The Dish (42 page)

‘You didn’t know though?’
says Anne-Marie.

‘But I feel like it’s my fault – I should have known. I should have picked up on something that was said, the way she was acting before . . .’

Anne-Marie looks at me with confusion. ‘Why would you be so hard on yourself?’

‘Because those precious hours were wasted with Tom. I took them from Mum and gave them to him and that makes me sick with guilt. And after Mum died I was
angry with everyone – angry with the doctors, angry with a God I stopped believing in, angry with
her
for dying . . .’

‘But that’s a very common feeling, you know that?’ she says, gently rubbing my shoulder.

I shrug. ‘That doesn’t help me much,’ I say, smiling softly. ‘The thing is, I know it’s unfair to still blame Dad for keeping it a secret. But I guess it suits me better that way.’

‘How
so?’

‘Well . . . because if I blame Dad . . . then I guess I don’t have to blame myself.’

Sometimes it’s easier to be completely honest when you’re talking to a stranger.

Anne-Marie looks at me kindly. ‘You do realise you don’t actually have to blame anyone? Life’s a lot less painful when you don’t create your own stick to beat yourself with.’

‘I should have called her back, Anne-Marie, I
wish I’d called her back.’

‘Oh love,’ she says. ‘In this job I hear people talk about the things they regret all the time. Things they wish they’d said or hadn’t said, done, or hadn’t done . . . And I always tell them the same thing: don’t hold on to regrets you can’t do anything about. Focus on the ones you can still fix.’

In April’s issue, due to an administrative error, we published an incorrect review of LuxEris: wrong in tone, wrong in content. I apologise wholeheartedly to my readers for this – and to the owners and staff of the restaurant. Journalists make mistakes, the same way chefs make mistakes – we’re all fallible. The ability to apologise makes us human.

Had the correct review run it would have said head chef Adam Bayley’s food is fantastic – flavours, textures and execution were on a par with the best in the business. I’m sure whatever he does in his career, his passion, dedication and respect for his customers will shine through.

New restaurants rely heavily on good reviews. Critics are given a short cut to power: power is open to abuse – hence
why I write incognito. Money is another short cut to power: hypothetically a rich business can intimidate a poorer one with the threat of years of litigation through sheer financial might. I think that’s bullying, and my mother taught me not to stand for it. So while I’ll apologise for an administrative error, I refuse to apologise for my opinions on eating out, which are these:

1. A great restaurant
should make every customer feel equally welcome when they walk in – and when they walk out they should feel even better,
not
done over. I’m happy to pay a fair price for quality but I personally feel ripped off being charged £24 for a Heritage Carrot. At that price the carrot should have gone to Eton and dated a Middleton – even if it was Carole.

2. The restaurant business is called Hospitality
for a reason. Yes, technical mastery is important, but so is a generosity of spirit and attitude. If you’re serving a £45 burger – even a foie gras and bone marrow sous vide deluxe £45 burger – throw in the chips too, because potatoes are not expensive. Besides, some things belong together: burgers and chips. Waiters and eye contact. Service and a smile.

3. Great restaurants create a sense of
conviviality. If you look around them, people are relaxed and having a good time – not just rubber-necking to see if that really is Sir Elton over in the corner booth.

4. Having a menu that’s a checklist of trendy ingredients – yuzu, Tiger’s milk, sea buckthorn – is tiresome. What customers truly crave – pleasure, nourishment, delight – never goes out of fashion. The best meal I ate this year
had four ingredients – none of them foraged from a ditch outside Copenhagen. Give me a simple dinner made with love, over a Kimchee-Lobster Shiso-Ramen Steamed Bun made with nothing but cynicism, any day of the week.

5. For me, the definition of luxury is not drinking a £600 bottle of Krug out of a £134 wine glass, then peeing it into a golden toilet. Luxury is the sheer splendour of sitting
on a garden chair on a hilltop eating a bowl of beans with someone wonderful.

6. At the end of a great meal, coffee should not be an afterthought. Coffee, like service, like bread, is a reflection of the care a restaurant takes in every part of the experience. One of my criticisms in April’s review was regarding the quality of coffee served. LuxEris maintains it was fresh – I was convinced it
was instant and the reason I felt confident in my judgement was because I spent ten years working in coffee – at Union Roasters and Bean To Cup. During my career I visited fifty-three farms in eleven countries, I’ve tasted literally tens of thousands of cups. If you’re after proof of my coffee credentials, you can find me on Google – my name’s Laura Parker. However, what I cannot prove is what the
liquid in my bone china cup was two months ago – and on the basis the law requires proof: I am wrong.

