The Dish (13 page)

‘You finally going to nail him?’ says Jonesy. ‘I saw him on telly the other night – sanctimonious little rat.’

‘What’s the dirt?’ says Kiki. ‘I heard the second wife was Latvia’s highest paid escort before she met him, and now she’s reinvented herself as a cross between Mother Teresa and Angelina Jolie – never misses a photo op in a shanty town, always dressed in nude Louboutins.’

Sandra turns
a withering gaze towards Kiki. ‘Katrina, perhaps you’d like to apply for a job at the
Sun
if that’s where your areas of interest lie?’

‘Oh come on, Sandra,’ says Kiki. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t love a bit of gossip as much as the rest of us. Besides, I’m not taking anyone seriously who tells me to donate to charity while they’re wearing six-hundred-pound shoes!’

Sandra lets out a deep sigh. ‘Obviously
this piece will be confidential until we go to press, the entire issue will be embargoed and I do not want anyone discussing this or any other editorial outside of these four walls.’

Kiki’s eyes meet mine.

‘We’ll be focusing primarily on Bechdel’s business dealings,’ says Heather. ‘His chief backer when he set up the hedge fund was Serge Kuranikov.’

‘Never ask about the first million,’ says
Roger.

‘Bechdel himself is under investigation by the SEC for that fund, which is now in administration, so the start of the piece investigates the money trail. There’s plenty of meat there. We are looking at his annual charity gala, partly because of the drug allegations and partly because those guest lists make for rather interesting bedtime reading . . .’

‘And the brother?’ says Jonesy, nervously.

‘Oh, it’s definitely a family affair.’ says Roger. ‘The brother’s ad agency has done the campaigns for the charity since day one – but the account director has shown us the billing sheets – they’re charging double the rate card.’

‘For a
charity
project?’ says Jonesy.

‘Exactly – you’d expect that to be done at cost – so the brother’s creaming money off the whole thing too.’

‘So what’s our backup
for the cover story if the Bechdel doesn’t happen in April?’ says Kiki. ‘And does this mean we’re going to have a nightmare end of month, subbing it all at the last minute?’

‘The other big feature,’ says Sandra, ‘will be on turkey.’

‘The country or the Twizzler?’ says Jonesy, his face twisting with concern.

‘It’s an eight-page exposé of SunFarms Poultry – horrific animal welfare story, covers
toe-clipping, cannibalism, violation of density per square foot allocations in shed birds—’

‘Bollocks,’ says Jonesy, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘How many of the supermarkets are involved?’

‘SunFarms don’t supply into the big four, but they’re part of Fletchers’ supply chain so we will be naming Fletchers, and giving their CEO a right to reply,’ says Heather.

‘And I’m supposed to keep ’em
sweet about the fact their ad for Easter Sunday roast turkey will appear on page fifteen while we’re accusing them of torturing the poor buggers on page nine?’

‘Tell them to run a lamb ad instead,’ says Azeem. ‘Or better yet, a nut roast.’

‘Can’t we at least hold it till May?’ says Jonesy.

Roger ignores him and turns to me with a sly smile. ‘Laura, you’re a one-woman encyclopaedia of Things
You Wish You Never Knew About Turkeys. Why don’t you tell us all your charming Christmas tale?’

‘Not now, Rog, not appropriate.’ I shake my head violently.

‘Bring a little cheer to the room.’

‘I told you that story off the record!’ Last Christmas, Amber, her animal activist step-brother Rafe and I had ended up stuck in London due to heavy snow. Sophie, bless her, had hosted us at the last minute.
All had been surprisingly festive until Rafe had drunk too much fashionable gin and performed a nothing-left-to-the-imagination demonstration of a male turkey being wanked off: truly the mother-of-all-appetite-suppressants. Sophie has only recently started speaking to Amber again and only now in terse sentences.

‘Apparently, the male turkeys have been bred to have such over-sized breasts—’ says
Roger.

‘Stop it, Roger.’

‘– they can’t mate naturally or they’d break the females’ backs, so the farmers end up having to turn them upside down and manually . . .’

‘Roger!’ I say, catching the appalled expression on Sandra’s face.

‘Oh Parker, you’re such a killjoy. Fine, we’ll save it for the pub. Right,’ he says, checking his watch, ‘What time’s my cab, Laura?’

‘Eleven thirty a.m., table’s
at noon.’

‘AOB, team?’

