The Dish (19 page)

‘I arrived early to get a decent seat and would you believe? The Doucettes beat me to it – they must have camped overnight. Your sister arrived a minute before kick off, as per usual . . .’

In the video, you can hear Jess in the background hissing to Dad: ‘My
meeting ran late and I couldn’t find a cab. Urgh, bloody Patrice Doucette and his stupid oversized SLR, the man’s insufferable.’

Twenty little ballerinas, dressed in pale-blue tutus file on to the stage to form four uneven lines. Rose is standing in first position on the front row, shoulders back, neck long, chin high, her eyes focused on the teacher. Milly, her skinny calves dotted with bruises,
and a plaster on one knee, stands at one end of the back row, her gaze already distracted by a collage of dinosaurs made of felt, stuck to the wall.

‘Wow, good hair, Dad. What’s that called?’

‘Rose? That’s a waterfall plait with a high bun – it took me hours studying YouTube to get the hang of it.’

‘And Milly . . . what happened there?’

‘Oh dear . . . she wanted it to look like the younger
Princess from
Frozen
but she wouldn’t stop fiddling with it. Ooh, here we go!’

Hush descends in the audience as a pianist starts playing and the ballerinas start the dance, moving round the hall in a scattered circle, half-elegant, half chaotic.

‘Wow, Rose is getting good,’ I say, as my niece pretends to pick daisies and places them in an imaginary pannier, her tutu gently rising and falling
as she bobs gracefully to the floor.

‘She’s been in character all week. If anyone’s going to be a prima in this family besides Jess . . .’

‘And what is Milly up to?’

‘It looks like an arabesque, though if I’m not mistaken it’s supposed to be a demi-plié.’

Milly’s face is a mix of confusion and panic as she looks towards her sister – two minutes her elder – to check how the move should be done.

‘
Jeté derrière,
’ cries the teacher, and Rose springs up and down, smoothly, like water in a fountain, the tip of her tongue poking out in concentration.

‘. . . and there’s Milly’s doing La Danse du Pogo Stick, as it is known by our Gallic cousins . . .’ says Dad, his face crinkling in delight.

Milly’s efforts descend into a blur of tulle, pink cheeks and giggling while her sister pirouettes
past, confusion now on her face.

‘Rose asked me the other day if Milly was adopted,’ says Dad.

‘You did point out the obvious, didn’t you?’ I say, as the music ends and the dancers come to a stop – their faces a mixture of relief, satisfaction and pride.

‘I’m pretty sure she was joking but you never know with Rose.’

Milly starts waving to Dad, then rushes to give him a hug. Jess takes the
camera from Dad’s hands to film Milly as she settles, temporarily, on his lap.

‘Say hello to your aunty,’ says Jess, and Milly’s beaming smile fills the screen as she waves at the lens.

‘Look at this, Law-law!’ she says, wobbling one of her bottom teeth violently for the camera.

I press pause on the video. ‘Has that fallen out yet?’

‘Last night! She hasn’t yet worked out what she’ll spend
the Tooth Fairy’s money on but I guarantee it will be purple. Press play again – you must watch the curtain call, Rose does a perfect Princess Kate.’

Back on the video, Milly’s small fingers move towards the screen as she fiddles briefly with Jess’s hair. Then she clambers off Dad’s lap and bounds back to take her place next to her sister. Dad’s gaze stays on the dancers taking their umpteenth
bows as the air fills with delighted applause. When he turns back to camera, I notice he is smiling gently, but his eyes are watering.

And it’s hard to know whether the tears are simply brought on by his love for these perfect little imperfect creatures, swirling and curtseying and giving one final twirl for the crowd. Or whether they’re because Dad is thinking – as am I – of the one person who’s
missing from the audience.

On Sunday I find myself outside a small Victorian terraced house around the back of Angel in a quiet road full of Volvos. I double-check I’ve got the right address, then climb the front stairs and ring the doorbell to Flat 23a.

No answer, but there’s a light on downstairs and I can hear music. I ring again. Still no response. I’ve been burnt like this before: a third date who invited me
round, then wasn’t there himself! I check my watch – midday, on the dot. I call Adam’s phone and he picks up on the second ring, blues playing loudly in the background. ‘Sorry, stereo was on, I’ll be right up.’