Sometimes people have good reasons for keeping secrets. Sometimes those reasons fade or are surpassed by a greater responsibility – in this instance to the truth. This column has been a privilege to write. I’ve eaten at many great restaurants, run by talented people, with heart and soul. I have
loved sharing the highs – and occasional lows – with you. For now, it’s time to hang up my knife and fork.

Bon appetit,

Laura Parker

PS Fergus Kaye – ‘Conviviality’ has s-i-x syllables, I’ve counted them out on my fingers and opposable thumbs.

And I hope you enjoyed my halibut – it isn’t the French name for sea bass – it isn’t even close.

It’s Sunday, a week and a half later. I’m sitting by Roger’s bedside in a normal ward, reading my horoscope – ‘Full moon in Aquarius, a time of great change’ – when he opens his eyes. He’s been coming back to life slowly but surely. Nine days ago they took away the tube in his throat and now he’s breathing entirely unaided. Last Saturday, he said his first words – Gemma said they sounded
something like ‘bloody buggeration’. Since then we’ve celebrated him sitting up in a chair and his first foul steamed cod and watery mash dinner. He’s planning on celebrating the removal of his catheter any day now – we’ll let him do that one in private.

The human body can be amazingly resilient – as can the mind. Roger can’t remember anything about being in the coma and when I point out Arthur,
who’s walked past our ward a few times while he’s doing physio, Roger can’t believe it. ‘I slept through all of that? Bribe one of those nurses quick, and get me some propofol for the next board meeting!’

Roger’s probably in here for one more week, but he’s doing so well. He’s asked to see May’s issue, and I keep pretending I’ve forgotten it – but I’ll show him tomorrow or maybe Tuesday. I’m
here every day, even if only for twenty minutes. Jess made some stupid comment about how empty my life must be that I can find the time to visit Roger every day. She said, until you have kids, not only do you not grow up but you have no idea what ‘busy’ means. I did point out that Dad does almost all her childcare for her – and then I hung up on her – but anyhow, I have wanted to be here every day.
I feel grateful I’ve had that time.

‘Roger – I’m going down to get a posh coffee, well, a foul, over-brewed one, but still . . . can I get you anything from the shop?’

‘You can sneak me back a bottle of Glenfiddich? The twelve-year will suffice, don’t worry about finding the eighteen.’

‘I was thinking more like carrot sticks or some prunes?’

As I’m wa
lking, head down, through main reception,
I hear my name being called, twice. I freeze at the sound of his voice. I cannot believe Sophie told him I’d be here: I am pissed off she did that.

I stand on the spot and he moves toward me, kisses me awkwardly on the cheek. I can’t believe five weeks ago we were in Italy, in bed, and now when his lips briefly touch my face it feels like we barely know each other.

‘I’ve tried calling you. I
had no idea,’ he says, his eyes sad, his face confused. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Roger?’

I shrug. ‘There’s not much anyone can do in these situations . . . It’s fine, he’s doing well, back to his old self, almost.’ I smile softly.

Adam looks down at the ground, then back at me. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the coffee? I would have helped, Laura – there’s no way I would have let that happen.’

‘And that’s why I didn’t tell you.’

‘I don’t understand?’

‘I wouldn’t want you putting yourself on the line for me with some noble gesture.’

He thrusts his hands in his jeans pocket and his gaze shifts to the floor. ‘It would have been about doing the right thing, Laura – not about doing it for you. And now you’ve gone and quit, and that makes me think your decision had something to do with
me.’

I laugh at the irony. ‘Well, Adam, believe it or not, you big-headed fool, I didn’t do that for you! I did that for myself.’ I smile, but his face is filled with sorrow.

‘Laura – I read your column in May’s issue.’

I feel my face colour. I wrote it in such a rush, and the minute I saw it in actual print I felt silly, having put that personal stuff in about him and me, on top of the hill.

‘And I finally got round to reading the review you left in my kitchen,’ he says.

‘Oh. I thought you’d have thrown that away.’

‘Look – I was angry. And I overreacted. And I was a dick, and I’m sorry.’ He shakes his head slowly. ‘You did me proud, Laura.’

