The Dish (2 page)

Anyway, as I said, far too unchallenging for a girl with your
manifold abilities, I’m probably insulting you even mentioning it.

I do hope, divorce aside, life is treating you well enough. Send my best to your father and sister, and if by any remote chance you are interested in applying, send me your CV and perhaps we can talk through the role in greater detail on the phone?

Warmest regards,

Roger

PS Yes of course I like the green ones best!

To: Jess,
Dad

From: Laura

Subject: Life . . .

Quick update: I’ve officially filed for divorce as Tom’s too cheap to pay the court fees. I discussed with my lawyer what grounds to file on – adultery being the obvious one – but Tom
still
claims he and Tess have only just started seeing each other, even though he’s moved in with her. He thinks he’s such a good liar but at least now I know the signs (i.e.
opening his mouth/forming words.)

We’ve settled on ‘Unreasonable Behaviour’. Shagging his colleague/my friend and lying about it for 13 months? Unreasonable just about covers it.

I haven’t seen
her
since my birthday, when she bought me that silver Friendship bracelet. Presumably Accessorize were all out of Lying Two-Faced Slapper bracelets. I’m not sure why I judge her quite so harshly. I suppose
you expect better from another woman. Well, the two of them deserve each other, and now I know never to trust anyone ever again.

Regardless. I think I’ve found a job in London, as PA to Roger Harris. He now edits a brilliant monthly magazine,
The Voice
– it’s like a cross between
Private Eye
and
The New Yorker
– funny, sharp and honest. Also, I’ve spoken to Rachel and I’m going to rent her spare
room. She’s hardly ever there and I can have it for £350 a month – a total bargain for Maida Vale.

X

PS I’m not going to make it over for my birthday – think I’m going to lie low, so please could you send me some more of that fig jam? It’s perfect – not too sweet, and has great little chunks of fruit in it.

To: Laura, Dad

From: Jess

Subject: HOLD IT!

Laura, you’re making a VERY BIG MISTAKE.
Don’t EVER take a pay cut. And DON’T run away from your problems.

Also I think you should freeze your eggs. Fertility goes OFF A CLIFF after 30. One of my team has just frozen hers at 26 – a hugely sensible, forward-thinking move. Be pro-active! Charles and I could give you some money towards it, for a birthday present, if you like?

To: Jess, Dad

From: Laura

Subject: Please stop talking to
me in capitals!

Jess. I’m lucky to be offered a job
at all
in the current climate. Besides, it’s only an interim move while I sort my life out.

PS Thank you, and your husband, for offering to invest in my ovaries, but I’d much rather you bought me the new Nigel Slater if it’s all the same?

To: Laura, Jess

From: Dad

Subject: re: Life . . .

Girls, don’t squabble, please.

L – sounds interesting
re Roger Harris. Your mother always rated him, although Jess may have a point, I’m not sure you should take a pay cut. You won’t be able to afford the same lifestyle in London doing a secretarial job. And what about your friends, aren’t they all up in Manchester now?

PS What is this Grindr thing? Can I do it on my BlackBerry?

To: Dad

From: Laura

Subject: re: Life . . .

Unfortunately most
of my friends up here are mine
and
Tom’s. They’re politely sitting on the fence, and while I fully appreciate that no one wants to be involved in the drama (least of all me) it makes for a pretty lonely time up here regardless.

As for lifestyle, all I spend money on nowadays is food, and London’s full of good, cheap places to eat.

PS Stay away from Grindr, Dad, it’s really not your thing.

To: Laura

From: Jess

Subject: Important!

I’ve considered it overnight and I definitely don’t think you should take this
secretary
job. I thought you were going to do freelance
subbing
while you found a proper job? It’s essential to maintain your salary level. Believe me, I know all about these things: once you take a pay cut/step down from a career path it’s almost IMPOSSIBLE to get back up
again. I saw a CV the other day – bright woman who’d taken a year off to do some whole
Eat, Pray, Love
thing – and I just thought: flaky hippy.

Now would be the right time to return to a blue chip – apply to Nestlé or Kenco. The hot bevs market is virtually recession proof.

