The Dish (5 page)

‘Going straight home,’ I say. I still look and feel dreadful; maybe I should sue LuxEris for ruining my Friday night? Those guys could totally afford to pay me compensation. At
the very least they should buy me a butt naked toilet that resembles Jon Hamm – now
that
would be worth £7,600 of anyone’s money. Jon Hamm: now there’s a man who does not need to add an extra N on his Jon. Though hang on a minute, he does have an extra M on his ham . . .

‘Oh shit,’ says Azeem, looking genuinely alarmed. ‘Does this mean you’re not doing Cake Run?’

‘Come on, Az, you could do it?’

‘Get Kiki on the case – I’ll forget who’s ordered what.’

‘And that’s why I created this spreadsheet,’ I say, grabbing his sleeve as he tries to escape.

In an attempt to stave off boredom, I have set up colourful charts and systems for every possible function in this office. Azeem squints at my screen in confusion. ‘That looks epically complicated.’

‘It’s perfectly straightforward, working down
from the third floor, the ad guys like to splurge; last week they had salted caramel financiers. Subs and planners – more modest: brownies or giant cookies, then steer Roger towards something fruit-based – perhaps a strawberry tart?’

He leans in for a closer look. ‘What no Laminator?’

‘She claims not to indulge,’ I say, dropping my voice, even though she’s currently upstairs. ‘But leave a cranberry
streusel flapjack within a five-metre radius and it’ll be gone in sixty seconds. Do me a favour . . .’ I take two pound coins from my wallet. ‘Buy her one anonymously; it couldn’t make her more sour, could it?’

To: La
ura

From: Dad

Subject: re: My review – what do you think?

I’ve read the piece – My goodness, sounds awful – they thoroughly deserve every word, and I loved the bit about the cold
hot dog.

Any nice plans for the weekend? Munchkin Number One has become obsessed with Degas’s
La Classe de Danse
so we’re off to the Musée d’Orsay tomorrow to study it. She wants green sashes like in the painting for their ballet performance. Meanwhile all Munchkin 2 wants to do is watch
Despicable Me.
Again.

To: Dad

From: Laura

Subject: re: My review – what do you think?

Tell Milly if she
watches it one more time, she’ll turn into a minion.

Saturday – possibly helping Soph at farmers’ market – then not much. Skype at 4? Sunday, I have a date with that guy, Russell.

To: Laura

From: Jess

Subject: Quelle horreur!

Good piece. £9.50 for a bread basket? The French wouldn’t stand for such nonsense. But is it wise to admit you visited the men’s toilet? Won’t that make you appear grubby?

Jess has such insane reactions sometimes, it makes me laugh.

To: Jess

From: Laura

Subject: re: Quelle horreur!

No one will think I’m the town bike. Most of my readers are under the impression I’m a man anyway.

To: Laura

From: Jess

Subject: God is in the detail . . .

Well then, Clever Clogs, I’m afraid you’ll need to rethink this section:

10. I don’t care if the world’s most famous ‘starchitect’
did design your tables – they don’t work as tables. Their unique multi-faceted corners stab you, uniquely, in the hips.

11. Plus they wobble.

12. And they’re rammed too close together.

13. I’m 5’7” – no giant – yet my knees were hitting the underside – so please make your table legs taller.

14.
Or your chair legs shorter.

To: Jess

From: Laura

Subject: Er, why?

What’s the problem exactly?

To: Laura

From: Jess

Subject: Er, because

You talk about your height, and 5’7” doesn’t sound like a man’s height.

To: Jess

From: Laura

Subject: I am the same height as Tom Cruise, so there!

I’ve double-checked and the star of
Top Gun
is 5’7”.

To: Laura

From: Jess

Subject: Seriously

Have you nothing better to do with your time?

To: Jess

From: Laura

Subject: No, actually.

We’ve just
put March’s issue to bed, and everyone else has gone down the pub – and I would have too, if I wasn’t feeling nauseous.

To: Laura

From: Jess

Subject: Good grief

Pub at 3.30 on a work day? You media folk still live in the ’80s.

As for your review – next time if you don’t actually want my opinion don’t ask for it!!!

PS Can you buy me four packets of Parmesan biscuits from Flour Palace for
next Saturday? My Eurostar gets in as per the attached agenda. I will have 90 minutes; need to be at Kensington Roof Gardens for drinks with European Heads of Trading at 5.30 p.m. so be on time!

