The Dish (6 page)

‘I’ll be fine, as long as there’s a car chase.’

‘So where were you last night, anyway, that you’re this hung-over?’ I say, running my finger down his unshaven cheek. The stubble quite suits him.

‘Huh?’

‘Did you go out locally?’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘With the boys?’

‘What?’

‘Were you out with the boys, after football?’

‘Oh.
No.’

Oh no.

‘Oh. I thought you were playing football yesterday?’

‘Yeah, I did, I just ended up meeting up with a friend.’

‘A friend?’

‘Just a friend.’

Just a friend.

My stomach flips. I have been here before.

Those three little words are a sign: a sign that means: don’t ask who.

‘Who?’

‘Why?’

Answering a question with a question. That’s another sign.

‘I’m curious,’ I say.

‘. . . A
friend I met recently.’

‘A girl?’

He nods and shifts in his chair. Oh please don’t make me Paxman this out of you.

‘Was she a girl you met on Tinder?’

He leans forward and puts his hand on his glass and rests it there, then turns to look at me with a face that says
there’s no point in trying to style this out, is there
?

‘Ah,’ I say, though it comes out more like ‘ouch’.

‘Don’t be like that,
Laura, it’s not a big thing.’

‘Be like what?’

‘You look so . . .’

‘No, I’m not anything. But just to be absolutely clear, was it a date?’

He pauses before nodding.

‘A first date?’ I say, feeling my temper rise.

‘Laura, I think you’re lovely.’

Yes. I think I’m OK too.

‘The thing is . . .’ He takes a deep breath and sighs with the exhaustion of it all. ‘It’s only been six months since I
broke up with Becky. I’m just finding my feet again.’

Your feet or your dick?

‘You understand what it’s like,’ he says, swiftly changing gear from
caught in the act
to
we’re on the same side
.

‘I understand what
what
is like?’ I say.

‘Divorce. Splitting up from your other half.’

‘Right.’

‘It’s not easy.’

‘Yes, I do vaguely recall that.’

He nods and takes another slow sip.

‘Are you about
to say something else, Russell?’

‘Like what?’

‘You were saying, “It’s not easy getting divorced . . .”’

‘My point is,
you’ll
understand why I don’t want to rush things . . .’

He means rush things emotionally; he was certainly in a rush physically last time we met.

‘But I genuinely do think you’re very attractive,’ he says. ‘I’d like to see where this goes.’

I can tell you where this goes:
nowhere.

‘Laura, you said yourself you weren’t ready for anything for ages after you broke up with Tom.’

‘I did say that, Russell, that is true.’

‘So then . . .’

I pause while I try to formulate my thought, to make it sound as unemotional as possible; I fail. ‘When I broke up with Tom I wasn’t ready for anything
so I didn’t go round shagging more than one person at a time.
I was
acutely
aware
that I didn’t want to be on the giving
or
receiving end of that. I wasn’t prepared to muck anyone about.’

‘Exactly, and I don’t want to muck
you
about, which is why I’m telling you the truth now. I could have lied.’

‘You’re doing me a favour by telling me you’re shagging other women?’

‘What? How am I meant to win in this conversation?’

There are definitely no winners in this conversation.

‘If I wouldn’t put up with an unfaithful husband, why would I put up with it from you?’ I say, trying hard to keep my voice low but hearing it get louder nonetheless.

‘OK! Fine, sorry. I didn’t realise you’d feel this way. I must have misread the signals. I thought you’d understand, that’s all.’

‘But I do understand. I understand perfectly.’ I stand up and nod. ‘Thanks for the gin.’ I gather
up the flowers, drain the last of my glass and head for the door, trying to ignore the stares of the hipsters next to us.

Well, we didn’t make it through date four after all. I storm through the back streets towards St John. Why did I bring these manky old flowers with me anyway? I should have flung them onto the table like a proper diva.

Being honest with me
. . . Jesus, what is
wrong
with
these men? Do they think they can get away with anything, as long as they do it in plain sight? That’s almost as bad as hiding it. I should never have let him have a third date. I
knew
it, I should have trusted my gut when he claimed he didn’t have money for a cab home and could he crash at mine. Another lie!

Right – bacon sandwich, then home to watch back-to-back
Game of Thrones
– time to turn
this day around.

