The Dish (11 page)

‘She was a chef?’

‘She studied textiles, at Goldsmiths – some of her prints are actually in the V&A.’

‘She must have been great with colour,’ I say, noticing the blue shirt he’s wearing not only brings out his eyes, but has beautiful detailing: sage cross-stitches on delicate cream buttons.

‘But she jacked in everything when she met my father. She’d spend days cooking for
his client dinner parties.’

‘She gave up her career for him?’

‘She sacrificed her potential, which is worse,’ he says, his brow creasing.

‘Did she ever feel bitter?’

‘Not the type. Plus, she loved the kitchen, she had Elizabeth David on her bedside table.’

‘My mum was a terrible cook,’ I say, smiling at the memory of the salmon en croute, so slippery it could have swum back to sea. ‘But my
dad makes a fine chicken pot pie.’

He raises his brows in delight. ‘Pastry’s sort of my thing. Granny Ailsa again – her shortcrust was so flaky it was like filo. I learnt so much watching her and Mum,’ he says, trying to keep from giggling. ‘Mrs Collins, home ec on a Tuesday, didn’t appreciate my expertise . . .’

‘What did you do?’

‘Just asked if she knew her crème pat from her crème Anglaise.’

‘Crème pat’s thicker, isn’t it?’

‘Exactly, even you know that. She had
Larousse
on her shelf, she should’ve read it.’

My well-thumbed copy lives on my bookshelf – my triceps were almost Anistonian after a month of reading it in bed.

‘So did you go to catering college?’ I say.

‘Cooking wasn’t the sort of
proper
job the men in my family did. I studied engineering. Why do you look so surprised?’

‘Engineering’s pretty academic . . .’ And most chefs I’ve encountered left school with not much hope of work outside a kitchen. And if you’re good-looking and funny
and
clever, then what exactly is wrong with you? Do you have a drug problem?

‘Laura, do you think all chefs are a bunch of unthinking savages?’

‘No! I know running a kitchen is hard, it’s just you don’t hear of many chefs who are
. . . brainiacs.’

‘I never said I graduated.’

‘Did you get into drugs then?’

‘Never my thing. You can spot a chef on coke in a heartbeat – their seasoning goes way off – their food tastes of salt before anything.’

That sounds exactly like the food coming out of his kitchen last Thursday.

‘I’m sure Max is still caning it,’ he says, his eyes narrowing.

‘Where is our food?’ I say, partly to
change the subject, and partly because it’s 8.02 a.m. and I feel like I’m on
Challenge Anneka
– I’ve now got only twenty-eight minutes left to make Adam like me.

‘Morning shifts are tough on all the team. Anyway, where was I . . . Max . . .’

‘Engineering!’

‘Yeah, it was going fine, then in my second year I was reading about a group of engineers testing an early steam engine – one day they left
it under a wooden shelter and went off to a nearby inn for roast goose. The engine caught fire and burnt to the ground, but all I could think about was that goose. I could practically taste it, smell it. And the following week I told my parents I was dropping out and training to become a chef.’

‘Over a goose?’

‘My father threatened to disown me, he thought it was proof I was gay.’

‘Does he
still
think you’re gay?’

‘Er . . . not recently, no,’ he says, looking thrown. ‘But anyway, Mum was worse – she thought I should finish my degree and I didn’t want to disappoint her, but you know sometimes you have a feeling?’ He touches his chest. ‘When something feels utterly right?’ He looks at me with slow consideration, in a way that makes my heart beat a little faster. ‘I’ve had that feeling
a handful of times in my life and I’ve never been wrong. And if that bleach-haired prat Max sharpens up his act I should have my first star this year.’

‘That’s what it’s all about? Michelin stars?’

He looks surprised. ‘You make it sound like stars don’t matter.’

‘I guess it’s your profile . . .’

‘I don’t care about critics – what’s that quote? “A critic points out how the strong man stumbles”
. . .’

Pretty cocky for someone responsible for last week’s horror show. ‘So other people aren’t allowed to have an opinion on your food?’

‘There are loads of people I respect in this business, all of them are chefs. I care what they think and I care what my customers think,’ he says, his face lighting up as Olly approaches. ‘Ah – breakfast is served!’

The scones look amazing – five golden
discs of potato, speckled with crusty bits where the mix has browned in the pan. Adam cuts precisely through the French toast, halves the bacon and rearranges the slices perfectly on top. He divides the berries equally, spooning the mascarpone neatly on the side. His handiwork’s a lot better than it was last Thursday.