He opens the door with a broad smile. He’s wearing a grey T-shirt and jeans and he’s obviously been cooking as there’s a tiny smudge of flour on his cheek.

‘Thanks again for being so
cool about today,’ he says, leaning in to kiss me briefly on the lips.

I wasn’t aware I had much choice! Just as well I didn’t bother getting a wax, 12 p.m. till 1 p.m. and then he has ‘stuff to take care of’? Still, at least it wasn’t a blow out.

‘We could have re-arranged,’ I say – but I only say it because I’m standing with both feet already in his hall.

‘Sorry again about Tuesday,’ he says,
taking my coat, ‘I don’t know where this week has gone.’

My week has lasted a month; the three minutes spent watching JPM chew like a rabid hound on his mackerel sashimi felt like an entire day.

‘And besides, I didn’t want to cancel – I want to borrow your mouth,’ he says, grinning.

‘Any time. Is that Welsh Rarebit I can smell?’

‘Come see!’ He turns on his heel and heads down the stairs.

‘Adam, whoever cuts your hair has missed a bit.’

‘Where?’

‘Just here, at the back,’ I say, reaching out to touch the nape of his neck. His skin is warm and soft. He rests his hand briefly on top of mine to find the spot.

‘Do you want to straighten it out for me?’

‘Me? Now?’

‘I’m not precious, I can’t see the back anyway.’

I follow him into his bathroom. He roots around in his medicine cupboard
until he finds scissors, then sits on the edge of the bath and looks at me expectantly.

I move closer and end up standing sideways on to him, half his body touching mine. He must be able to feel my heartbeat quicken against the back of his shoulder through his thin cotton T-shirt. There is silence in the room, but for our breathing, and all I can think about is how great he smells, how I want
him to pull me closer, how much I want him to borrow my mouth. The angle would be awkward for kissing, and I’d have to mind these scissors, but our bodies could be entwined in less than two seconds . . .

I try to concentrate, taking a lock of his hair. It’s so thick and soft and shiny I find myself rubbing it slowly between my thumb and forefinger.

‘Are you sure you don’t mind me doing this,
Adam?’

He tips his head back and looks at me through dark lashes. ‘I like you doing that.’

Almost imperceptibly he shifts his left arm, which is hanging down by his side. He moves it very slowly, and only a matter of centimetres, until his little finger ends up making contact with my leg, gently grazing the front of my knee. It is the tiniest of moves but it stops my breath.

He doesn’t acknowledge
it, I don’t either, but its presence there makes my insides flip over. He shows no signs of moving his finger away but nor any signs of moving it further north. Heavy silence spreads through the room like an aerosol. The skin on Adam’s neck is so smooth, I have a powerful urge to lean over and kiss it. My body leans closer into his and I have to force myself to stand up straight and take a
breath.

‘Sorry, Adam, I meant you don’t mind me cutting your hair with nail scissors?’

He looks up at me again with those pale blue eyes. ‘I trust you, Laura.’ I hold his gaze as the remaining air in the room seems to vanish down the plughole. ‘But you might want to hurry up, if you don’t want lunch to burn . . .’ He turns his head to face forward and down again to offer up a better angle for
the scissors.

I snip carefully through the strands between my fingers, then brush the stray hairs gently into the bath, blowing delicately to rid his skin of the remaining dark flecks. ‘Do you want me to do that mirror thing behind your head?’

‘You’re all right,’ he says, standing back up and rotating his broad shoulders in a circle. ‘That kitchen’s going to kill me.’ He reaches one arm behind
him to massage his shoulder and his T-shirt rides up at the side exposing a firm, flat stomach. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. The lust blazing in my eyes reminds me of a teenage boy at an end-of-term summer disco. I force myself out of the bathroom before I go all out and grope him.

‘Wow, major kitchen envy,’ I say, as we enter a bright open-plan kitchen, flooded with light from a glass
wall at the back. Stainless steel and copper pans sit on open shelves alongside kilner jars filled with colourful beans and pulses. ‘So, what’s on the menu then, Chef?’

‘Please don’t call me Chef, it reminds me of work.’

‘All right then, Grumpy, what are you making?’

Laid out on the central island are various metal bowls of ingredients: chopped tomatoes, green chillis, grated Emmental, crispy
fried lardons, smaller bowls of coloured salts.

‘You’re getting baked beans,’ he says, taking a cast-iron pot from the oven.

