The Dish (31 page)

It’s been so peaceful not having phones on for the last two days. We should turn them off more, I think,
as I reach into my bag and take mine out. I’m tempted to keep it off till tomorrow morning, but just in case Dad or Roger have tried to get hold of me, I switch it on.

Nothing. Just a text from Amber asking if I can look after Annalex overnight; she’s forgotten I’d be back late. And one from Sophie, and one from Kiki too – did I even tell her I was off work today?

Adam shifts his arm around
me and kisses the top of my head. He’s really not that short. In fact our heights are perfectly compatible. I sigh contentedly. I’m almost looking forward to work tomorrow – I hope Roger likes the revised piece. I’m going to take him back to LuxEris maybe next payday – to thank him.

My phone beeps. Kiki. Again? She’s probably out pissed with Azeem – her Monday nights are as messy as anyone else’s
Fridays.

Laura, have you seen what Azeem’s tweeting?!?

She must be looking at photos of baby turkeys, in the pub. Kiki in the pub, not the baby turkeys.

Hope he used the picture I found for him, I christened him Chick Norris!

WTF are you talking about?

She must be three Jägers down and too young to know who Chuck Norris is. I wonder if I can get the turkey’s photo off Twitter and stick Chuck
Norris’s head on it.

‘Adam? Do you know which App I can use to Photoshop from a Twitter photo?’

‘Huh?’ he says, lifting his head slowly – he must have been about to doze off.

‘Don’t worry.’ I’ll figure it out. Right, where are we . . . @TheDish_Online . . . here we go . . .

Oh. My. God. That’s not right. I sit bolt upright and click the link through to our main website.

Oh, that is not right
at all. If this is an April Fool’s it’s a particularly unfunny one, and a day early at that.

Ha ha Kiki, very funny. Tell him to take it down NOW please? X

Ten seconds later my phone rings, Kiki. I press reject.

Stuck on coach, please tell Azeem it has to come down NOW.

Beside me, Adam yawns and sits up. My phone rings again. Kiki.

‘I can’t talk . . .’ I say, as quietly as possible.

‘Dude.’
She sounds extremely sober. ‘Did you brief Azeem before you left?’

I reminded him about the turkey pics, did I forget to tell him about my own copy change?

‘I just thought you might have switched back to the original version at the last minute,’ she says. ‘He’s obviously picked the wrong one off the system.’

‘Could you give him a call, ask him to switch it, and let me know? Thank you.’

‘Everything
OK?’ says Adam.

‘It’s fine.’ Absolutely not, hell no. Azeem is an idiot. He obviously didn’t see the second file had been loaded. Sloppy, just sloppy. ‘Are we still in Essex?’

‘No idea. Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘Fine, thanks . . . have a nap.’

I’m an idiot too. I should have called him on Friday to warn him. Too busy literally painting my toenails.

‘I’m starving,’ says Adam, straightening
up in his seat. ‘Do you fancy grabbing a bite when we get in? There’s an amazing Chinese near Victoria, should still be open.’

Hurry up Kiki, text me back . . .

‘Checking your watch every minute won’t get us there any faster,’ he says. ‘Do you have a hot date when you get home?’

‘Huh? Oh, Amber’s left a message about the dog . . .’ Kiki. Hurry. Up.

OK, think this through: Azeem’s stuck the
original review up but Adam won’t see it. A few hundred readers might, but it can be replaced as soon as Azeem pulls the right one off the system.

Ah, finally! The man himself. ‘Hiya!’ I say, forcing the jollity into my voice.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Yeah . . . the thing is the old thing . . . there’s a newer thing . . . just swap the things.’

‘What?’

‘Can’t talk, I’m on a coach but there
are two, just take the bottom one.’

‘Your column?’

‘Yup.’

‘I matched the paper copy.’

‘No, there are two,’ I say, trying to keep my voice light. Azeem is such an idiot! ‘One has three bits, one is a big long one . . .’

‘One long review, yes.’

‘There’s a newer one.’

‘The big one’s running in the mag.’

‘Was. Isn’t.’ What is wrong with him? ‘It’s fine, just switch them now, could you?’

‘Let me go and check.’

For goodness’ sake!

‘Problem?’ says Adam.

‘Urgh . . . Amber . . . dog stuff . . . dog kit . . . you know, the dog has all these toys and stuff . . . Amber doesn’t know how to use them and she’s using the old . . . dog . . . thingy you know . . . what’s that thing called? Anyway, the thing the dog uses.’

