The Dish (28 page)

‘I’ve shown it to Heather.’

‘You went directly to Heather without showing Roger?’

‘And it’s been subbed – Roger said I should.’

‘Have you got that in writing?’

‘He said it in his office last night – I wouldn’t make it up.’

She shakes her head in disbelief. ‘It’s taken you
four weeks to realise you made a few
factual errors
? There must be more to it than that . . .’

‘Sandra, as you say, it’s only a lifestyle piece.’

‘There you go. As if we haven’t got enough going on with the Bechdel piece. If it’s not business critical, I’m afraid I can’t indulge you.’

Change tack, pronto!

‘Sandra, I’m sorry I’m being a nuisance. I’d really appreciate it if you could authorise
the switch on the system. I know it’s not that straightforward . . .’ But it’s not that bloody difficult either.

‘
And
we moved that fractional ad to accommodate you.’

‘Look – if you don’t believe me, I can email Roger and ask him to confirm.’

‘Roger is having a much-needed break – I wouldn’t
dream
of disturbing him over something this trivial.’

‘And nor would I! I just meant if you wanted
further proof.’

‘Fine.’

‘OK then. So it’s saved as “New Review” with today’s date on, same photo. Thank you. Sandra, I know it’s not ideal . . .’

Well, I wasn’t expecting a love-in.

‘You know someone with Fergus’s experience would never have done this,’ she says, as I’m walking away.

I stop and pause. I’ve only just managed to persuade her to do it, there’s no point in antagonising her further,
but I’m so desperate to argue back and say: Thank goodness I am not Fergus, because someone with Fergus’s experience would just write favourable reviews based on his personal relationships. But of course I stop myself, because this could be construed as precisely what I am doing. If someone didn’t have their facts straight. If someone was trying to cause trouble.

The dentist has just tipped me backwards and told me to open wide when I have a horrible thought. What if Sandra didn’t actually mean yes when she said
fine?
Or what if in the rush of yesterday afternoon she forgot to action the change? I’m out all day, so I’ll have to nag her from a distance – probably a blessing.

As soon as the dentist’s finished, I race to my phone to email her. It’ll
put her back up enormously but I cc Roger in too – even though I know she’d never do the favour for me, she’ll do it for him.

My phone beeps. Sandra, already? No, it’s a message from Adam, telling me to meet him at Victoria coach station at 4.30 a.m. on Sunday with passport and carry-on luggage.

Should I pack a bikini?

If he says yes I’m not going.

No – same sort of weather as here. Bring
tooth glue if you’re planning more party tricks.

Oooh, where can it be? If the weather’s the same as here, perhaps the passport thing is a decoy and we’re staying in England, maybe going to the New Forest?

Right – I need a bikini wax, I need to paint my toenails, exfoliate, decant toiletries . . . But I’m going to just give Sandra a quick call now because I cannot bear to wait all afternoon
for a response, it’s making me nervous.

Her landline rings out, as does her mobile – I should have blocked my number to see if she’s avoiding me. That’s probably paranoid, even for me. I leave a message asking her to call me back urgently, then call once again, just in case she’s back at her desk. No.

OK, bikini wax – it’s been a while. When I shagged Russell, I hadn’t been planning to; he was
still hovering in the grey area of ‘good on paper/maybe I’m being too fussy’. On that third date he’d ambushed me, deliberately dithered about, missed the last train home, then asked if he could crash on my sofa. I was not so far out of the game I didn’t sense a ruse. Besides, there was no way he’d be allowed to crash on Amber’s pristine white sofa, but I figured I should just get on with the sex.
As a consequence, my bikini line was not match fit but I didn’t care – frankly Russell was lucky to be getting any action.

But with Adam it’s a different story. If he doesn’t make a move, a serious move, not a finger on the knee move – then I am done. I’ll hold up my side of the bargain – no self-mutilation getting in the way of a snog, and I shall turn up as prepped as a woman can be.

Amber’s
had all her body hair lasered off but she used to use a waxer who can remove a hair before it’s even decided to be a follicle. She laughs down the phone and tells me her earliest appointment is September. Fine, I head to Selfridges and get a walk-in. Halfway through, warm golden wax stuck to my inner thigh, I panic again and try calling Sandra but there’s no reception – so the minute I’m back in
the main part of the store I try again, no reply. Then I realise I’ve missed a trick. I call Kiki and hold my breath as I hear her fingers on the keyboard checking what’s on the system.