To: Jess

From: Laura

Subject: re: Good grief

Have a great weekend, Jess. Love to the girls. L xx

Way too weak to take her on this afternoon. On which note . . .

To: Sophie

From: Laura

Subject:
Tomorrow . . .

Are you doing farmers’ market? If so, I probably shouldn’t work the stall – meal from hell last night and now food poisoned. I could still drive the van, but might need to wear Hong Kong style bird flu mask to avoid infecting your brownies.

To: Laura

From: Sophie

Subject: re: Tomorrow . . .

Shit, forgot to tell you! Going up to Sheffield to see Will – first weekend off in five
months! Was going to leave new Battenberg flavour trial outside your door this afternoon – should I leave chicken soup instead?

To: Sophie

From: Laura

Subject: Don’t worry

I’m pretty much nil by mouth, so planning on being in bed by 8.30 p.m. Need to be fully recovered for Sunday; made it past the date three bump, who knows? Russell and I may even make it through date four . . .

To: Laura

From: Sophie

Subject: Yay, date four!

You’ll be fine. Make sure you do something fun on Saturday.
Game of Thrones
on your own does not count.

To: Sophie

From: Laura

Subject: GoT

You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen season three, episode nine x

When I f
irst moved back to London, Saturdays were savage. I used to forge myself military-style routines to battle those endless hours: walk and shop
and clean and tidy; cook, read book, nails, wash and sleep. Days so full but my God, they felt empty.

Four years on and I’m no longer lonely, well, no more so than the next person. I’ve come to value my freedom. This morning I had a lie-in, then brewed a pot of coffee from Caconde in Brazil. The rich, chocolatey smell filled the flat like sunshine. As I was drinking it I noticed Annalex looking
at me forlornly, so I took her for a walk along the canal, over to Regent’s Park. She made a beeline for the snowdrops – they’re toxic for dogs – and I wondered if it wasn’t a cry for help, so just in case, I gave her some extra Chewdles when we stopped for a break on a bench. Sitting next to us was an old couple feeding the ducks. They were holding hands and wearing matching scarlet hats: those
hats really stood out against the grey sky.

On my way home I detoured via The Sea Shell because I missed out on fish and chips yesterday, but when I walked in the smell of deep fat frying made me feel peaky. Instead, I went home and made fusilli with butter and peas – simple but comforting. Then I Skyped Dad and Jess, had a bath and watched
Game of Thrones
– the dragons! The blood! I meant to
watch only one episode but it was so exciting, I just had to keep going.

And Sophie says sometimes she worries I’m avoiding life, but I disagree entirely, I am living it. Why would I give up my freedom just to have any old man? Of course there are nights, like tonight, when I lie in the bath until the water’s run cold, my toes resting on the taps, and I dream about the sort of love you only see
in the movies: a love like in
The Notebook.
But that sort of love is a fantasy. It doesn’t exist in the real world.

I’m not saying there are no good men out there – of course there are, and if one came along, terrific. But he’d better be terrific or there’s no point. And Russell? It might be Russell. Three dates in is far too early to tell, isn’t it?

When I get into bed tonight I have the strangest
sensation, a tightness in my abdomen. It might be the return of the dodgy eels. But I don’t think so. It feels more like nerves, adrenalin, anticipation. A feeling that something’s about to happen, my life is about to change.

I wouldn’t have been so late this morning if Amber hadn’t been hogging the bathroom, performing a ‘dry oil sub-dermal scrub’. Still, I’ve managed to make myself look presentable in seven minutes. If I hadn’t wasted another five working out whether it was going to rain, I’d have been on time. I wouldn’t have had to race for the bus, and I wouldn’t now be standing here, sweaty, and without an
umbrella in the drizzle. Though I’m not sure it matters – I’m outside No.1 Columbia Road, but Russell isn’t.

It’s 10.03 a.m. I’m sure we said 9.30 a.m? Start at the flower market, then head to St John for the legendary bacon sandwich; cinema for the new Ridley Scott and then a curry. My perfect day.

I check my phone. No text.

Is that him, walking along, hands stuffed in his raincoat pockets,
looking panicked? Why can’t I remember exactly what he looks like? When I think of him – do I think of him? – I just remember the profile photos from Tinder: one where he’s snowboarding and you can’t see his face. One at his daughter’s fifth birthday party – he looks happy in that one, twinkly brown eyes, neat smile. And then a photo of him riding a mountain bike.

