got almost half an hour—’

‘I’m going.’

‘You’re what?’ I stand abruptly as the paper falls to the floor. This is a new low for date three, even by my standards. ‘You won’t even stay for a quick coffee?’ I wish the
words falling out of my mouth didn’t sound quite so desperate. I wish the dress I’m practically falling out of didn’t look quite so desperate.

He shakes his head but moves closer and for a moment I think he might kiss me again. Instead, he takes a deep breath and fixes me with an expression that reminds me of Tom in the months before I found out about the affair.

There is guilt in this expression
and something withheld. In Adam’s case this look seems tinged with sorrow, seems to say:
I can’t give you what you want
. The look I used to see in Tom’s eyes had a different note: guilt without remorse:
I’m taking what I want; just not from you.

‘Laura, things are . . . I promise it won’t always be like this.’

‘What won’t always be like what?’

‘You and me.’

So we’re
you
and
me
in his head
too . . . And yet
he
can’t spare
me
ten minutes for a coffee . . .

‘Why do you have to rush off?’

He freezes. Now’s the time to
let him speak
.

‘Is it a work crisis, Adam?’

‘Can you do tea later? I’ve got a split shift, I can bike over at four p.m.?’

Answering a question with a question: that is a definite sign, not a good one. Ignore it at your peril.

‘I can’t do tea today,’ I say, my voice
hardening.

‘Breakfast then? Thursday?’

I shake my head.

‘Shit. I have to go,’ he says, looking pained. ‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise. It’s such a bad time . . . but things in my life will be a lot clearer in a few weeks.’

‘Whatever,’ I say, and he’s out the door and on his bike before my shoulders have even finished shrugging.

It’s fine: the sun is almost warm, I can stroll to work through
the tree-lined squares of Fitzrovia. The daffs are out, the crocuses too – buds wide open like newborn chicks, drinking sunshine. And I’ll have time for a proper catch-up with Fabrizio. It’s not Adam’s fault there now seem more hours in the day than there were before I met him.

It’s really fine: Adam doesn’t owe me a thing. I’m an idiot for having invested so much mental energy in his direction,
but I can’t blame him for my daydreams. Do I need to be told, at my age, that Santa doesn’t exist?

And it’s fine because I reckon Adam has some issues. I’m sure he was having a row with that caller just now. And he’s always moaning about his job and it’s never good to be with someone who’s unhappy in their work, it just isn’t . . .

I knew it would fall to pieces sooner or later: better sooner
– less of a disappointment, right? A short little slap in the face from reality never did anyone any harm.

The start of a relationship is fragile because it’s made of pure hope: easier to crush than a shell.

‘I don’t understand why you’re so upset,’ says Sophie, pouring me another glass of wine as I clear our dinner plates.

‘It’s not like we were properly dating. I know it sounds ridiculous
but I felt connected to him. I know about his family, his career, the name of his dead grandma’s dead dog – but I guess all that is meaningless, just data, purely what a person chooses to tell you about themselves.’

‘Laura, I understand why you like him. I don’t understand why you think it’s suddenly over?’

‘If it had been the other way round, I’d at least have stayed for a coffee. Maybe it
was
something I said, I was rude about Declan O’Brien, and I teased Adam about his review . . .’

‘Surely he’s not that thin-skinned?’

‘He said something weird, like “there are things in my life that will clear up soon . . .”’

‘He’s talking about his work,’ she says, reaching under the table for the cake box she’s brought over – Battenberg 2, Chocolate Boogaloo.

‘Do we need forks?’

‘A knife
wouldn’t hurt.’ She follows me into the kitchen. ‘What’s Zoolamber got stashed in here anyway?’ She opens a cupboard and starts inspecting the contents. ‘What’s she doing with a king-size bottle of Xylitol?’

‘If Paltrow eats it, so does Amber.’

‘
Egg white
crisps
? They sound like the opposite of everything a crisp should stand for, and what on earth is Astaxanthin?’

‘A son of Zeus . . . Do you
want a cup of tea? You could sample Amber’s Golden Rot and Knobgrass? Golden Rod and Knotgrass. Contains birch leaves and horsetail?’

She steers me back through to the wine. ‘Don’t look so worried. Adam sounds lovely. And that phone call will be nothing to do with you.’

‘Maybe he met another girl before he met me, and that’s who he was with on Sunday? I
thought
it was weird he didn’t ask to
see me on his day off . . .’

‘Then he would have cancelled before the date,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘So he came back to tell you he couldn’t stay? Or he sent a text?’

‘He came back, flustered, looking shifty.’

‘At least he came back.’

‘Soph, only you can see the glass half full in being stood up mid-date. He offered to pop over for tea but I said no and I haven’t heard from him since.’

‘He’ll be in touch, it’s just a teething problem. You shouldn’t have been so sharp with him about tea,’ she says, finally opening the cake box.

‘You’ve fixed your marzipan!’

She cuts through the icing to reveal a patchwork of cherry and chocolate squares. ‘Dark chocolate, makes it less sweet but the frangipane balances it out. I’m going to try again on Thursday with milk chocolate. Laura: I
understand why you’re holding back; after James I thought I’d never trust anyone again.’

‘It’s more complicated than that . . .’

‘Give him the benefit of the doubt.’

‘I don’t understand why you don’t think his behaviour is weird?’

‘But he’s done nothing wrong.’

‘Well, I’m obviously not explaining myself properly.’

Because if I was, I’m pretty sure she’d agree something’s not quite right.
But if I try to put it into words, I admit it does sound a little paranoid.

Roger’s having a meeting in his office on Wednesday morning and while I’m making drinks my phone rings. For a moment I dare to hope it might be Adam but it’s Kiki, calling from upstairs, with a message to come and see her.

‘Are those new?’ I say, spying a pair of hot pink suede boots in the jumble under her desk, toes pointing inwards like they’re dancing to the Bee Gees.

‘Forty pounds
down from two hundred and eighty in Selfridges’ sale, the joys of having size two feet,’ she says, taking her red biro from behind her ear and making a note on the page in front of her. ‘Maximum respect, Laura, you’ve ripped these guys a new one.’

‘Thanks,’ I say half-heartedly.

‘I’ve got a few tweaks, so sit. OK, first up this needs revising:

‘2. Next time Kevin’s rifling through his iTunes,
ask him to pick a song that doesn’t refer to women as bitches – us bitches get uppity so easily.

‘You think Kevin The Teenager’s too dated a reference?’ I say.

‘Not the problem. You’re revealing you’re a woman.’

‘How did I not notice that? OK, put the full stop after the first bitches.

‘Yeah, but having an issue with the word
bitches
in a Jay-Z track makes you sound like a politically correct
pseudo-feminist – I’d rethink it. Right, point twenty-four:

“Describing your Earl Grey Long Island iced tea as Rohypnol in a glass is funny if you think rape is funny. Less so if you don’t.