The Dish (32 page)

Three years ago, when
Fergus Kaye moved on . . .

Moved on
? Fired. You know it, I know it, we all know it . . .

I make no secret of the fact I shared with Roger my concerns about you – I did not think you would be an appropriate person to fill Fergus’s shoes.

Fergus did not fill his own shoes! They were those long, pointy-toed brogues – far too rock and roll for a fifty-three year old whose role model is Jeremy Clarkson.

Your immaturity in yesterday’s meeting speaks volumes of your lack of experience and professionalism. Above all, I take great exception to your snide implication I somehow deliberately misled the printers.

She thinks I can’t prove it.

Regardless of the minutiae of who said what to whom on that Friday, you should never have put us in that situation in the first place. Any further and unnecessary
resource directed towards this would be unwise.

That looks a little like a threat; and also like a neon sign pointing me to call the printers myself, to get to the bottom of it.

I write a note on my list, to follow it up when she’s not sitting directly within earshot.

Rog
er’s with Heather all morning, but calls me in at lunchtime. The back walls are free of layouts again and I try to remember
that what’s on newsstands today will be forgotten in a month.

‘I wanted to check you’re not still upset,’ he says, smiling gently and offering me a seat.

‘It’s fine, Roger, I understand your position.’ I just don’t like it. ‘Is there anything I can do to help on the Bechdel piece?’

‘Heather and I were actually discussing turkeys!’ he says, shaking his head. ‘It always comes from the direction
you’re least expecting. SunFarms are claiming each of their turkeys has two centimetres squared more living space than the figure we cited. I doubt they’ve got a leg to stand on. Much like those poor birds. Still, Heather will hopefully tell the buggers to get stuffed . . .’ he says, looking up at me from under his brows to check whether I’m smiling.

‘I’ll buy you lunch if you stop making bad
poultry jokes?’

He grins. ‘Deal. So: how’s May looking?’

‘Tonight I’m off to a meatball place in a car park in Shoreditch, then the Clapton Smoke House on Friday and the Ludo Brunelli opening on Monday.’

‘Good – business as usual. Meanwhile, I want your opinion,’ he says, rummaging around till he finds a piece of paper tucked under the
FT.
‘Which of these shall I get framed for the wall?’

‘More Elbert Hubbard . . .’

Be pleasant until 10 o’clock in the morning and the rest of the day will take care of itself.

‘I like that one . . .’

It’s pretty hard to be efficient without being obnoxious.

‘That belongs above Sandra’s desk . . .’

If pleasures are greatest in anticipation, just remember that this is also true of trouble.

I just hope that one’s true.

Mea
tbalzac in Shoreditch
is foul: chewy defrosted lobster meatballs drenched in acidic thousand island dressing on stale white rolls. I can’t get out of there quickly enough, but there are severe delays on the Tube home. When I’m finally above ground again I see two missed calls from Adam. He normally wouldn’t phone during service, let alone twice. He’d normally leave a message.

He calls a third time as I’m turning into
my street. I very much feel like throwing my phone straight into the canal, but I clear my throat and pick up the call.

‘Laura – can I see you later? Around midnight?’ From the strain in his voice it’s safe to say this isn’t a booty call.

‘It’s a bit late; I don’t want to wake the dog. Could we meet in the morning?’

He sighs loudly. ‘You know what? The way I’m feeling now, that’s probably better.
But I’ve only got fifteen minutes. Eight fifteen a.m., there’s a builder’s caff just behind Bank Station. Meet me there.’

I’ve run through it a dozen times in my head; I’ve even composed a little tune to accompany it: ‘’Twas me. I wrote it. I’m very, very sorry. I’m really very sorry in-deed. Ta da!’ Not sure if I should do the jazz hands at the end?

Once it’s said, it’s done – it’s out there. The relationship may be done too, but if Adam honestly doesn’t care what critics say, then he should have a sense of
perspective. It’s only fluffy stuff, after all.

I’m going to walk into that builder’s caff, lay it down on the table like a copy of the
Sun,
straight away, job done. He won’t go as ballistic as a teenage Jess, he’s not the type.

Adam’s sitting with a plate of uneaten toast and Marmite, head down over a copy of the magazine. He looks up with a face full of stewed anger.

