The Dish (40 page)

Kiki looks at me with a small grin, and mouths ‘Al-is-tair!’

‘We’re now looking at alternative dispute resolution as
the next step,’ says Heather. ‘Hopefully we’ll settle out of court.’

‘What’s going on with The Dish?’ says Azeem. ‘I’m getting all the stats from the affiliated sites – we’re still seeing heavy traffic, it’s gone bigger than when Bruni at the
NYT
dissed Guy Fieri – and the viral numbers on that were huge.’

‘We’re in the process of drafting an apology,’ says Sandra tightly. ‘That will hopefully
be the end of it. Any other business?’

‘Er – are you actually going to talk about Rodge?’ says Jonesy, looking appalled.

Sandra drops her chin to her chest. ‘I was – of course – coming to that, thank you.’

‘Is he all right?’ says Kiki.

‘Is he going to die?’ says Azeem.

‘He’s not going to die,’ says Jonesy. ‘He’s not the type.’

‘Should we visit him?’ says Heather.

Sandra turns and gestures
for me to speak. ‘Laura – do you want to give the team an update on Roger’s status?’

Around the table ten pairs of eyes turn my way, willing me to deliver a smidgen of good news. ‘Well – he’s stable, which is a very good thing,’ I say, trying not to give anyone too much hope.

‘How’s his liver?’ says Jonesy. ‘I’d have thought that’d be the first to go.’

‘As far as I know, all that stuff is fine.’

‘Is he conscious yet?’ says Kiki.

‘Not yet. He’s still in the coma . . .’

‘But it’s a good coma, right?’ says Azeem. ‘Not like a real one?’

‘Well, it is pretty real. But yes, it’s one they’ve put him in to try to heal his body as effectively as possible.’

‘How do they do that?’

‘They give you drugs to sedate you, and they cool your temperature,’ I say.

‘Put you in a fridge, like Walt Disney?’
he says.

‘Walt Disney is not actually frozen,’ says Kiki. ‘That’s an urban myth.’

‘Like Jonesy buying a round,’ says Azeem.

Sandra quivers with irritation. ‘I’m sorry but I find joking at a time like this in poor taste.’

‘Come on, Sandra,’ says Jonesy. ‘We’re all worried about him, we all want him to get better, but sitting around moping isn’t going to help, is it?’

‘Laura,’ she says, shifting
to turn her back on him. ‘Do you have any more helpful information for the team?’

‘The nurse yesterday mentioned hopefully trying to get him off the ventilator this week.’

‘So they wake him up?’ says Azeem.

‘They’ll see if he can breathe for himself – and then they’ll slowly try to bring him out of the coma, but things go back and forth all the time in ITU.’

‘What about visiting, then?’ says
Heather.

‘I think having positive people around him can’t hurt,’ I say.

‘We mustn’t overwhelm him,’ says Sandra.

‘You can only have two at a time in there anyway. I’ll do a rota if you like?’ I say.

‘You should do a rota,’ says Sandra, as if it’s her idea.

‘Hey, Laura – why don’t you do a rota?’ says Kiki, winking at me.

‘That’s what I just said, Katrina,’ says Sandra.

‘I’ll speak to Gemma
to check she’s OK with it all,’ I say. ‘And guys – if you do visit, try not to stare at the man in the next bed along: you might get an eyeful more than you bargained for.’

A
fter the meeting, Sandra asks me to stay behind with Heather for a catch-up. At the thought of the impending bollocking, my body tenses for a fight.

‘I know you’ve been at the hospital a lot, but I’d have thought – out of
respect for Roger – you’d have drafted your apology?’

‘Laura, I’m sorry but we don’t have much time,’ says Heather. ‘Have you at least decided what angle you’ll take?’

I’ve been swinging wildly between Sandra’s forelock-tugging mea culpa, and going full-on Erin Brockovich. I’m not going to tell Sandra I wrote a draft apology first thing – because I can’t bear to print it out. I’m sick of apologising
for things that aren’t really my fault.

‘Roger’s last words to me a week ago were that I shouldn’t roll over.’ And the fact he said Mum would’ve had the balls to fight doesn’t help.

‘Roger has a far more bellicose attitude than serves our interests at this point,’ says Sandra.

‘I know we’re all hoping for the best,’ says Heather, her gaze shifting from mine. ‘But if you think about what might
play out . . .’