‘So . . . Michelin stars?’ I say.

‘I want a star so I can get financial backing.
I’m done working for other people. I just want a place that’s mine. That’s what I’ve been working towards my whole career,’ he says, smiling softly. ‘That’s what it’s about, what you do with your own name.’

It’s just as well I haven’t used his name in my piece then, I think, resting my cutlery as I ponder whether Roger’s advice might have been wrong.

‘Anyway,’ he says, shyly, ‘I’ve been droning
on about my work, I don’t even know what you do? Let me guess. So: polka dot dress, very pretty dress,’ he says, taking a longer appreciative look. ‘You don’t start work till . . .?’

‘Ten a.m.’

‘Lucky you! So media or creative?’

‘Have you been googling me, Adam?’

‘Do people actually do that?’

Do people actually
not
do that?

‘I don’t even know your surname, Laura, so no, I haven’t been stalking
you!’

‘Parker.’

‘Bayley.’

We shake hands again. His is warm and strong; it holds on to mine far longer than mere politeness.

‘Out of interest,’ he says, glancing at my plate. ‘How are those scones?’

‘Amazing! The texture’s so soft and yielding in the middle, then that chewy, crispy coating . . .’

‘And what precisely do I have to do to you to get a bite?’ he says, grinning.

I clumsily scrape
the last one onto his plate. He transfers the perfect French toast and examines the scone. He pokes it with his fork, then brings it to his eye as if he’s working forensics before gently tearing it apart to inspect the texture, finally popping it in his mouth.

‘Verdict?’

He chews thoughtfully, then a smile spreads across his face. ‘Laura – did you take maths GCSE?’

‘I got a B. Why?’

‘Then
I’m surprised you’re not familiar with the concept of fractions.’

‘We never said we’d go halves!’

‘It was sort of unspoken.’

‘Well, if it was
sort of unspoken
it didn’t happen.’

‘Ah, so that’s how your mind works. A master of manipulation, evasion and half-truths. You’re not a lawyer are you?’

‘I’m a secretary.’

‘Cool.’ He’s the only guy I’ve told what I do for a living who hasn’t immediately
said, ‘I can’t believe you’re only a secretary,’ or some other dumb thing that suggests being a secretary is not a proper job.

‘Who do you work for then?’ He’s also the only guy who’s actually bothered to ask where I work, once I’ve told him I’m a secretary.

‘A man called Roger Harris.’

‘What does he do?’

‘He edits
The Voice
?’

‘
The Voice
is great! It’s so free of bullshit, and it’s got The
Dish, hasn’t it?’

‘This view!’ I say, putting my fork down and fixing my eyes to the far distance. ‘Is that the Olympic Stadium?’

‘So do you know the guy who does it?’

‘Does what?’

‘The Dish. He always nails a place so perfectly.’

‘You like him?’

‘Love him.’

‘But you just said you didn’t care what critics write?’ I say, picking up my fork again.

‘He’s different. He doesn’t write about
himself, there’s no ego. He sticks to the point: you get a knife-sharp view of what he ate, the ambience, the staff. You’re right there at the table with him.’

‘This bacon is amazing, isn’t it?’

‘Nowadays everyone’s a critic – but your guy is properly insightful – and funny. And he’s never vicious for the sake of a cheap laugh.’

‘The bourbon glaze on the bacon . . . I love bourbon almost as
much as I love bacon.’

‘Yeah, me too. So what’s he like to work for, this Roger?’

Thank God, safer ground! ‘There’s a line in an old Barbara Stanwyck film – she says all she wants is a man “to fight off the blizzards and the floods”
.
And that’s how I think of Roger. He’s charming but sincere. Brave. And ballsy. A total hero.’

‘Nothing like my bosses,’ he says, cutting into the sourdough, then
adding a bite of sausage, some egg and a snippet of scone to the fork. ‘They’re absolute . . .’

‘You do what I do,’ I say. ‘You try to get an equal bit of everything into each mouthful.’

‘A nightmare with roast dinners.’

‘The peas always fall off at the last moment.’

‘Doesn’t everyone do that?’

‘My flatmate doesn’t, she never “cross contaminates
”
.’

‘That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard,’
he says.

‘She tried to throw away my toaster when I moved in – she’s scared of bread . . .’