The waiter who normally serves me isn’t here, and an earnest young guy shows me to a table with a view into the kitchen. I dump the flowers on the chair opposite and sit back to watch the chefs pull the golden sourdoughs from the wood-fired oven: very therapeutic.

‘Can I order right away, please?’ I ask, as the waiter heads off to fetch a menu.

‘I’ll be two minutes.’

I take
my phone out – 10.55 a.m. Still five minutes to order, I’m home and dry. I’ve been dreaming about this sandwich since yesterday morning. Ah, a message on Tinder! Probably Russell, telling me why it’s my fault he shagged another girl . . .

‘Yes, could I please have the bacon sandwich and a black coffee?’ I say, grabbing the waiter.

He looks awkwardly over my shoulder. ‘I don’t think we’ve got
any left, let me just check.’

He heads back to the kitchen and comes back a moment later. ‘I’m so sorry, we just sold the last one to the table behind you.’

I turn around and see some guy, head down over a laptop, typing. Typical, some City boy writing emails to Merrill Lynch has just nicked my sandwich. Not happy about that.

‘Is there no way they can make me half of one or something?’

The
waiter looks confused.

‘I’m happy to pay for the whole thing, but I really do need that sandwich.’

He comes back again from the kitchen, shaking his head. ‘Sorry, there’s actually no bacon left. We could give you the sandwich without the bacon?’

‘Do you mean two pieces of bread?’

‘Erm, let me just go and double-check that for you . . .’

‘No, don’t worry,’ I say, taking the menu back from
his hand. ‘I’ll find something else.’

I glance over it. That’s so annoying! At 11 a.m. they switch to the elevenses menu: Eccles cake, Brownie, or Seed Cake and Madeira.

‘Do you have anything savoury at all?’

‘The lunch menu starts at twelve . . . The brownie’s excellent?’

‘Any chance I could order something from the main menu early?’

He shakes his head.

‘Fine, seed cake and Madeira it is!’
Seed cake is surely the opposite of cake. Still, if it comes with a glass of wine I’ll give it my best shot.

He looks relieved and heads back to the kitchen, only to return two minutes later with my bacon sandwich, which he carries straight past me to the guy behind. I turn round again to check whether the God of Bacon Sandwiches is currently in the E1 area and performing miracles. Nope – the
laptop guy thanks the waiter, catches my glare, gives an apologetic smile and reaches for the ketchup.

I mouth the word ‘enjoy’ at him and turn back to check my messages. Oh nice! Russell asking if I’m still going to the cinema, if not could he possibly have the booking reference, rather than letting it go to waste. Yes, Russell, it’s F1U2CK-OFF.

What the hell, I might as well see who else is
on Tinder and interested in messing me around and lying to me for a few weeks . . .

• Dave, 36, photo of you with your arm around three glamour models in Hooters T-shirts. Next!
  
• Stephen, 35, photo of you on your wedding day, kissing your lovely wife. Next!
  
• Danimal, 33, camera in one hand, willy in the other. Next!
  
• Rick, 38, multiple facial tattoos. Next!
  
• Mike, 36, three photos: a Lamborghini,
  a motorbike and John Terry.
  

Why don’t these guys understand that advertising themselves with photos of fast cars, footballers and strippers might impress other guys but it doesn’t impress women?

I am so done with Internet dating. Done with Internet dating, done with all dating, done with men, done with this seed cake. Sod it, if I’m going to have sweet, I’m going in for the custard doughnut.

‘Excuse me,’ I say to the waiter, who’s looking slightly scared of me. ‘Do you still do the doughnuts here, or is it just at Maltby Street?’

‘We do. Custard or jam?’

‘Custard.’ Definitely the custard. The St John Custard Doughnut. I did a half-page review of this doughnut when these guys opened their Maltby Street branch two years ago. It’s the first time we’d ever dedicated that many column
inches to a single pastry. (The subs spent a pedantic hour arguing over whether a doughnut is a cake, a pastry or a dessert. I say let them eat cake/pastry/dessert, our readers know what a flipping doughnut is! Though nowadays with your cronuts and your duffins, all the rules have changed.) Anyway, I felt it deserved an entire page, but Sandra wasn’t having any of it – even after I brought in a dozen
for everyone to try. Actually, that might have been the problem – a gesture like that earns far too many brownie points.

