The Dish (46 page)

How’s everything with Katie? How’s Josh?

Are you thinking of doing a farmers’ market? Nothing to
do with the restaurant, presumably?

Let me know how you’re getting on.

PS I miss you.

To: Sophie

From: Laura

Subject: I feel sick

Four days, no reply, nothing. Why do people nowadays think it’s perfectly acceptable behaviour to ignore an email? People you have been really quite intimate with?

He told me he didn’t want to be friends – I shouldn’t have pestered him. I shouldn’t have told
him I miss him.

Four days ago I may have felt miserable and lonely, but at least I didn’t feel miserable and lonely and rejected and exposed.

To: Laura

From: Adam

Subject: re: Hi

Sorry for the late response – been unbelievably busy. So, I have some news . . . You’ll be pleased to hear I’ve handed in my notice. Speaking to Mum and my solicitor, if I’m going to make a decent case for any sort
of part-time access to Josh, I’m going to have to dramatically rethink my set-up. I’ll never be able to do head chef hours and build a meaningful relationship with him. Or anyone else.

Besides, not sure my soul would have survived much longer at LuxEris. I’ve been focusing my energies into savoury pastries – made one last week with white beans and rosemary, Italian style – you would have liked
it.

To: Adam

From: Laura

Subject: Wow!

Congratulations – that’s fantastic news. They didn’t deserve someone as talented as you. What will you do instead? If you’re thinking of the Breakfast on a Bike idea, I could be your coffee consultant – I’d give you a mate’s rate – haha.

That bakery with the banana pains au chocolat also sells delicious escargots – snail shape, not snail flavour. They
do a fantastic strawberry one – if you’re not working and fancy popping over to Paris for a day trip, I could take you there?

To: Laura

From: Adam

Subject: re: Wow!

Strawberry snails – what a very Jonn idea. I’ll make sure not to mention it to him.

Nice thought re: Paris, but I’m working out a month’s notice and getting my own stuff together in the few hours I can grab in between. Anyway,
I wouldn’t feel right taking advantage of a mate’s rate – we’re not mates.

Cheers.

To: Sophie

From: Laura

Subject: Cheers?

He leaves me with
Cheers
?

And seriously, what is up with the bitchy point scoring? –
We’re not mates.
Yeah, well, next time I won’t bother trying to be friendly.

To: Laura

From: Sophie

Subject: re: Cheers?

You dumped him by email – you have no right to get the hump
about any of this.

And when he said ‘you’re not mates’ – don’t you think he might be holding out for more than mates??

To: Sophie

From: Laura

Subject: Adam

Right, so when you emailed Adam last week, did you tell him I’d be back this Friday?

To: Laura

From: Sophie

Subject: re: Adam

Yes, I told him – when I saw him – yesterday . . .

To: Sophie

From: Laura

Subject: ?!?

Oh, come on!

To: Laura

From: Sophie

Subject: Yeah

We had a quick coffee – he didn’t realise the farmers’ market was so competitive. I think he thought he could just turn up and get a stall, so he wanted to chat. Anyway, he did me a favour with the pecans, so I’ve offered to trial a couple of his flavours on the stand this Saturday – they’d better not outshine mine, though I guess they’re complementary.

But why are you even asking about Adam? If it’s over it’s over . . .

To: Sophie

From: Laura

Subject: Sophie!

I’m just curious what he’s up to. It’s not like my feelings for him have stopped overnight. Anyway, I didn’t end it because I wanted to end it – I ended it because I had to.

To: Laura

From: Sophie

Subject: Laura!

Just get in a room with him and talk about it, for God’s sake – you’re
both as stubborn as each other. Right – when exactly are you back?

To: Sophie

From: Laura

Subject: Friday

Train gets in at 10.35 p.m. on Thursday night so shall I pop in for breakfast Friday? No more croissants, no more toast, even. Grapefruit, every day for a month.

To: Laura

From: Sophie

Subject: re: Friday

I’m in Clerkenwell on Friday at lunch, looking at packaging for goody bags. (Seriously,
it’s a ‘40th’ – the way Celina’s carrying on, it’s bigger than Kim and Kanye at Versailles.)

Meet me at Fabrizio’s at 11 a.m. I haven’t been for ages, and I could do with pitching some new flavours to him. Why have I not done a dark chocolate espresso brownie before? Do you reckon he’d go for it?