No, that’s not him . . . Where
is
he?

Jess would approve of Russell, I’m sure. On paper, he ticks lots of boxes:

• Highly respectable job (software; something to do with vertical interfaces? I still can’t compute)
  
• Sporty (running, footy)
  
• Does not play PlayStation (thinks it’s for kids: correct!)
  
• Is tall (six foot)
  

Tick, tick, tick tick. Lots of annoying ticks . . .

No, that’s harsh. He’s an all-round strong 7/10. And
I do think he has potential, I do. We have a lot in common: an ex-spouse who couldn’t keep their pants on. He understands what it’s like to go through that. What else? We both hate liquorice. We both like parks . . .

Hold on . . . is that . . . no, still not him. He’s always been on time before today. Ah, perhaps that’s why I like him. Because he’s still here. Because he’s the only man since
Tom who I’ve had more than three dates with; turning up – that’s all it takes!

Ah, finally! 10.09 a.m. He looks stressed, I’ll give him a break.

‘Laura, sorry,’ he says, pulling me close for a kiss.

‘Goodness, heavy night?’ I say, smelling the vodka leaking from his pores.

‘Just a few drinks,’ he says, scratching his chin and looking over my shoulder towards the market. ‘Christ, it’s busy.
Anywhere we can get a quick bite to eat before we do this flower thing?’

‘I thought we’d do twenty minutes of the market, then grab a bacon sandwich? They stop serving at eleven a.m.’

‘Is there anything round here I could have in the meantime? I’ll still have the sandwich, but I need a little something.’

He does look rough, bless him. It must be hard, adjusting to this new way of life, juggling
being a dad with being a newly single man.

‘There’s a bagel place up there, a cheese shop on Ezra Street . . . there’s Lee’s – they do amazing seafood, probably a little early in the . . .’

‘Seafood’s good, if I can get a Bloody Mary chaser?’ he says, flashing a sheepish smile.

‘You want to go to the pub?’

‘Hair of the dog.’

‘All right. The one up the top’s the nicest.’

We slowly pick our
way through the crowds of people balancing bunches of tulips and miniature lemon trees; terracotta urns and trays of rosemary plants.

‘The fried prawns and calamari are delicious,’ I say, as we queue at the window and the smell of the seaside drifts over us.

‘Cockles! I haven’t had them for years! Used to eat them out of a jar when I was a kid. You’re not a fan?’

‘You go for it.’ Just don’t
expect me to eat any of them.

‘How’s Lilly getting on?’ I say, as he stabs his wooden fork into the white polystyrene cup and fishes out a rubbery grey splodge.

‘Mmm . . . difficult week,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Becky wants her all of Christmas but I don’t think that’s fair. It’s been getting me down.’

‘That’s why you’ve turned to drink?’ I say, smiling.

‘Huh?’

‘Nothing, just the hangover
. . . the pub . . .’

‘I should buy you some flowers, shouldn’t I?’

‘There’s no need, I’m happy just looking at them.’

He darts towards the nearest vendor who’s bellowing, ‘TWO FOR A FIVER, TWO FOR A FIVER,’ and returns a moment later with two bunches of slightly droopy pale pink roses, which he hands over as if they’re his tracksuit that needs washing.

‘Thank you!’ I say, moving to kiss him.
Our lips touch, but he goes in for the full snog and ends up licking the outside of my mouth with a vinegar-tipped tongue.

‘Let’s grab that drink,’ I say, steering him towards the pub.

‘Right, Bloody Mary and . . .?’

‘I’ll have a Diet Coke.’

‘Don’t make me drink on my own, Laura, I’ll look like an alcoholic!’

‘It’s ten a.m.’

‘Gin and tonic? A single?’

‘Oh go on then. But can we drink it
quickly?’

‘Yes, sir!’

We move to the corner table and he settles down with his arm around me. I readjust myself into his body; I can never seem to get quite the right angle with Russell, he’s lean and bony, all those half marathons. That’s definitely something we do
not
have in common.

‘So you’ve booked the tickets?’ he says, absently kissing the top of my head.

‘Yup, three fifteen p.m. trailer,
loads of time. Are you going to fall asleep in it? You look knackered.’