‘Hey you,’ I say, taking
a seat opposite and giving him a small smile. ‘Listen, before you say anything I need to tell you—’

‘You must have known about this?’ He’s already so angry, a vein in his forehead has started to throb.

‘I didn’t know those exact words were going to run but yes, in fact—’

‘You should have warned me.’

‘Yes, I should have.’ I nod, then pause. ‘Although actually – what could you have done about
it?’ Stop sidetracking. Tell him. Otherwise this pit is going to get deeper, darker and full of snakes and not adorable, fluffy snakes.

‘I could have braced myself for the impact,’ he says, gripping the side of the table, then puffing out his rage. ‘Sorry. I’m angry. I know it’s not your fault, I’ll be OK in a sec . . .’

‘Don’t apologise, I should have told you – and you say it’s not my fault
but actually—’

‘You couldn’t have stopped it.’

‘Erm, yes. Here’s the thing . . .’

‘But seriously!’ He instantly whips himself up into an even bigger peak of rage. ‘How dare he? Who does he think he is? Sitting there, guzzling away like Mr Creosote, some fat pig . . .’

‘Not that fat.’

‘Stuffing his face with lard and statins, some bitter, lonely loser like Anton Ego in
Ratatouille
. . .’

‘Anton Ego’s really quite sweet once you get to know him.’

‘Vicious! Sticking the knife in, just listen to this venom!

‘The whipped chicken-liver butter was like eating the output of a liposuction clinic . . . A bunch of try hard Noma-wannabees . . . Even Dot Cotton would gag at the level of smoke on the brisket . . .’

‘I don’t need you to read it out, I’m more than familiar with it because
I—’

‘You
know
that’s not a fair description of my food,’ he says, scowling down at the pages.

‘Your food is so much better and that’s why I went—’

‘It’s because he’s a dwarf! Five foot seven? What sort of height is that for a man? He’s a poisonous troll, a little –’

‘Adam,’ I say, holding my hand up to try to quiet him. ‘Please stop talking for a minute, I need to tell you—’

‘I’m no giant
but this man
really
must have a short man complex to be so hateful, all he can do is tear apart someone else’s work.’ He runs his hands through his hair, then raises them in a plea in my direction. ‘I bet he’s never even set foot in a professional kitchen
in his life
and yet he has the nerve to pass judgement on me.’

‘But . . . I thought he was the one critic you kind of liked?’

‘He clearly
knows fuck all about food.
And
he’s a liar: these are
lies
! I would
never
send a plate out like that
.
’

‘The points about the decor and the service aren’t wrong though.’

‘I can’t believe you’re defending this review!’

‘But you’ve said it yourself, the prices are ridiculous, the menu’s fussy and contrived. I think perhaps you’re overreacting a tiny bit.’

‘Laura, I swear, if I ever met him I’d
have a hard time not punching him.’

‘Well . . . erm . . . would you punch him if
he
turned out to be
she
?’

‘Do me a favour,
look
at those sentences?’ he says, stabbing his finger at the page.

‘I don’t need to, I know them by heart because I—’

‘That obnoxious, self-confident, swaggering pompous conviction
he
knows better.
That
– I’m sorry to say – is a
male
trait.’ I’m not sure whether he just
complimented or insulted me.

‘Well, hang on a minute. Why can’t a woman’s writing be . . . self-assured?’ Ooh, but this ice is thin.

‘I’m not here to have a debate about feminist sentence structures, Laura. I know he’s a man because he’s a dick.’

‘Listen to me, Adam! I am telling you:
he
is not an
anything
—’

‘I agree, he’s a piece of shit but he’s clearly a man, because no woman I’ve ever
met, no matter how jaded and miserable her pathetic little life was, could be such a complete and utter self-satisfied toxic prick.’ He tears the pages out, rips them in half, chucks them back on the table, then stands and puts his jacket on. ‘I’m sorry, Laura, I don’t mean to take this out on you. But this review is out of order, these are
not
accurate descriptions of my food and I’m not having
it.’

And he’s stomped off before I can try, once more, to get the truth out.

Well fine: it’ll have to wait until Sunday.

He’ll have calmed down by then.

‘Double bacon sarnies all round!’ says Roger, jubilantly piling three paper bags on to the boardroom table on Friday morning. ‘Right, let’s make this quick, I’ve got a meeting at the Frontline at . . .?’

‘Twelve thirty,’ I say. ‘Cab’s booked for twelve.’