‘I thought being scared of clowns was weird.’

‘Clowns are terrifying; scared of buttons is the weirdest.’

‘You’ve obviously never been alone in a dark alley with a sewing kit.’

‘She was slightly chubby as a teenager so now she won’t allow bread in the flat. No bread, no
bread-enablers
. . .’

He shakes
his head in confusion. ‘Lunatic!’

‘Oh she’s fine, really – she’s out loads. And her dog’s adorable, when she’s not pooing in the kitchen. The antidepressants disagree with her.’

‘The dog’s on Prozac?’

‘You would be too, if you were forced to wear a leopard print onesie in public.’

‘She sounds crackers . . . ooh, can I say crackers or do they count as bread? Sorry, terrible joke . . .’ he says,
his cheeks turning pink.

‘Honestly, I quite like Amber, we’re just different. My room literally was her walk-in shoe cupboard, but then my salary’s pretty compact too – and it means I can afford to have a job I love that doesn’t pay six figures.’

‘Most people are stuck in jobs they don’t like because of their mortgage,’ he says, wistfully.

‘I used to have a mortgage,’ I say. ‘Up in Manchester
. . . And a husband . . .’ There it is.

‘Oh right.’ He nods. Hurrah, hurrah! A gold star for you Adam! Unfazed I’m a secretary, interested in where I work and not bothered by the fact I have a failed marriage.

‘You’re not from Manchester though?’

‘Muswell Hill, near Ally Pally – over the other side,’ I say, looking down on to the curve of the Thames.

‘Let’s go see,’ he says, standing and heading
to the bar. I check my watch with a twinge of sadness, 8.28 a.m. ‘I should pay.’

‘Don’t worry, Olly knows we’re not doing a runner.’

‘I’ll see you there.’ I need a make-up re-touch. In the ladies’ the face in the mirror frowns back at me. Why do people moan about bad hair days? What about bad face days? This Boots Instant Radiance balm may help, if only psychologically. I do a quick primp and
head back out.

Adam’s standing looking down at the view. ‘Prettier close up than from a distance,’ he says turning and smiling.

‘Me? You’re joking,’ I say, caught off guard by the compliment – well, half compliment. Bloody hell, though, that Boots cream is totally as good as Clarins!

‘I meant the Gherkin,’ he says, laughing. ‘You’re pretty either way.’

I turn to the window so he can’t see
me beaming.

‘This building is about two hundred and thirty metres,’ he says, then points to The Needle. ‘That one’s mine; it’s two hundred metres but only because they stuck a spire on top for extra height, so they could be seventh tallest.’

‘Urgh, some egomaniac property guy cares enough to compete to be seventh? It’s pathetic. Skyscrapers – just boys and their willies at the end of the day.’

He laughs. ‘Maybe I should get them to rename it The Dick – the place is full of them.’ He sighs and turns to me. ‘What’s your office like?’

‘It’s lovely, it’s an old Victorian warehouse. We have half the building, and a TV company has the top floors. Every so often you’ll smile at someone in reception you vaguely recognise; it’s only once you get to your desk you realise they were actually the
knobhead from last season’s
The Apprentice
.’

‘Come ride the lift and show me,’ he says, a twinkle in his eye.

‘You’ll never see it.’

‘Come anyway, they’re so much fun.’

We race to the lifts like a pair of fourteen year olds bunking double physics, and step in, standing side by side, arms touching. I press the ground floor and down we fall, oohing and aahing at the speed and the view and the
sheer sensation of it all. We ride down and up and down again seven times before he looks at his watch and panics.

‘Laura, I’m so sorry, I have to be at The Needle in . . . minus ten minutes.’

‘Of course,’ I say, though my heart continues to descend even as the lift slows to a halt. We walk together out to the street and I feel an overwhelming desire to follow him all the way to work – I want
to keep talking to him, I need more than one hour . . .

We say a brief goodbye before he dashes twenty metres down the road and unlocks his bike. He looks over his shoulder and I give a little wave, but instead of returning it he checks his watch, then looks back in my direction. For a moment he hesitates. And then he turns his bike around and quickly pedals on the wrong side of the road back
towards me, coming to a stop beside me as I feel my heart rise again, up and up and up.

‘What’s wrong?’ I say, as he leans forward, one foot resting on the pavement.

‘I can’t believe I was in such a rush, I forgot,’ he says, looking sheepish. ‘I’m an idiot.’