To: Sophie

From: Laura

Subject: re: Friday

I’ll just see you in the flat, it’s easier.

To: Laura

From: Sophie

Subject: Fabrizio’s!

No can do – I’m at Borough first thing. See you at 11 a.m. at Fabrizio’s.

To: Sophie

From: Laura

Subject: re: Fabrizio’s!

Fine – I’ll bring you some Jean Clement praline millefeuilles – if I don’t eat them on the train.

Amber is asleep by the time I arrive back on Thursday to find my basil plant a month dead, shrivelled brown leaves curling on my window ledge. She’s been in my room, though, because she’s left a pastel-covered self-help book on my bed:
Raging Angels – Silencing Your Inner Saboteur and Finding Compassion on the Road To Healing
.

I could probably write a self-help book myself now:
The Paradox
of Pastry on the Road To Recovery: How Stuffing your Face with Proper French Croissants Can Make You Feel Better – Yet Worse
.

At least Annalex is pleased to see me – you can see the delight in her eyes, aided by the velvet Alice band keeping the fur from her face. If this coffee consultancy works out, in six months’ time I might be earning enough to rent my own flat. It would be nice to have
more toast in my life – more toast, more space. But poor Annalex might feel lonely without me – or perhaps the other way around.

I give her a quick cuddle, chuck the basil plant in the bin, put Sophie’s pastries in the fridge and I’m asleep a moment after my head’s on the pillow.

There’s a strange stillness in the flat when I wake the following morning. Amber must be out walking the dog. I lie
for a minute, listening to the sound of my breathing. I forgot how quiet a home can be when you’re the only one in it. Outside it’s a grey, heavy sky – great British summertime. It was easier in Paris – a different country, another life. Two little faces every morning, sometimes covered in jam or Marmite – two faces that brought sunshine in, regardless of the weather.

The thing to do when you’re
feeling down is get straight out of bed and up to standing position before the sadness can creep under the covers with you. I take a quick shower, then search my wardrobe for something to cheer me up. My blue polka dot dress always does the trick. As I hold it up to the light I notice a tiny mark on the front – either from a potato scone or French toast – and a twinge of memory, of riding in a
lift, sears up through my chest. I hang it back in the wardrobe and put on my jeans.

I’ll call Kiki and Azeem after I’ve met Sophie, and see if they fancy lunch, and I can get the gossip. Now Roger’s on the mend, I think it’s OK if I listen to them bitch about Sandra – as long as I don’t actually join in, I reckon God will forgive me.

On the way to the station I buy a copy of the
Big Issue,
and flick through it on the Tube over to Fabrizio’s. Peculiar, doing my normal commute without my job to go to, I feel like a confused corporate homing pigeon who’s lost its way. Come Monday morning, the hard work starts. Jess and I have mapped out a plan. I’m going to call Doug and some of my old contacts; I reckon I can be up and running within a month. There are things, good things, to look forward
to.

When I arrive at Fabrizio’s there’s a small queue at the counter, just spilling on to the street, and as soon as I walk through the door I notice something’s different. Finally! After years of my nagging, and at the exact point I’ve stopped being a regular, he’s started selling food. I peer past the man in front of me’s shoulders, and see on the counter two platters stacked with savoury pastries:
Parmesan and bacon brioches, and leek, shallot and Gruyère spirals. They’re perfectly beautiful and somewhat familiar.

Fabrizio is in the middle of taking payment from a customer but as soon as he finishes he comes round to hug me. ‘Where the fack you been? I thought you were away for one week?’

‘I said a month, Fab.’

‘But now is nearly two whole months!’

‘You’ve missed me?’

‘I wanted you
to see this,’ he says, waving his arm towards the pastries. ‘Your friend is a genius.’

‘Yeah, and my other friend is going to be well pissed off you’re stocking Adam’s stuff and not hers! She’ll give you a bollocking herself in a minute.’

‘She coming here too?’ he says, looking surprised.

‘Meanwhile, how long have you been seeing Adam behind my back?’

‘Only for one week so far – I make the
Tweet of the flavours in the morning, sell out by noon,’ he says, gesturing with both hands in a game-over sign.

‘So . . . did Adam drop these off this morning?’ I ask, trying to sound nonchalant, but feeling a flutter of nerves when I mention his name, feeling a mild throb of anxiety when I picture him standing where I’m now standing, just a few hours ago.