Of course I’ve thought about it, relentlessly. Roger’s not around; Sandra’s in charge; I do what Roger wants anyway; a lawsuit cripples us; Roger spends immeasurable time in hospital, finally comes back to work and discovers his magazine no longer exists due to my bankrupting, gobshite response. Whoopee!

‘I just need a little more time.’

‘As you well know, Laura – you don’t
have that luxury.’

‘You know what, Sandra? I can have a few more days.’

‘I’m not having you file late again.’

‘I’ll file on Thursday.’

‘Not after last time you won’t.’

‘Sandra – you clearly didn’t bother authorising the copy swap with the printers last month – which is why we’re in this mess in the first place.’

‘
Ut-ter
nonsense!’

‘No – it is not utter nonsense because I rang PrintPro last
week and they told me so.’ I feel my face blazing with fury – and hope to God she can’t tell I’m bluffing.

‘Do you have
any idea
how busy
we were at the end of that week? With the Bechdel case and filling the extra ad pages? I had to prioritise – and you have to learn to do the same: write the apology today.’

So it’s true!
I knew it. Why did I even give her two per cent benefit of the doubt?

‘And are you going apologise to
me
in the meantime?’ I say.

‘Whatever for?’

‘You’ve just admitted this lawsuit is because you didn’t check the supply detail on my
fluffy copy
.’

‘I’ve done nothing of the sort.’

‘You just said you didn’t follow through because you were
prioritising.
’

‘How could I possibly have foreseen this debacle happening?’

‘
It wouldn’t have!
If you’d supplied the right
copy!’ I say, trying – and failing miserably – to keep my voice calm.

‘Listen you,’ she says, jabbing her finger at me. ‘You wrote the original review in the first place – don’t go blaming other people for your mess.’

Urgh, I hate it when she’s slightly right.

‘And!’ she says, pointing at me again, ‘do you think Roger needed
more
stress last week?’

‘What?’

‘What do you think tipped him over
the edge?’

I can feel fury running through my veins. ‘What, Sandra?’

‘Do you not think
you
contributed to his current condition?’

‘Are you actually saying Roger’s heart attack was my fault?’ I know she’d like to say yes but even she wouldn’t dare.

She looks at Heather, finds no encouragement, then turns back to me, her eyes narrowing in fury. ‘Yes,’ she says, jubilantly. ‘Yes, Laura – I am
saying that.’

I stop for a moment, my breath taken clean away.

Then I count to ten. And then fifteen. And then I say one more thing I’m going to have to apologise for.

Even if I’d counted to a hundred I don’t think I could’ve stopped myself.

‘I’ve never stormed out of a meeting before,’ I say to Heather, who’s joined me on the pavement outside for a fag.

‘I didn’t know you smoked?’

‘I don’t,’
I say. ‘I mean clearly I do – but I don’t – I have one roughly every seven months, when I’m profoundly drunk or stressed.’ I take a deep drag and feel the familiar comfort of filthy tobacco. I vowed to quit when Mum was in hospital. One of her neighbours’d had two clear, curly pigtail catheters slowly draining murky treacly fluid from his lungs. If you’re willing to risk lung cancer after watching
that for five days, your brain’s wired differently from mine.

‘Heather – you don’t think I put Roger in a coma do you?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says, putting her arm around me. ‘The man eats saturated fat three times a day and leads an almost entirely sedentary lifestyle. I’m surprised it’s taken this long to catch up with him.’

I take another deep drag and blow it out slowly. ‘And you don’t
think Sandra’s going to do me for libel for calling her a stupid bitch?’

‘If it’s verbal it’s actually slander, not libel,’ she says. ‘But either way, it’s not defamatory if it’s true.’

I can’t help but laugh. ‘Heather – can I ask you a favour?’

‘Do you want me to play mediator between you and Sandra?’

‘Not particularly. No – can I at least have another day to write this column?’

‘Tell you
what – if you give me something first thing Wednesday, I’ll pencil time in my diary to go through it with you then.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, stubbing my cigarette out. ‘And I do have one more small favour.’

‘Another fag?’

‘That big fat textbook you brought to the first meeting with Roger?’

‘The
Halsbury’s
?’

‘Does it outline defamation law in a way that someone like me can understand?’

‘The language
is straightforward enough.’

‘Then please could I borrow it?’

‘Babe, it’s for you,’ says Amber, taking one look at the chaos in my bedroom, then walking straight out again.

This had better not be Adam turning up in one of those romantic gestures to apologise – my hair is greasy, my face exhausted, eyes tinged with red, I could pass for a wildling, were it not for the Jolen bleach on my upper
lip and my old Guns N’ Roses T-shirt.