Laura: you’ve worked hard, you’re smart and you’re at a VITAL stage in your career trajectory. Don’t under-deliver on your
potential! Mum would have said the same.

To: Jess

From: Laura

Subject: Let me explain . . .

Jess, last December while I was laid up with flu, Tom went to New York (with Tess) for their ‘annual marketing conference’.

YOUR BARCLAYS BANK ACCOUNT STATEMENT

CURRENT ACCOUNT

YOUR TRANSACTIONS

I don’t need to spell out the punchline, but . . . last Christmas Tom bought me a WH Smith pocket diary and a griddle pan. Even though there are moments when I can sort of laugh at all this, these moments are brief. For the most part, my heart is broken. There are days when it is all I can do to get out of bed. Washing my hair feels like
climbing a mountain. My heart literally aches. I feel humiliated every time I see any of our mutual friends. I need to leave this town and these memories behind.

Mum wouldn’t have said the same as you. She’d have said life is precious and life is brief and if you’re not happy – change something.

Much love,

Your flaky hippy sister

x

To: Laura

From: Jess

Subject: No, let
me
explain!

Clearly
you are in the ‘Frustration/Anger’ phase of the Kübler-Ross change curve. Understandable, but why not take this opportunity to focus your energies on your career? Do not let yourself be DERAILED by this bump in the road!

To: Jess

From: Laura

Subject: Let me explain further . . .

Did Mrs Kübler-Ross find a bunch of filthy sex texts on Mr Kübler-Ross’s iPhone? I very much doubt it.

Yes, it
is a bump in the road. It’s a big old bump. But don’t worry, I’m on the case.

To: Roger Harris

From: Laura Harwall

Subject: OK . . .

I’ve thought about it. I’m in. When can I start?

PS Doesn’t everyone eat the head of the Jelly Baby first?

‘Parker, can I borrow you a minute?’

‘Let me just grab a napkin, Roger . . .’ I say, cradling the phone under my neck while I attempt to keep my burrito in check with one hand: impossible – it’s too heavy and too precarious.

‘Sorry! I didn’t realise you were having lunch, it can wait.’

‘It’s fine,’ I say, although invariably I say
it’s fine,
when I mean
it’s not
. That very next bite of burrito
would have had every single component lined up in a row: rice, beans, slow-braised pork, salsa, sour cream, guacamole and a few shreds of cheese. I’m no mathlete but I reckon the probability of having full-house distribution of all seven components in one mouthful is slim. In fact it’s rare, and now I’ve put the burrito down all order is lost.

Roger’s office is chaotic as usual, his floor stacked
with back copies of
The Voice
, his walls papered with layouts for March’s issue. His desk is an avalanche waiting to happen – books, journals, golf balls and empty packets of McCoys – watched over from the corner by a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Joanna Lumley in full Patsy get-up: beehive, shades, bottle of Stoly. Azeem, our digital editor, gave her to Roger for his 60th and she’s a gift that
keeps on giving.

Sandra tries to make Roger tidy up in here once a week, but trying to keep this space in order is like slagging off Justin Bieber on Twitter, then attempting to hold back an army of inflamed online Beliebers with your bare fingers: futile. My day job is still being Roger’s PA so theoretically desk tidying is my responsibility. It certainly isn’t Sandra’s, she’s Managing Editor
, far
more senior and important than me. But then Sandra’s not a normal Managing Editor. No: Sandra is a ferociously cold fifty-five year old who dip-dyes her hair hot pink to prove she has a personality. After a particularly unpleasant run-in with her, Azeem suggested that Sandra’s heart was a small pebble she’d found on Farringdon Road, which she’d taken back to the office and shrink-wrapped
in plastic with her precious laminating machine. He’s re-christened her The Laminator.

Sandra, meanwhile, has created her own nickname (bad form, surely, like laughing at your own jokes?). In an effort to prove to everyone at work that she’s closer to Roger than the rest of us – Sandra calls herself Roger’s ‘Office Wife’. That’s fine: OW suits Sandra just fine – as does ROW. Roger probably won’t
marry again and certainly won’t marry Sandra, but Roger is kind and so he let’s her keep the nickname. And life is way too short to argue about who tidies Roger’s office, so she can keep that job too.