‘Well, I didn’t write anything that wasn’t true; I didn’t make up how good I think you are, Adam.’

‘Laura – you can’t just walk away from
something good –’ He checks himself. ‘From something you’re good at – you have so much potential. My mum said the same.’

‘Adam, don’t worry about it. This was my best solution to a shitty problem – it’s not the end of the world.’

He chews the inside of his lip, then glances at his watch.

‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘how are you? You look exhausted.’ He looks like he’s lost weight, though he still looks
entirely gorgeous. I’d forgotten how perfect his mouth is, that bottom lip, that beautiful strong jaw.

He shrugs. ‘More insane than ever . . .’

‘How’s Katie? How’s Josh?’

At the mention of the baby’s name, he visibly relaxes. ‘Yeah, no, that’s good, we’ve made a lot of progress.’

Adam’s world has very much carried on without me. Why on earth wouldn’t it have, just because mine’s been on hold?

‘I looked after him last Sunday night, round at hers,’ he says.

I smile, though I fear the twitch at the corner of my mouth gives me away.

‘Katie and I have been getting on a lot better in the last fortnight –’

What does that mean? What does that lead to?

‘And I’ve got him for the afternoon – probably why I look so tired.’

‘You’ve got him
today
?’

‘Mum’s round the corner with him, we didn’t
want to bring him into a hospital.’

‘No, of course not . . .’

He looks at me intently and I hold his gaze. My body’s so confused. It’s exhausted from all the recent stress, and right now it feels nervous – my arms are slightly tingling. My brain feels unsure of what’s going on between Adam and me, but I do know I feel a definite physical longing, and a slight sickness in my stomach at the thought
of Katie.

Adam looks like he’s trying to remember something at the end of a long list – then his face relaxes again, and he nods. ‘Come and say hi. Come say hi to Mum, come and meet him.’

I shake my head.

‘Come. She’d like to say hi. He’d like to say hi, too, or maybe he’d like to sick up on you, which is his way of being friendly.’

‘I don’t have time . . .’

‘Laura,’ he says, reaching for
my hand. I look down at his fingers entwined in mine, and my body stops being confused. Adam standing here, holding my hand, makes my heart feel calm and it’s as simple as that. ‘Please?’ he says. ‘Just for one minute – we’re literally around the corner.’

Anna Bayley is sitting at the back of the quiet coffee shop with a small white bundle wrapped up in her arms, gazing at the baby with adoration.

‘You forget how perfect they are when they’re asleep!’ she says, gently rocking him, peering more closely at his sleeping face and then smiling all over again.

‘It’s so nice to see you,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you after all the stuff that’s been happening . . .’

She waves the comment away. ‘Times like this you realise what actually matters. How is he? Adam said he’s out of Intensive
Care?’

‘On the mend.’ I watch, as Adam comes over to his mother and the two perform a gentle, already deft handover. Adam stands, cradling Josh in his arms – his face lit up, transformed. Since I’ve been out of the picture, he has fallen in love.

Adam proudly holds the baby up for me to see. Josh is dressed in a super-cute blue and orange stripy Babygro, grey trim at the cuffs. He’s fast asleep,
his left arm curled over his body, nestling into his father, his right hand spread out slightly across his left cheek, as if really, he’s just had
the most
tiring of days. He is tiny. Perfect. New hope. A blessing. I’d like to reach out and touch his cheek, feel the softness of his skin, hold those adorable little fingers in my own.

Adam asks if I’d like to hold him, but I hesitate as my mind
spins off to its own peculiar place. I hadn’t fully imagined what seeing Adam with Josh for the first time would feel like; I thought I’d be fine, but now they’re in front of me I feel utterly unsettled. This should all be a big Athena poster dream – the gorgeous hunk nursing the even more gorgeous baby. But I feel like I’m a long shadow cast across the picture. This tight, happy unit isn’t mine
to waltz into – it belongs to someone else.

When I look at this beautiful child, my heart starts to open like a flower. But a moment after I see the baby’s perfection I see my own imperfect thoughts. I wish this baby was mine and Adam’s – not only Adam’s. And I wish it was ours – not today, not now – but perhaps in two years’ time, or even three, when I’m a little more ready for it. And these
are blemished and selfish thoughts, and they’ve been quick to rise to the surface – and from a sense of deep shame I blatantly look at my watch and pretend I didn’t realise it was already nearly four o’clock.