That’s more like it! The waiter comes over with the doughnut and a relieved smile. He heads off and I pick up the doughnut, count to ten and take a deep breath. Russell has actually done me a favour. He has revealed himself to be an idiot after only three and a half weeks,
it took Tom nine years. Russell has freed me up to find someone much better. In the meantime, I am an independent, attractive woman who has my health, friends, two great jobs and can afford to buy herself the best custard doughnut in London. Good, fine, processed.

I sink my teeth into the doughnut and nearly retch with despair.

‘Sorry to be a pain,’ I say, summoning the waiter again, and showing
him the inside of the doughnut. ‘But . . .’

‘I’m
really
sorry, I must have got confused,’ he says, blushing.

‘No, that’s fine – but would you mind bringing me the custard one instead?’

‘Let me just go and check.’

‘What do you need to check?’

‘Hold on.’

I am used to managing disappointment in my life. I am actually slightly more disappointed that this doughnut has jam in the middle than I
am about Russell. But it’s fixable.

I see the waiter with his head bent low in the kitchen talking to the sous-chef who looks over at me and shrugs. The waiter catches my glance, stares at the floor, then finally heads back to my table.

‘I’m so sorry about this, but we literally just ran out.’

‘You ran out?’

‘Well, the . . . the thing is, the guy behind you ordered one, then I put your order
in, I picked up the jam one, and then a customer bought the last two custard ones over the counter . . .’

‘Hold on, hold on, back up . . . That guy behind me ordered custard or jam?’

‘Erm . . . yeah, custard, he ordered custard . . .’

‘So you didn’t switch our doughnuts?’

‘No.’

‘He just ordered the same as me?’

‘Right, exactly,’ says the waiter, his hands clenching into small, nervous fists.

‘OK. Next question – have you served him his doughnut yet?’

‘Well no, because he ordered a coffee and I was going to serve the two together.’

‘Fine! That’s fine, you can just give me his doughnut then.’

‘Erm, not really . . .’

‘But why? What difference? Either he misses out or I miss out – I vote he misses out. He did get my bacon sandwich.’

‘Yeah, no, I guess that is one way of looking at
it . . . the thing is, he knows the guys here . . . he’s in here all the time . . . I’m sorry . . . I can’t . . .’

‘OK, don’t worry. Sorry. I’m not trying to give you a hard time. I’ll just have a word with him myself.’

I take a deep breath, put on a smile and turn my chair round to face him.

He looks up. He looks like someone I know. He looks . . . really nice.

‘Hello,’ he says, and smiles.
A dimple, on the right.

‘Hi. Listen, I know this may sound insane, but here’s the thing. I really need that custard doughnut that’s en route to you. I just, I just really do need it. And the thing is, you did eat that last bacon sandwich earlier, and I’d been looking forward to it since yesterday. In fact I pretty much ran here to get it . . .’

He tilts his head to one side. ‘Carry on. I’m listening.’

‘Well, then the poor waiter got all confused, he gave
me
the wrong doughnut, jam, even though I’d ordered custard – just one of those things, I know, not normally the end of the world. But still, regardless of all of that, I would
really
appreciate it if you’d let me buy that doughnut off you, because I actually do genuinely need it.’

‘Why do you need it so badly?’

‘Gosh, well, it’s a long story
but you wouldn’t believe the morning I’ve had, but . . .’

‘Try me?’

‘No, honestly, I’d rather not, but let’s just say it was not the best. OK, here’s an idea. How about I pay for the doughnut, obviously, and I’ll pay for your coffee as well?’

He raises his eyebrows at me.

‘OK, and I’ll pay for your bacon sandwich too? That’s a good deal, isn’t it?’

‘But what about if I genuinely do need this
doughnut very badly, too?’

‘Why do you need it so badly?’

‘Honestly?’ he says, fixing me with the brightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. ‘I’ve had one of the worst weeks of my life.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘That’s OK,’ he smiles gently. ‘No one died. And it wasn’t your fault.’

‘Then . . . OK then. Well, how about if you just sell me half of that doughnut then?’

He smiles. A smile that
could light up a life.