He laughs. ‘I can’t wait to meet Amber properly. What’s the dog’s
name?’

‘Annalex.’ CALL ME BACK! ‘Very cute eyebrows, tufty . . . Ah, here she is again!’

‘Sorted?’ I say.

‘Yeah, I’m doing the right one.’

‘Thank you!’

‘One long list.’

How many more times??

‘Laura: I’ve got April’s issue in my hand. It’s your ninety-nine problems
. . .’

Oh.

Shit.

Better make that a hundred.

‘I’m going to head home,’ I say, as Adam and I stand in the coach station and
I try not to vomit.

He puts his hands in the back of my jeans and pulls me towards him. ‘Stay at mine?’

‘I’m exhausted,’ I say, opening my mouth to fake a yawn, which turns into a real one.

‘We could just crash? I’ll make you breakfast in bed?’

‘That would be nice.’ But the possibility of waking up tomorrow and you reading the review while I’m in your house less so. ‘But I’ll see you later
in the week.’ If I haven’t gone in to hiding.

He pauses and his gaze shifts from mine. ‘This week is impossible . . .’

Oh God, we’re not back to this again? ‘You’re not blowing me out now you’ve had your wicked way with me are you?’ Might be ideal timing though.

‘No,’ he says, biting the inside of his cheek. ‘No, Laura. I had the most amazing time with you. Listen, I’ll call you tomorrow, shall
I?’

‘Sure,’ I say, confused by his sudden change of mood. ‘Are you catching the Tube?’

‘I think I’ll get some fresh air while I still can. Big week . . .’ He pulls me towards him for one final kiss and I have no idea why but a thought goes through my head: this will be the last time you kiss him. I watch as he walks away and suddenly I feel like bursting into tears. The last thing I need is
for Adam to go weird on me now – or go back to being weird.

I have to call Roger. Not that there’s anything Roger or anyone else can do now, short of intercepting twenty-three lorries or buying up every copy of the magazine before six a.m. tomorrow. Roger’s phone is off, he must be in bed. Please let him be in tomorrow because I’m planning on hurling these Toffifees one at a time at Sandra’s
head and I need someone to restrain me. This must be her fault. Either that or the printers picked up the old file – but my money’s on Sandra. How can she think she’d get away with this?

In bed I churn over when to tell Adam the truth. If he can’t see me before Sunday, it’ll have to wait till then – telling him over the phone feels cowardly. How on earth did Tom live with me for a year carrying
his secret morning and night? It feels like a burning rock I can’t wait
to offload.

Even though I keep reminding myself I’ve
sort of
done nothing wrong, I feel guilty and slightly sick. The last time I felt this way was twenty years ago; Jess had bought a brand new sheepskin jacket and hung it on the back of a dining-room chair. I’d been sneakily trying some of her Clinique Dramatically Different
moisturiser and had managed to spill pale yellow cream all down the back of the jacket. Me pointing out she shouldn’t have left her moisturiser in the dining room, or her jacket on the back of a chair, didn’t wash well (ditto the jacket.) Jess threatened to do something dramatically different to my face.

OK, so Adam will be annoyed and upset, but he’ll get over it – they’re only words. But all
that money wasted, all that effort trying to do the right thing.

I’m so irritated, angry and anxious I take two pills and sedate myself into sleep: it isn’t the end of the world.

But I’m going to have Sandra.

The birds wake me at 5.58 a.m. I lie in bed listening to them tweeting – they’re really going for it this morning. After a while they fade, replaced by the sounds of life going about its business. I’m already on my second coffee when Roger calls at 8.00 a.m. ‘Rather annoying turn of events, all things considered. You’re not too upset, are you?’ he says.

‘Pretty unhappy, if I’m honest.’

‘It’ll be forgotten by Thursday.’ Roger’s voice is so mellifluous, he instantly makes me feel calmer. ‘It’s tomorrow’s fish and chip paper – over-priced chip paper at that!’

‘But Sandra—’

‘Don’t worry – the three of us will sit down first thing. I’ll do the talking.’

‘I suppose I could speak to the printers, they do make mistakes – but frankly this is what happens when things change post-deadline,’
says Sandra, blinking innocently at Roger. ‘Deadlines are deadlines for a reason. And such a fuss about a restaurant review. We’ve already had Damian Bechdel’s lawyers on the phone, do you not think that’s a little more pressing?’