I laugh, and dodge out of his way as he carries the pot to the hob.

‘Oh, I’m serious. Home-made beans and an omelette – given how dismissive you were about the skill it takes to perfect one!’

‘I know it’s not
that
easy but it’s not exactly open-heart surgery.’

‘Backtracking
already? Well, either way,’ he says, sweeping his arm out in front of the array of ingredients, ‘May I present you with the Laura Parker Omelette Bar.’

I clap my hands in delight. ‘You have no idea how much I love an omelette bar, it’s the thing I get most excited about if I ever stay in a posh hotel.’

‘Thank goodness.’ He dabs his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘I thought you might be
disappointed I wasn’t making anything fancier – but I’m more into simple stuff.’

‘“Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication . . .”’ I say, remembering the quote I’d used for the noodle bar review we’ve now dumped for April.

‘That’s very true; you’re so smart.’

‘Oh, it’s not my line! Leonardo da Vinci said it.’

‘Well, he’s very smart, then. And seriously, if you do like simple food, stay well
away from my gaff . . .’

‘Actually I was thinking I might come and eat there quite soon . . .’

‘Really? It’s totally overpriced. But if you do – don’t order the eels. That dish is proof Jonn has finally lost it. He wanted something quintessentially English but to him that’s some weird hybrid of
Downton
and
Mary Poppins
. He can’t just let ingredients speak for themselves, he has to give everything
a
punk twist
. For example – savoury puddings are big in New York . . .’

88. I don’t care if savoury desserts are trendy in The Big Apple; your Apple and Veal Crumble with tarragon custard made me want to cut out my own tongue.

‘. . . And Jonn basically lets puns, rather than intelligent flavour combinations, dictate his menu, so he came up with Eels Flottante . . .’

A flashback comes to me,
of sitting on my bathroom floor with one of those eels trying to slither its way back into my mouth.

‘. . . I have begged Jonn to take that dish off the menu, it’s the most horrible force fit of ingredients that should never be in the same room as each other . . .’

‘“A mail order bride of a dish, a marriage that isn’t fooling
anyone
. . .”’ I say.

He stops in his tracks. ‘That’s a perfect way
of describing it!’

One that will now have to be cut from my review . . .

‘Laura, you do have a way with words, don’t you?’

‘Adam, do you mind if we talk about something else?’

‘You don’t like eels?’

‘It’s not the eels.’

Tell him.

He pauses, looks a little crestfallen. ‘You don’t like it when I talk about work, do you?’

‘Don’t I?’ Now who’s the one answering a question with a question?

‘If I talk about the restaurant you often change the subject. I guess it’s boring for you.’ Now he thinks I’m uninterested and rude.

I really could just tell him, right now. Explain everything, it would all make sense, it’s not
that
big a deal, as Roger always says, it’s tomorrow’s fish and chip paper. Maybe Adam would appreciate the fact I’ve tried to avoid him talking about his work?

Or maybe
he’d think I was a bitch for not telling him sooner.

‘It’s not that, Adam. It’s just . . . people are so defined by their work; there’s more to a person than their job.’

Cop out!
Go on: slip it in, make it casual!! Or better yet, ask him:
where the hell were you on 27 February, between 9.05 p.m. and 12.14 a.m. even though you’ve already told me you haven’t had a shift off? Why am I asking? Oh,
no reason, just making chit chat . . .

Leave it, it’ll ruin today. And besides, if his cooking’s better – re-review: the problem disappears.

‘But being a chef’s not a normal job,’ he says. ‘Your life
is
your work. It’s in your head and your heart.’

Awesome – I’ll be stabbing him in two body parts then – three if you include his back. Unless . . .

‘Adam, I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. You
were saying, about Jonn’s ethos.’

‘You sure?’ The relief in his voice is palpable.

‘I like talking about food. Not eels maybe.’

‘OK then . . . Well, Jonn wanted a savoury twist on Bread and Butter Pudding – I suggested a version with a brioche loaf, bacon jam and a topping of three cheeses.’

‘You had me at bacon jam.’

‘But Jonn wanted to shoehorn afternoon tea into the dish so he layered
in Darjeeling-smoked cucumber foam –’

I laugh. ‘Like anyone ever sits down to eat, thinking, “Wow, I am
seriously
craving a plate of foam today
.”’