‘Stop avoiding me!’ says Sophie, steaming into my room carrying two glasses of wine. ‘Your phone’s off and I want to talk. What are you doing?’

‘I’m thinking . . .’ I say, moving the copy of
Halsbury’s Laws
to the floor, along with my notepad and pen.

‘Oh my goodness, I’d forgotten how tiny it is in here,’ she says, crab-stepping round the edge of the bed,
then lying on top of the duvet next to me and handing me a glass. ‘I brought white, I didn’t think Amber would let me over the threshold with anything that could stain. How’s Roger doing?’

‘I popped in after work – he’s stable but Gemma was there and Heather was on her way, so I didn’t stay.’

‘Have you decided what you’re doing about your work bollocks?’

I shake my head. ‘It’s the proverbial
rock and hard place. If I say I was wrong – it makes me look unreliable. If I stand my ground, it’s too big a financial risk.’

‘Have you spoken to Adam?’

‘I’ve had a couple of missed calls but he hasn’t left any messages.’

‘Why haven’t you called him back?’

‘I’ve been kind of busy!’

‘Don’t you want to hear what he has to say?’

‘Of course. But if he’s forgiven me, it can wait. And if he hasn’t,
I don’t need to know about it right now.’

‘You haven’t told him about Roger?’

‘What – so he’ll be nice to me out of sympathy?’

‘Oh come on, Laura – I’m sure he’d want to be there for you.’

‘I’m not so sure.’

She frowns. ‘But haven’t you at least talked to him about the lawsuit?’

‘He said he’s keeping out of it entirely.’

‘But aren’t you going to tell him about the coffee thing? He knows
the truth, he can’t let them do that to you.’

‘He probably doesn’t know the details of the legal stuff, but how could I ask him to put himself on the line for me? It would be career suicide.’

‘He’s their star chef, they wouldn’t fire him.’

‘They sound like total wankers – I have no idea what they’d do.’

‘But he might be able to get them off your back?’

‘I can’t ask him for that kind of favour
– not anymore.’

‘Why, because you’ve had a row?’

‘No, because he needs that job.’ I look down into my glass, then take a large gulp. Even now, the thought that Adam has a perfect little boy with this woman makes me feel pathetically jealous. ‘And suppose he was inclined to make some heroic gesture, I wouldn’t want that on my head.’

‘Laura – there’s nothing wrong with making Adam aware of the
specifics.’ The look on her face suggests she’s plotting something. ‘If he doesn’t know, then someone ought to tell him – it’s the right thing to do. Then he can decide for himself how he handles it.’

Oh God – she’s got his bloody email address because of the pecan nut supplier.

‘Soph,’ I say, reaching out gently to touch her wrist. ‘If you’re even thinking of doing something stupid like contacting
him –
please
don’t. You wouldn’t be doing me a favour. I’ve got us all in enough trouble because I didn’t have my boundaries in place – I’m not fudging the lines again.’

‘But he could help you
.’

‘Sophie – I don’t need a knight in shining armour. I need to fix this myself.’

‘How was his night?’ I say to Anne-Marie, as I stand by Roger’s bedside on Tuesday morning, analysing his monitor. The numbers are all looking OK – I know his healthy ranges by heart. ‘Sats back up to ninety-four?’

‘He’s doing grand,’ she says.

I look at him, lying there so calmly. He has a small smile on his face and I can’t help but think he might actually be able to hear us. Although
if he could, he’d also hear the racket Arthur next door is making, swinging a bandaged fist wildly and fruitlessly at his nurse.

‘Arthur’s a little lively for eight in the morning,’ I say.

‘Sweet Jesus, if he doesn’t stop punching, we’re going to have to tie those paws to the bed,’ she says. ‘Poor soul – must be exhausted!’

‘What time’s the delightful Mr Dawson doing the rounds?’

‘He’s always
so busy, it’s hard to judge,’ she says, diplomatically.

‘I saw him sneaking through reception on Sunday and I cornered him – he looked like he wanted to throttle me.’

‘I’m not sure he’s a fan of actual living, breathing people.’

‘I asked him when he might extubate Roger – and he literally sneered and said, “Do you know what extubating is?” I felt like asking, “Do you know what a bedside manner
is?”’

‘The man’s a patronising old langer,’ she says, then quickly corrects herself. ‘But a highly skilled doctor.’ She pauses, then looks at me with an awkward smile. ‘How
do
you know the word extubate?’