‘One more thing,’ I say. ‘Last month’s charity pub quiz – I’m still missing your ticket money . . . Jonesy and . . .’ I scan my list. ‘Just Jonesy.’

‘What charity was it for again?’ he says.

‘The charity of What Bleeding Difference,’ says Roger.

‘I don’t think we should have to pay, the
Daily Metro
had their iPhones under the table, googling every bloody answer.’

‘Just shut up and pay the woman, Jonesy, or you’ll have your own nut roast to worry about.’

Jonesy puffs out his cheeks indignantly, then laughs, in spite of himself.

To:
Laura, Azeem

From: Kiki

Subject: URGENT

When was the last time you think Sandra got laid?

To: Laura, Kiki

From: Azeem

Subject: re: URGENT

Valentine’s Day, 1843.

To: Laura, Azeem

From: Kiki

Subject: Or perhaps . . .

More recently . . .!

In case you’d managed to erase the horror – thought you might like another view of this charming photo of Sandra and Fergus on the dance floor after the pub quiz . . .

To: Laura, Kiki

From: Azeem

Subject: Help!

I need new retinas . . .

To: Kiki, Azeem

From: Laura

Subject: Enough!

Not having this conversation with you guys on email. And Kiki – delete that from your
phone, for God’s sake.

To: Laura, Azeem

From: Kiki

Subject: More gossip!

Meanwhile, Damian Bechdel once propositioned my friend Lexie in Soho House. She said he got his cock out and was so drunk he couldn’t get it back in his trousers. Apparently the wife was sitting next to him the whole time, so high she didn’t blink!

To: Laura, Kiki

From: Azeem

Subject: I AM HUNGRY!

Isn’t it cake o’clock
yet, Laura?

To: Azeem, Kiki

From: Laura

Subject: Practice makes perfect . . .

Azeem – In light of your epic fail last week I think you should do it again.

To: Azeem, Laura

From: Kiki

Subject: Mine’s a triple chocolate brownie

Yeah, go on Az – do it for me. No getting high on your own supply this time though –I know your bite marks!

To: Laura

From: Azeem

Subject: PRIVATE

Oh God – I
love her.

To: Kiki

From: Laura

Subject: £600 shoes

Do you think Mrs Bechdel’s a bad person just because of her shoes? You’re not averse to a nice shoe yourself, young lady.

To: Laura

From: Kiki

Subject: NSFW

I don’t think she’s bad – I just don’t want to be preached to by an ex-hooker who’s using a starving Asian child as a prop. Meanwhile here’s a link to a photo of Lady Bechdel from
her modelling days c.1991. She’s wearing shoes but not a lot else! Don’t click on it when anyone’s standing behind you, it’s fully rancid.

To: Kiki

From: Laura

Subject: urgh

Don’t ever send me stuff like that again. How do I delete my cookies on this computer without having to ask Azeem?

To: Roger

From: Laura

Subject: WORKLOAD

Hope lunch is good – make sure you order the brown sugar tart,
it’s worthy of the hype.

Also, is there anything
at all
that needs doing this afternoon? Have re-formatted the holiday chart, written up notes from earlier and done all your T&Es . . . Am officially at a loose end.

To: Laura

From: Roger

Subject: Re: WORKLOAD

Enjoy the peace while it lasts, Parker.

I won’t be coming back from lunch – don’t stay past 5 p.m.

To: Dad

From: Laura

Subject:
Candy Crush

Stuck on level 262, send help immediately!

To: Laura

From: Dad

Subject: Re: Candy Crush

On level 401 darling, 262’s ancient history. Striped candy’s the key.

To: Jess

From: Laura

Subject: Saturday

What time does your Eurostar get in again? 3 p.m. or 3.30 p.m.? I’ll meet you outside the main M&S in St Pancras.

To: Laura

From: Jess

Subject: Do you ever do any work????

I’ve
re-attached the word document with my agenda for Sunday. I did already send this to you – do you not archive your emails? Have you bought my biscuits yet?

To: Jess

From: Laura

Subject: You are SO annoying

It would have been quicker just to type: 3.15 p.m. But thanks.

By the way I’ve attached an agenda detailing when I’ll be eating your biscuits between now and tomorrow.

To: Laura

From:
Adam Bayley

Subject: Round 2

Afternoon. Just wanted to send you this photo of a stickman I made out of streaky bacon. He was delicious.

Yesterday was the best breakfast I’ve ever had. Can w
e do it again next Tuesday, same time?