‘Parker – have a seat.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ I say, removing a brass trophy from last month’s Press Awards from the chair.

‘Is that yours or mine?’

‘Mine,’ I say, reading the plaque:
Best Features Review – Arts & Leisure
. ‘But I can’t do much with it. I’ll leave it in here.’

‘Nonsense, you should be proud of it. Use it as a paperweight?’

It’ll only antagonise Sandra, I think, as I cradle it in my lap. Still, I am proud of it, very much so.

‘What are you looking for?’ I say, as Roger pushes a pile of papers to one side, then starts shuffling through another.

‘Something
you’ll like! Something with your name all over it.’

He doesn’t mean that literally. Nothing has my name on it, not when it comes to my
other
job. When I started writing our restaurant column, The Dish, after Fergus Kaye’s meltdown, Roger and I agreed the new column should be anonymous. Of course Jess sent me a long, ranty email telling me I was being a naive pushover and that I should always
FIGHT FOR FULL CREDIT and INSIST IT’S UNDER THE LAURA PARKER BYLINE.

But Jess was wrong. Food critics aren’t like other critics: when our film critic, Henry, sees a film it’s the same film our readers will see. You don’t see Spielberg running round backstage at the Odeon re-shooting a happy ending just for Henry. But with food it’s a different story. A food critic whose face is known will never
have the same experience as the average reader. On the rare occasions I ate out with Fergus and Roger, we’d be seated at the best table, and the chefs would send over Fergus-shaped treats: extra foie gras, free champagne. The pen is mightier than the sword (and the rolling pin). No – the only way you can do this job properly is if
no one
knows your name.

‘A friend at
The Times
sent it to me on
the sly,’ says Roger, handing me a cream A5 card with gold foil edging. ‘Obviously we’re not welcome after last time . . . So all the more reason to go!’

If he wasn’t nearly thirty years older than me, I’d have a proper boss-crush on Roger. He’s bald, stout and looks his age: 62. If you didn’t know him you’d think he was a retired geography teacher who’d been kept awake three nights in a row
with root-canal problems: not standard crush material. But Roger is a brilliant journalist – fearless, sharp and compassionate. Also, he saved me from my old life. And more than anything, he makes every day in this office fun.

‘What do you think?’ he says, leaning forward on his elbows. ‘Have you got to the bit about the sexy-punk aesthetic?’

‘Hold on . . . I’m counting the number of times they’ve
used the word
exquisite
.’

‘And what a dreadful name!’

‘
LuxEris
– sounds like a cross between an exotic dancer and a hybrid.’

‘Perhaps I should have christened Gemma that . . .’

‘Oh dear – what’s she up to now?’

‘Threatening to go to Thailand for three months with some chap she met online five minutes ago. Her mother’s on the verge of having her locked up. Bet you never gave your parents this
much grief.’

‘I’m just glad the Internet didn’t exist when I was nineteen,’ I say. ‘Besides, Mum would have banged me to rights.’

‘True, Jane would have. I suppose Elizabeth and I both spoiled Gemma . . . guilt. Still, I can’t understand where she gets this stubborn, rebellious streak from.’

‘Oooh, stubborn and rebellious – I couldn’t possibly imagine! Are you sure she’s not adopted?’

He sits
back in his chair and laughs. ‘OK, she probably is mine. So then: what do you reckon – make this the main review for April?’

‘You’re quite sure you’re happy for me to—’

‘Both barrels, Laura. Besides, it might actually be good.’

I snort my response.

‘So what’s the diary looking like?’ he asks.

‘I’m doing a noodle place tomorrow and an Italian pop-up on Wednesday – Thursday?’

‘There is one
condition though.’

‘Go on . . .’

‘I’m coming with.’

Roger hardly ever comes with me when I review a restaurant. Partly because he’s too busy meeting power-list types, in clubrooms women are forbidden to enter if they’ve ever owned a pair of trousers. Partly because he has cholesterol problems, and partly because if we ate out together more, he’d blow my cover.