‘He didn’t already tell you the plans?’

‘Well, you know . . . he’s been very busy . . .’

‘He’s not busy now?’ he says, looking confused.

Fab clearly knows more about Adam’s work schedule than I do, and I’m not in the mood to go into detail with him about my failed relationship, especially not when the woman behind me is tutting impatiently. ‘Listen Fab, you’re busy – I’m going to head to the back and wait for Sophie. I’ll order when
she gets here.’

‘I’ll give you a minute to catch up,’ says Fabrizio, and lets out a small sigh of contentment, before turning snappily to the next customer.

I head towards the back room, pull the curtain to one side and catch my breath because there’s already someone in the room – sitting at the corner table, looking grumpy and exhausted but still entirely gorgeous. His eyes are fixed in my
direction, those beautiful blue eyes, and when he sees me he smiles the most wonderful smile – a smile of forgiveness and new beginnings. I cannot believe Sophie told him I’d be here. I am secretly delighted she did that.

I take a seat next to him and try to calm myself, though I feel like my heart is having a minor event.

He looks at me with a mixture of affection, amusement and a slight edge
of holding back.

‘Laura – I’m glad you’re here . . .’

‘Adam, I’m glad you’re here too . . .’ I say, trying to conceal quite how overjoyed I am to see him.

‘I’m glad you’re here – because you still owe me for that doughnut, and I’ve come to get my fiver.’ His face is serious, but he’s struggling not to smile.

‘Oh right, your money . . .’ I say. ‘Of course . . . You know what? I’ll double-check
but I think I’ve only got about two pounds on me.’ I open my handbag and reach for my wallet. There’s a pound coin, some shrapnel and the rest is left over from France. ‘Is it OK if I give it to you in euros?’

‘Actually – I need it in sterling. I need every penny I can lay my hands on,’ he says, looking mildly panicked. ‘Unemployment beckons, a week from now.’

‘But you’re doing your own thing,
right?’

‘Starting to,’ he says, looking up to the ceiling, as if for reassurance. ‘I’ve got half a dozen delis and coffee shops lined up and a few high-end restaurants who buy in their bread. I need more than that – but I have to keep enough time free for the rest of my life. It’s do-able. Other people do it – I guess I can, too.’

‘Don’t worry, Adam – you’ll be great. Your pastries are like
crack.’

‘Do you mean that as a compliment?’

‘Of course! Why?’

‘Well, I’ve been doubting myself recently . . . since some foul old man in
The Voice
wrote rather a lot of brutal things about me.’

‘Oh, that old man is clearly an idiot. Besides, you shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers.’

He smiles gently, then his smile fades and he stares at me intensely. I imagine he’s doing
what I’m doing: replaying in fast-motion the highs and lows of us. God, I hope he’s feeling what I’m feeling because I feel it now more than ever – but it stops my heart, it scares me so much.

I can’t figure out what to say to him, there is so much I want to say: I’ve missed you. I want you. Do your best not to hurt me and I promise I’ll do the same. Let’s be one of those couples who are happy
– not Facebook happy but truly happy. I look into his eyes, hoping to find a watertight guarantee that together we will make this work – what I see there is as close as I think a person can get.

We’ve been sitting, contemplating each other for a full minute when he finally breaks the silence. ‘Laura, why did you leave town like that, without even seeing me?’

If ever there was a time to tell
the truth it is now: a time to stop running from the fear of pain, a time to be brave.

‘Adam – I feel so much for you, and I have done since the day we met. If I’d seen you before I left, it would have made me feel worse, it would have hurt more and I already felt pretty beaten up. So if I’m honest I was being cowardly.’

He nods. ‘And that’s why I said we can’t be friends,’ he says, shrugging
his shoulders.

I feel it like a punch in the gut. ‘You don’t want to be my friend because you think I’m a coward?’

He tuts loudly. ‘I don’t want to be your friend because you and I are way more than friends.’
Are
way more than friends
–
not
were – are.

I take a deep breath and carry on. ‘And I have to be honest about the baby. I can’t pretend to be this amazing, unfazed type who takes it all
in her stride. My instant reaction was to freak out. A situation can be rational in your head, but you don’t know how you’ll feel about it until it’s there in front of you.’