‘It’s all fine, doll, I can see it in front of me, two versions, the second one?’

‘Thank you.’ Thank you. I’m so relieved I treat myself to a Portuguese custard tart from the food hall. Then just to dot my ‘i’s
and cross my ‘t’s, I call Sandra once more, and this time she picks up.

‘I’ve had two missed calls on my mobile from you, Laura.’ Yes, that’s correct! And a voice message and an email – and I wouldn’t have had to stalk you if you’d replied in the first place.

‘I just wanted to double-check everything was OK.’

‘You are seriously testing my patience. It’s all put to bed, done.’

Now I feel foolish
for triple-checking. Of course Sandra would do it, once I brought Roger into the loop. Still, better to annoy Sandra and get confirmation than leave it vague.

‘Thank you, Sandra. I do appreciate it. And sorry again to nag.’

Maybe I’ll bring her back some Toffifee from Duty Free if we do get on a plane.

The minute I hang up I realise I have another problem. I’ve forgotten to change that Leonardo
Da Vinci quote in the noodle bar review, the one I quoted at Adam.

Oh, that is not cool: not cool at all.

OK, risk assessment: what are the chances Adam will read the LuxEris review? A certainty. He secretly does read his reviews and even though I’m unstinting in my praise of the food, I’m lacerating about everything else, so his bosses will probably have a tantrum about it.

What are the chances
of him then reading the review of a noodle bar printed on the same page? Very high – he loves Japanese food.

What are the chances of him remembering I said the Da Vinci quote? High too. We talked about it, although he might have forgotten, he was quite distracted that Sunday.

What are the chances of him putting two and two together and realising I only remembered the quote because I’d put it
in an article, which I in fact wrote? So-so . . .

And what are the chances of me calling Sandra back and asking her to remove the quote and substitute it for another? Less than zero.

The truth will out. The truth may out. Some levels of risk you just have to live with.

On Saturday night I’m so excited, I can’t sleep, then so nervous about missing the coach, I wake at two a.m. I double-check my hand luggage – best underwear, snacks for the journey and my optimum nightwear – the short silk and lace slip from M&S that looks a little like La Perla, or might do in the dark.

Adam’s sitting on a bench at the station, waiting. He looks knackered and tips his head
back as if it’s the only way he can keep his eyelids open. He stands, leans his body against mine and pretends to fall asleep on my shoulder. Full body contact in public: excellent start.

‘I had to do Monday’s rotas at two thirty a.m.,’ he says. ‘I was still packing when the cab picked me up, I’ll be lucky if there’s even a toothbrush in my bag.’

‘Where are we going? I’ve got enough chocolate
raisins to get us halfway to Skeggie but after that we’ll have to start foraging.’

He looks suddenly panicked. ‘Laura, please tell me you brought your passport?’

‘Yeah, of course. I just figured it might have been a white lie to put me off the scent.’

‘Gosh, you really do have trust issues, don’t you? I can hereby confirm, we are not going to Skegness,’ he says, taking my hand. ‘Right – coach
A6, keep those chocolate raisins on standby.’

If he hadn’t fallen asleep the minute we boarded the coach I suspect I’d have told Adam about the review on the way to Stansted. This week has been so crazy and I’m so tired from Wednesday’s all-night writing session, my defences are down; for the first time since I met him I feel guilt free, better than that,
I feel proud
: I’ve done the right thing
by Adam, by the paper and by myself – at significant financial cost. I’ve retained my journalistic integrity and my reward is I get to go on holiday with this gorgeous man!
I
have made life fair.

‘You’re in a remarkably good mood,’ he says, as I bounce back from WH Smiths, carrying the Sunday papers,
Grazia
and a box of Toffifee.

‘Just happy to be spending proper time with you.’

‘Me too,’ he
says, smiling, then stopping to look at me as if for the first time.

‘What?’ I say, searching his eyes for an answer. Those eyes, such a beautiful baby blue.