To: Adam

From: Laura

Subject: re: Round 2

Tuesday? Sure. But this time my treat x

To: Sophie

From: Laura

Subject: CHEF UPDATE

OK, so he’s asked me for breakfast
again . . .

Don’t think the greasy spoon I go to with Kiki for beans, fried slice and a builder’s arse crack will impress him. The Wolseley’s too posh/I won’t get a table. Big Fat American-style breakfast, waffles, pancakes, etc? Would Will eat a steak at 7.30 a.m.? Or Café Aviv – chefs like all that shakshuka stuff, don’t they?

To: Laura

From: Sophie

Subject: Breakfast, again?!

Go to Justin’s
Bakery – only a psychopath doesn’t like a freshly baked croissant.

To: Sophie

From: Laura

Subject: They don’t open till 8 a.m.

I thought breakfast was the new bloody dinner? Wish it was dinner . . . As Lumley says, ‘Why wake up Annie Appetite before you need to?’ The minute I start eating, my body remembers how magnificent food is and wants to keep at it all day. It’s like chocolate or sex
– if you go without for long enough you forget why people make such a fuss. But put a toe back in the water . . .
Soph,
how is he ever going to make a move on me at 7.30 a.m. in a public place?

To: Laura

From: Sophie

Subject: Eureka idea!

Get Fabrizio to start selling my cakes – then you can meet Adam in the back room. Nice and cosy . . .

To: Adam

From: Laura

Subject: Missing strawberries

Here’s a photo of the strawberry tart my colleague Azeem just bought me. Tell me, would any self-respecting pastry chef let a tart leave the kitchen with three strawberries missing?

On Tuesday, how about Bobby’s near Goodge Street? It’s new-wave Australian – avocado on toast, breakfast burritos, etc. My old boss, Doug, knows them so their coffee will be good and apparently their pastries are
amazing.

To: Laura

From: Adam

Subject: Perfect

BTW – I was thinking about you ordering the food yesterday and it was making me laugh.

To: Adam

From: Laura

Subject: Gobby?

Did you think I was being bossy?

To: Laura

From: Adam

Subject: Not gobby

Not at all! It was refreshing – I’m not used to girls being so forthright.

To: Adam

From: Laura

Subject: Forthright = polite word for bossy,
no?

Next time I promise I’ll keep my mouth shut.

To: Laura

From: Adam

Subject: Keep your mouth open!

It’s one of your best attributes!

I meant, Laura – you say what you feel, there’s no bullshit with you – which is a rare quality.

The fact you’re entirely yourself around me makes me feel I can be entirely myself around you. It’s great.

See you Tuesday (I shan’t say Next . . .)

Can’t wait.

x

As I watch my sister stride through St Pancras I still can’t quite believe that this super-groomed, Parisian-thin brunette is the same Jess who’d bounce around our front room in a too-tight turquoise Pineapple leotard, making me do backup vocals for ‘Love In The First Degree’. (It didn’t occur to my five-year-old self that Bananarama had three members and if Jess insisted on being Siobhan
Fahey I could be one of the other two, but no: Backing Vocalist,
Stand behind Siobhan AT ALL TIMES
!)

But look at Jess now: she’s turned into the sort of woman who has a
uniform
instead of clothes. Her weekend uniform never consists of jeans or holey sweaters; rather, a combination of fail-safe
capsule pieces
– today a cashmere jacket over black trousers, Tod’s loafers and a
so
expensive it has
no branding
bag, hooked in the crook of her arm.

‘We’re going to Pied à Tech,’ she says, kissing me hello, then marching for the taxi rank.

‘Oh Jess, I’m in no fit state . . .’

‘All the more reason.’

‘But I wanted to take you to this cute little tea shop . . .’

‘My treat, I choose. Besides, I have to get to Diptyque before five p.m. for Nita’s engagement present. Chartered surveyor. Met him
on
The Times
website,’ she says, arching a perfectly shaped brow.

‘Why don’t you buy Nita something more interesting than a candle?’ I say, ignoring the dating remark. ‘How about ScandiDesign for something a bit different?’

Her nostrils flare. It’s not like Jess doesn’t have imagination. She used to have plenty when she was making up stories to get herself out of trouble, or me into it. It’s
just with her infinite responsibilities (Office Role Model for Other Women, kids, Charles, Dad) – she has no time for creativity. You can’t go wrong with a pair of black trousers, nor a Diptyque candle and Jess lives in a universe where being right is entirely about not being wrong – where the definition of wrong is different.