‘Round the table, copy sales – Mick?’

‘EPOS so far’s huge, we’ll be hitting a hundred and sixty-two thousand if it stays on track.’

‘Any production issues?’

‘Flawless run, PrintPro handled the embargo brilliantly, no leaks.’

If Sandra genuinely had nothing to do with the wrong review, she’d have pointed out that PrintPro picked the wrong copy off the system. But she’s sitting there looking like margarine wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

‘Jonesy, sterling job, filling those two pages at the last minute, I presume you charged nowhere
near rate card?’

‘Rodge, it was so last minute, I had to make it worth their while. Anyway, you won’t be getting much in the way of meat ads for the foreseeable future.’

‘Did you see the SunFarms’ spokesperson on
Newsnight
? What an absolute bell-end,’ says Roger laughing. ‘Worth publishing just to see him making such a buffoon of himself on camera.’

‘We’ve had an exceptional response to the
SunFarms piece in other media,’ says Sandra. ‘However, we’ve also had Fletchers’ Head of PR on the phone yesterday, demanding we print a retraction of the density per square footage allegations.’

Roger waves the comment away. ‘It’ll blow over.’

‘What about Bechdel?’ says Kiki. ‘Is he kicking off?’

‘They were squawking on Tuesday but they’ve gone quiet,’ says Heather. ‘They know we can substantiate
our facts.’

‘Tends to shut the lawyers up,’ says Roger. ‘Azeem, go on, I can see you’re dying to talk.’

‘Guys – I know some of you are a little dubious about the value of social media, but I want to share with you some amazing stats. In the last three days, the Bechdel piece has had over sixty-three thousand retweets and the turkey piece has had forty-two thousand.’

‘Do turkeys tweet?’ says
Jonesy.

‘Not the ones at SunFarms,’ says Kiki.

‘They gobble, Jonesy,’ says Roger. ‘Have you never seen that marvellous Jennifer Lopez/Ben Affleck clip? And they gave that man an Oscar!’

‘Guys, I haven’t finished: the biggest surprise is The Dish. Since it went online at nine p.m. on Monday, it’s had more traffic than the Bechdel and turkeys combined. That toilet photo’s had almost as many retweets
as the latest selfie of Kim Kardashian’s arse.’

‘I’m surprised their PR guys haven’t been on the phone already with some hysteria-laced invective,’ says Heather.

‘Perhaps they realise life’s too short,’ says Roger.

‘Azeem,’ I say, trying to keep my voice calm. ‘How do these trend curves tend to work? Presumably this will be the peak of the wave, three days in?’

‘Depends if it snowballs over
the weekend.’

‘Tomorrow’s fish and chip paper,’ says Roger.

‘Not just tomorrow’s,’ I say. ‘It’s the day after’s, and the day after that.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ says Kiki. ‘The minute Miley Cyrus shows a nipple people will move on.’

W
hen I get back to my desk, there’s a missed call from Adam. Anxiety pulses through me as I head outside to call him back – I didn’t want to tell him over the phone
but I just can’t bear keeping it a secret anymore.

His voice on the phone sounds tender, embarrassed. ‘Laura – I’m so sorry about yesterday morning . . . It’s been a truly terrible week.’

‘Because of the review?’

‘Not just that, but I’ll tell you on Sunday, it’s not one for the phone.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Uh-huh,’ he says, pausing. ‘Are you?’

‘Yes. Adam, listen, about yesterday I absolutely—’

‘Laura, you were right: I overreacted. I’ve been feeling like a total arse.’

‘Please, there’s no need to apologise, in fact I need to tell you, and I should have mentioned it earlier –’

‘The thing is, I’ve been thinking about it – and it makes no sense.’

‘Er, what doesn’t?’

‘Your guy is normally bang on the money. But the avocado salad, the tuna ceviche . . .’ he says, confusion in his voice.
‘I can swear an affidavit, a hundred per cent, I have never let a plate leave the pass like that.’

‘Adam, listen to me—’

‘Laura – there’s something I need to get to the bottom of.’

He knows. I should’ve had the guts to tell him sooner. My mouth seems incapable of forming words. All I can hear is my heart beating in my chest.

‘You know who wrote the review,’ he says.

‘Yes I do,’ I say, then
take a deep breath and in a voice so quiet I can barely hear it myself: ‘I did. It was me.’