He pauses, tilts his head to one side. ‘Just thinking how lovely you look today.’ His gaze flicks to my mouth and he leans in and kisses me. Under fluorescent lighting, standing in the departures lounge with stag parties en route to Latvia
wolf-whistling and screaming toddlers barging in to us, we kiss and keep kissing until a loud speaker announces the last call for flight 2950 to Amsterdam, and Adam finally pulls away.

‘We’re going to miss our plane,’ he says, grabbing my hand and heading to security.

‘Amsterdam? I love Amsterdam!’

‘It’s not Amsterdam,’ he says, handing both boarding cards to the guard.

‘Are you keeping it
a secret till we’re back home? You’re good, I’d have blabbed by now.’

‘You’re on a need-to-know basis, Da Laura.’

‘Oh my God, are we going to the pesto place?’

‘That was mean of me, no – it isn’t open till Easter. Maybe we can go later in the year, if you’re still talking to me after you’ve put up with a night of my snoring?’

‘Have you not booked us in separate rooms? Next you’ll be expecting
me to show you my ankles.’

‘At least show me one,’ he says.

I grab his bicep with both hands and give it a little squeeze. ‘I am so over-excited right now, Adam Bayley. I just needed to say that to you.’ I feel like I might pop with happiness.

He still won’t tell me where we’re off to and we sit happily airside, holding hands as I study the departures board: Ljubljana? Aarhus? Ostrava? I don’t
know where half these places are.

‘Adam, does it begin with a vowel?’

‘Stop trying to guess. You’ll know soon enough,’ he says, rubbing his thumb gently against my cheek. ‘You look tired.’

‘All those early breakfasts.’

He smiles apologetically. ‘It must be a nightmare trying to have a relationship with a chef – such crazy hours.’

‘So this is definitely a relationship?’

He looks perplexed.
‘Do you often snog random men in airports?’

‘It’s just . . . I guess we’re a bit of a slow starter . . . physically.’

‘When have I even had a chance? Besides, I thought you were a classy lady.’

I shake my head.

‘Laura – the first time I met you, you refused to give me your number. And when I had to leave that morning you seemed massively unimpressed; I thought you didn’t want to see me again
. . .’

I’m about to ask
who
were
you arguing with on the phone, anyway?
but stop myself – totally unnecessary.

‘Laura, I didn’t know if you liked me or not. I was trying to be respectful.’

‘Well, please be a little less respectful in future. So this
relationship
malarkey . . . what does it involve? There’s putting up with snoring, what other demands do you have?’

‘Let’s see . . . OK, number
one, always being on my side.’

‘I can do that.’

‘Number two, never ask me to go clothes shopping with you.’

‘What else?’

‘You’ve probably realised I’m pretty obsessed with my work, so not taking that personally.’

‘I like my job too.’

‘And you have to be honest about my food. I know I can be a little over-sensitive but I want to get better. I want a star.’

Do it! Do it now! This is your
window, and not one you have to jump out of! He’s as good as said: I want a girlfriend who’s a critic.

‘Hold that thought . . .’ I unzip my handbag. There’s so much crap in here today, passport, cash, lip balm, where is my phone . . .?

‘Shit, that’s us!’ he says, staring at the screen. ‘In red – last call, Gate Fourteen, Perugia.’

He grabs my hand, I grab my bags, and we race, panicked, through
the airport; past Pret, down the escalator, along a mammoth corridor just squeezing through the closing doors of the shuttle train, up another escalator, all the way to the back of the terminal, the furthest possible gate, have a barney with the man at the gate about my luggage, cram my magazine into my coat pocket, newspapers under my arm, chocolate into the bag, board the plane, last ones on,
sitting nowhere near each other, me in the middle – him at the back by the loo.

I wedge myself between a couple who thought they’d scored three seats between two and who immediately re-establish elbow supremacy of the armrests. As I wriggle to get comfortable I feel my phone knock against my thigh – it was in my jacket pocket all along. If I can download the attachment now I’ll show Adam once
we’re airborne. Even if he’s a bit annoyed at first, he won’t be
that
annoyed on a plane.

The man next to me tuts loudly as I scroll through my inbox. Where is it, when did Kiki send me her edited version? Two forty-five p.m. on Thursday. Aha! Here it is: right, download.

From nowhere a stewardess looms and tells me to please switch off my phone, her tone suggesting the exact opposite of please.