I bite down so hard on my lip I’m scared my front tooth might break.

‘Wait until Manderbys actually send a letter before we get our knickers in a twist,’ Roger says
impatiently. ‘The issue here,’ he gestures in my direction, ‘is that Laura went to great lengths to make sure her piece was revised.’

‘I didn’t get that impression,’ says Sandra shrugging. ‘She wasn’t at her desk till well after ten a.m. last Thursday, in fact didn’t you visit the off licence on your way in?’

Roger said to let him do the talking but he didn’t specify who should do the punching.

‘All I want is for the revised version to go online,’ I say. ‘Azeem can have it up almost immediately. We can explain it was two visits, two very different experiences.’

‘A ridiculous idea,’ says Sandra. ‘It makes us look sloppy, incompetent and indecisive.’ (
Us
meaning
me
.) ‘It draws attention to the mistake, and it will have a detrimental effect on our readers’ opinion of our ability to deliver
accurate reporting. This is a restaurant review, not Dewey and Truman.’

Roger scratches the back of his neck, then turns to me with an apologetic look. ‘Laura, I appreciate your logic but I think it’s a case of the proverbial stable door horse bolting.’

‘But it might help mitigate—’

He shakes his head. ‘We’re just going to have to ride the storm on this one. There’s no escaping the fact the
paper copy is out there. I’m sorry,’ he says, gesturing for me to go. ‘Sandra – could you stay a moment?’

‘What did the gaffer say?’ says Azeem.

‘No switch,’ I say, heading back to my desk, a feeling of dread creeping over me.

In Roger’s inbox is an email from Henry, our film critic:

Stonkingly brilliant issue (and not just my review, ha ha!). Glad Damian Bechdel got the kicking he deserves
– and those nouveau riche restaurant guys. ‘The experience leaves a worse taste in the mouth than your Smoked Shiitake Labneh Scarmoza Foam’ – you tell ’em.

PS Labneh Scarmoza sounds like a Bond villain! Have retweeted the link.

I know I shouldn’t but I send Henry an email from my own account:

Would you mind deleting the retweet . . . slight errors in current copy, sorry.

It’s out there now,
but Henry has 43,000 followers on Twitter, and I certainly don’t need it out there to that degree.

From inside Roger’s office comes the sound of voices raised. Damn right. I hope Roger yellow cards Sandra for this. I move towards the door and hear Sandra’s voice: ‘. . .
she lacks the dedication, the education . . .’
On second thoughts I’m not sure I want to eavesdrop this conversation.

If I
didn’t know for a fact Sandra’s insides are made of metal and plastic, I’d swear her eyes were slightly watering when she finally emerged from Roger’s office.

Must be hay fever; it’s that time of year.

Adam texts me later that night saying he’s been thinking about me all day, and asking what I feel like doing on Sunday. Buying up all the copies of
The Voice
and building a big bonfire?

Maybe
country pub lunch and a walk? The bluebells will be out.

In bed I force myself to push my worries about the review to one side – they’re spoiling the enjoyment of my sex memories. That thing with the condoms . . . I wonder if Adam might need to go to a clinic to get the all-clear? He’d never have enough time in his working day. When I went, after the Tom/Tess/Toss revelation, I spent
four hours
in a waiting room that was like an episode of
Skins
– I was the oldest person in there by a decade. There must be a clinic in Soho that’s open on Sundays, perhaps I could suggest that as our date? Bluebells? Or a swab up your willy?

Shall we see what the weather’s like on the day?

Though Adam did say he didn’t have anything, didn’t he? Was he suggesting
I
might have something; that I was
lying
when I said I didn’t? That’s doubly insulting, isn’t it? Maybe that’s not what he meant. I try to go back into the memory of that earlier part of the evening but all is dominated by a flashback of the intense humiliation of being shoved off his lap as I begged him for a shag.

No, I don’t want to play back that part of the night at all. I think I’ll just fast forward to the good bits.

In my inbox is an email from Sandra sent last night. She hasn’t spoken to me since Roger gave her a bollocking yesterday but now she’s sitting there, jaw grinding overtime as though limbering up for a proper fight. I can’t believe I went home yesterday feeling marginally guilty that Roger almost made her cry, while she must have been at her desk crafting this beauty: