The Dish (8 page)

‘You know quite a bit about food, don’t you?’ he says. ‘That thing you said about the vegetable’s texture. That’s an interesting detail to notice.’

‘Oh. Well my dad is a good cook.’ That’s true. ‘And I did a night course a few years ago.’ Also true. Now that’s plenty of truth! ‘How do you know about this place, then?’

‘One of the commis from work brought me here.’

‘Commies? Do they not
mind you calling them that?’

‘Why would they mind?’

‘They’re Russian, isn’t it kind of rude?’

‘Dave’s a Scouser and Marco’s Italian?’

Oh. Weird. Maybe he calls them Commies because they don’t earn millions like the rest of the capitalists in his office . . . does he call himself a Cappy? That’s so
Wolf of Wall Street.
Please don’t let him be that obnoxious. ‘Do the Commies make the tea or
something?’

‘They make anything I ask them to – but I don’t have time for tea nowadays . . .’

‘Ooh, get you, Gordon Gekko,
I’m so busy making money, I don’t have time for tea . . .
’

He laughs and looks confused. ‘What do you think I do for a living?’

‘Well . . . finance. Don’t you?’

‘Ah, Miss Marple. Very good. And how did you know that?’

‘Er,’ I feel myself flush, as if I’m on the verge
of revealing too much. ‘Well, you look quite clean-cut.’

‘You make a watertight case!’

‘Not just that! You were maybe doing some spreadsheets in St John?’

‘I was doing my weekly numbers. What else?’

‘Your boss is a Russian billionaire?’

‘Only a wee multi-millionaire.’

‘You seem a bit stressed about work. And you call the guys who run around in your office Commies, which is your way of saying
they’re not rich like you hedge fund guys.’

‘Genius!’ he says, tipping his head back and laughing. ‘You’re a genius, Laura.’

‘Thank you!’

‘But you’re wrong.’

‘Oh. Well why
do
you call them Commies then?’

‘I call them commis because they are commis. Commis – it’s a chef, a basic chef, bottom of the kitchen pecking order, slightly higher than the dish wipes.’

‘Oh!
Commis
commis, I thought
you meant Commies with an
e
.’

‘Remind me to hold up cards with subtitles in future,’ he says, nodding sagely. ‘If you were hoping I was rich, you’re out of luck – I’ve barely enough to buy you dinner.’

‘Secretly I’m a bit relieved. Besides, we’ll go halves.’

‘No, I insist,’ he says, signalling for the bill.

‘So hang on, you’re a chef?’

‘I did say I’ve been practising knife skills since I
was little, did you think I was a serial killer?’

‘You’re actually a chef?’

‘A head chef, indeed.’

‘Ah. You know earlier when you were going to show me your tattoo . . .’ I say, pointing to his right arm.

He pulls the sleeve of his jumper up slowly: his forearm is muscular, his hand strong yet elegant, like a sculptor’s, with two tiny knife scars on the forefinger. The skin of his arms is
unblemished aside from two small freckles on the inside of his forearm that I have a strange urge to reach out and stroke. There is no busty mermaid, no Sanskrit peace prayer, no Millwall tattoo in sight.

‘Scared of needles,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid I’m a big wuss.’

‘And just to double-check,
have
you ever been to prison?’

‘I have never been to prison.’

‘But you just sat there in St John and
let me say those moronic things.’

‘I thought it was funny! Besides, you were describing half of the guys I work with, what was it . . .
macho . . . testosterone show-offs . . .
’

‘So hang on – can you get me a discount at Nando’s or what?’

‘I wish I worked at Nando’s! I work at a very expensive new restaurant run by a trio of megalomaniacs who care more about tap fittings than where their meat
and veg come from.’

I feel the blood fall straight from my face into my stomach, then down to my toes.

Ridiculous. Paranoia. There are at least a dozen places in London that fit that description.

‘And it’s three Russians who own it?’ Three Russians, three Russians, three Russians . . .

‘A Russian, a Dutch guy and an American . . .’

‘In Mayfair?’ though I know already it is not.

‘Back in
the Square Mile.’

No. No, no, no . . .

‘. . . it’s got the worst name of any restaurant I’ve ever worked in – LuxEris. Are you OK, Laura?’

I swallow the acid that’s just shot up the back of my throat. ‘That last dumpling . . .’ I stand and rush to the bathroom. Perhaps there’s a small window I can climb out of, or even get wedged in, like a dim sum in my mouth. Anything to get me out of this
mess.

Worst Sunday ever.

There is no way I can tell him. That would be insane, I’ve only just met him and I’ll probably never see him again.

But if I ever do want to see him again – and I do, I really do – then I should go back out there, tell him the truth, because maybe he’ll see the funny side of it. Maybe in years to come it’ll be a hilarious anecdote, ‘How I met your mother,’ ha di ha
ha . . .

There I go again, getting carried away! From the first time I wrote
Laura Loton
on my Form II maths book, after Jamie Loton copied my homework, I’m fifteen steps ahead of myself, thinking and hoping something will come of nothing. And this
is
nothing, a meaningless, drunken Sunday, some random guy who cheered me up in the aftermath of the loser known as Russell. That’s all.

So no, I’m
not going to tell him, why would I? What? Just because I felt more comfortable with him after five minutes than I did with Russell after four dates? Because I feel like I’ve known him far longer than an afternoon? Because I have the strongest sense he is going to be significant to me? I have been
semi-drunk
since
before midday
; there is a reason people don’t normally drink gin and tonics at 10.30
a.m., and
this is that reason
.

The weirdest thing is, I don’t recognise him from the open kitchen. You have to have a good memory in my job and I am pretty sure the chef on the pass last Thursday was blond underneath his backwards baseball cap – he reminded me of evil King Joffrey in
Game of Thrones
. I would have remembered a face as handsome as Adam’s.

Maybe he’s lying? But why would he lie?
This is crazy . . . I wish I hadn’t drunk so much, I can’t think straight.

OK, take a breath, go back out there. It’s fine, it’s none of his business. Say nothing, you owe him nothing. Pay for the dinner, though, definitely don’t let him pick up the tab.

I splash my face with cold water and head back out. He’s standing by the table looking towards the toilet anxiously. He puts his arm out to
touch my back but I freeze.

‘Are you OK? Were you just sick in there?’

‘I felt a bit nauseous, that’s all,’ I say, reaching for my wallet. ‘Please, let me pay for dinner.’

‘Paid already. Are you sure you’re OK? You look a bit pale.’

‘Too much to drink. Sorry. Listen, I’m going to head off . . .’

‘Can I take your number at least?’

‘. . . I’m not . . . I don’t think . . .’

‘Is this because
I’m not a banker?’ he says, incredulously.

‘No, of course not.’

‘Did I say something wrong?’

How can I not give him my number? Look at him, those big blue eyes looking at me like he’s actually disappointed. I grab a paper napkin from the table and scribble down my number before I change my mind. It’s not like he’s actually going to call, given the number of times I’ve embarrassed myself in
the last ten hours. He’s just asking to be polite.

He moves to give me a kiss on the cheek goodbye but my body stiffens, as if he’s about to hit me.

‘Are you sure you’re OK? Let me give you money for a cab at least, I don’t think you should get on the tube if you’re feeling sick.’

‘No! Thanks, but I’m fine.’ I’m fine. This is fine. Nothing is going to come of this because he’s not going to
call.

He’s too handsome, too nice, we get on too well and if history has taught me anything it’s that I am one of those women whom it does not work out for. I’m not being a fatalist or melodramatic – it’s just that some women (whether they’re lovely or complete bitches) end up with a beautiful house and a good husband and excellent tableware – and some don’t: I’m one of the ones who don’t. One
of the ones to whom people say, ‘I don’t understand why it hasn’t worked out for you.’ And ‘I’m sure the right guy will turn up when you least expect it.’ And ‘But you seem fine being single, anyway.’

And I am fine being single, anyway. So when he doesn’t call, this will be fine.

This will all be fine.

‘That’s cheered me right up!’ says Roger, thumping his fist on his desk and laughing.

‘What do you mean? It’s a nightmare.’

‘Nonsense! It must be destiny. Have you read your horoscope this morning?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Though of course I have. Well, that’s a lie – I couldn’t wait until this morning, I read it as soon as I got home last night. Shelley von Strunckel is
never wrong
!

The
events triggered by Thursday’s alliance between your ruler, the Sun, and Venus, should convince you, despite reservations, to go along with developments. You won’t regret it.

‘So when are you meeting him?’

‘He’s suggested breakfast this week but I’m going to say no.’

‘You told me he was
funny and handsome and charming and really got you
. . . and you couldn’t look at me when you said any of
those things.’

I pull the neck of my jumper up over my chin in the hope it might prevent me saying anything more incriminating.

‘So what exactly is the problem?’

‘Roger, are you winding me up?’

‘Parker, I have had the pleasure of your professional company for four years and two months, over the course of which you have mentioned a few suitors, none noteworthy as far as I recall. Your face
has never lit up the way it did just now.’

‘Yeah, fine, so I like him. And that’s the problem, this review is going to screw him over.’

‘It’s not like he owns the restaurant – chefs move around all the time. You know what Elbert Hubbard would say?’

‘Here we go . . .’

‘“The greatest mistake you can make in life is to be continually afraid you will make one . . .”’

‘I’m not
afraid
! I just don’t
want to get into a Fergus-style situation. I have boundaries.’

‘What has this got to do with Fergus?’

‘There are parallels . . .’

‘If anything you’re doing the opposite.’

‘I suppose . . .’ I say, pulling at the bottom of my jumper and noticing a new set of moth holes, like a staple wound.

‘Besides, you didn’t sleep with him already did you?’

‘Roger! We went for a movie and then into Chinatown.
We haven’t even kissed.’

‘Exactly! Fergus would have gone in for a quickie round the back of the Wong Kei.’

‘Fine, well I’m not quite Fergus. But what if I end up seeing this guy properly?’

‘Don’t you think this conversation is a little premature?’

‘Shall we have it after I’ve had three rounds of boiled eggs and soldiers?’

‘You don’t need to confess all on the first date, there is something
to be said for the gradual reveal.’

‘I think he might be rather short . . . like, five foot nine.’

Roger coughs loudly.

‘I never think of
you
as short Roger, I mean, you have presence!’

‘Given this chap’s cooking, I’d be more worried about his lack of talent than height.’

‘Exactly! Which brings me back to the problem: my review, his food – it’s a clear conflict of interest.’

‘For goodness
sake, it’s breakfast. Why do women worry so much about everything?’

‘Because men don’t worry enough about anything?’

‘Meet him.’

‘I don’t think it’s a great idea . . .’

‘That’s an order.’

‘Fine. But I’m only going because I feel bad he paid for dinner. One breakfast, cancel my debt.’

I get up to leave, then have one final thought. ‘Roger, do you remember what the head chef on Thursday looked
like? He was standing at the pass, shouting. Wearing a cap?’

‘I was a little distracted by the hostesses’ golden knickers . . .’

‘You don’t remember if he had dark brown hair or bleached blond hair?’

‘Now I think about it, he did have one eyelash missing.’

‘You don’t remember him at all? You know what? It’s probably nothing.’

Kiki is the best sub-editor in this building. She’s all of five
foot one, looks like a fierce Russian doll and has a razor-sharp brain and tongue. Roger loves her, Azeem has a major crush on her and Sandra’s scared of her. (Sandra thinks tattoos are a sign of a personality disorder and Kiki has a dozen.)

Kiki drinks even more coffee than I do so I pop to the kitchen before heading to her desk on the second floor.

‘Can I interest you in a cup of new harvest
Colombian?’ I say. ‘Toffee notes, very smooth.’

‘How’re you feeling?’ she says, giving me a broad, gap-toothed smile. ‘Azeem delivered me a half-eaten pecan brownie on Friday and blamed it on you. Said the stress of Cake Run made him do it.’

‘I was still recovering from Thursday . . .’

‘When do I get to see your piece?’

‘Next week, but in the meantime . . .’ As well as being brilliant at crafting
sentences, Kiki’s a dab hand at general subterfuge, and rooting out information: ‘Could you call this woman at Gilded PR and find out a bit about the head chef? Not Jonn Zavragin, the next one down.’

As she picks up her phone I take my mobile to the corridor to listen to Adam’s message again. Fifth time over and it’s still making my heart flutter slightly.

‘. . . Laura? Assuming this is actually
you – then hello, this is Adam – the not-banker guy whose doughnut you commandeered . . . half-commandeered. I’m sorry the restaurant tried to poison you last night, I take full responsibility. To make up for it I was wondering: are you free for breakfast on Thursday? My shifts are a nightmare but I could do seven thirty a.m. till eight thirty a.m. And also you still owe me for that doughnut
. . . So yes, ring me back before I call in the bailiffs. And even if you can’t find the money, say yes anyway.’