The Dish (25 page)

‘The coffee one?’ I say.

‘Clearly.’

‘Agreed – they’re an insult to any coffee lover,’ I say, crunching down on a pea with delight. So much in common, he even hates the same Revels as me!

He takes a couple of peas and casually tosses them in the air, then catches them in his mouth.

‘If I tried that I’d have an eye out,’ I say.

‘It’s easy, just focus on it as it
lands,’ he says, throwing another up into the air, then expertly catching it again. ‘Try.’

He throws the pea ten centimetres above my head and laughs as it lands on my nose, then bounces on to the floor.

‘Told you I’m useless,’ I say, laughing.

‘Come here,’ he pulls me closer and gently licks the wasabi powder off my nose.

‘I cannot believe you just licked my nose in the pub.’ I cannot believe
I quite liked it. ‘Meanwhile, attacking me with a savoury snack – would that be ABH or SBH or what?’

‘Oh God,’ he says, ‘I had the biggest row with Max last night. The little shit had ordered some beef from a mate of his, without checking with me – I bet he’s getting a hefty brown envelope in the back door.’

‘What, like a backhander?’ I say, taking another large sip of wine.

‘Yup,’ he says,
taking a strand of my hair between his fingers and twirling it. ‘And they’d charged us for Wagyu but this beef was as tough as goat, I had to make mini burgers with it, no way I could charge a premium for that crap,’ he says, grabbing a handful of cashews.

‘What did you say to Max?’

‘I read him the riot act. The little bugger tried to claim he knew nothing about it! He’s an idiot, did he think
I wouldn’t find out? His signature’s on the paper work! Nothing worse than a liar,’ he says, shaking his head in disgust.

‘Tell me about it,’ I say, taking another three peas from the bowl and crunching down hard.

‘Oh, yeah, I guess you know a bit about that?’ he says.

‘Me? A liar?’

‘No! I mean your ex. Did you go mental when you found out about the affair?’

‘I didn’t actually. It was too
much of a shock. I got angrier two weeks later when his mother came round; then I lost it.’

‘What happened?’

‘Oh God,’ I say, taking another huge swig of wine. ‘He’d moved in with Tess the previous weekend and he sent his bloody mum to pick up some of his stuff.’

‘Total coward,’ he says, his eyes narrowing.

‘And I was having a bit of a moment, feeling sorry for myself . . .’

‘Every right
to,’ says Adam, indignation in his voice, as he takes another handful of peas. ‘Oooh, I just got a spicy one.’ He waves his hand in front of his face as if fanning a flame.

‘The heat goes right up the back of your nose!’ I say, taking three more. ‘They’re so addictive, stop me or I’ll have no room left for pasta.’

‘Eleven left, then back to mine,’ he says, grinning.

‘Anyway, at one point I
started crying – not like full-on crying, but still. And you know what she said? “No tears, Laura. We don’t cry in this family.”’

‘I’d have punched her.’

‘Yeah, well, unfortunately
we don’t punch in my family
! But I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone as much as I hated her at that moment. And I said: “Thank God I am not your family anymore,” and told her to fuck off out of my house. And this
is a woman who has a funny turn if you use the word “toilet” instead of lavatory.’

‘Hell yeah,’ he says, leaning back from me so he can give me a proper high five. ‘You must be well glad to be rid of her.’

I grab a few more peas. ‘Seriously! If that’s not a silver lining!’ I say, biting down hard on one of the peas and feeling a sudden, stabbing pain in my gum. ‘Argh!’ I say, my hand rising
to my jaw in reflex. ‘That pea just bit back!’

‘What happened?’ He places his palm gently on my cheek.

‘Ow, I’m not sure. I think the outside of that pea is stuck in my gum,’ I say, awkwardly.

‘Show me.’

‘Hang on.’ I poke my tongue to the back corner of my mouth and try to dislodge it.

‘Let me have a look.’

‘No, this is embarrassing enough as it is . . .’ I poke my tongue back harder and
waggle it furiously but the wedge isn’t moving. ‘Maybe more wine will help loosen it?’

‘These peas should come with a health warning.’

I nod, but am silent as my tongue pushes harder against the snack’s edge. Not budging an inch. It’s viciously sharp and spiky and poking straight down into my now tender flesh. This corner of my mouth has been nothing but trouble since I had root-canal work ten
years ago at that shonky dentist in Salford.

I keep forcing my tongue against it but it makes no headway, it’s caught right in the margin between tooth and gum. I must look like such an idiot.

‘Adam, could you just turn your head, this calls for some drastic action.’

‘Time for something stiffer . . . I’ll get us some bourbon,’ he says, heading to the bar.

Right. Fingers in mouth. Least Audrey
Hepburn-like manoeuvre ever. My forefinger reaches back into the depths and I feel the sharp, smooth tip of the shell and grab on to it between thumb and forefinger, then give it the gentlest of pulls.

Nope. My fingers grapple with it and I’m forced to pull harder – still nothing. It’s wedged so tightly, it’s totally stuck! I should probably do this in front of a mirror but Adam’s just paying,
I don’t want to make an even bigger deal of it.

I pull once, twice and yank a third time and finally it is released! Aaah. Result! I hold the shard up in front of me. It’s big! A centimetre wide and half a centimetre high, pale cream in colour, almost an off white. Actually shouldn’t it be a little . . . greener? I bring it closer to my eye to inspect it: sharp, thin off-white disc of pea. Sharp,
thin, off-white disc of pea?? Sharp thin off-white disc OF TOOTH, not pea, TOOTH!

I put my hand over my mouth as I try not to vomit. My tongue darts back to where the tooth was and feels, instead, gum, half a tooth, and the tangy, iodine taste of blood.

‘What’s wrong?’ says Adam, putting the drinks down and staring at me.

I shake my head in alarm, my hand still covering my mouth, and rush to
the loo. That is the absolute most disgusting thing in the entire world . . .
Oh yeah, hey, supremely gorgeous chef who I desperately fancy, I am so drunk and such a tramp – I’ve just drunkenly pulled out half my own tooth while angrily ranting about my ex mother-in-law!
Now
do you fancy a quickie?

In the safety of the loo I inspect the damage. Good grief, I look like Skeletor if Skeletor’d had
a deranged Salford butcher for a dentist. It’s the second molar from the back, which, up until ten minutes ago, was a shell of a tooth with a silver filling. Now what’s left is half a tooth, cracked down the middle lengthways, so that if I run my tongue against it from the inside it’s intact, but from the outside is a metal filling, then bone, blood and gum. My legs start to wobble at the sight.

I sit on the toilet and ponder my options. My dentist works well-paid, lazy hours and certainly doesn’t work Sunday nights . . . Maybe I could call a friend and get them to pick me up from the toilet and whisk me to a hospital? Maybe I should just go medieval, pull the other half of the tooth out and be done with it? Great idea, Viz Top Tip, why not pull out all my own teeth while I’m at it –
save on future dental bills? Then I won’t have to pay to eat at LuxEris again because I won’t be able to chew, and maybe Adam will fancy me even more without teeth and Amber’s right and
this is all happening for a reason.

Calm down. Go out there and tell him you have to go. On the way home call Sophie – she might know an emergency dentist. Go on! And stop sticking your tongue in the bloody gap!

I head back to Adam, who’s sitting, looking anxiously at his phone.

‘You’re not going to believe this . . .’ I say, slurring out of the left hand side of my mouth. ‘But I’ve broken a tooth.’

‘I think we can safely blame your ex mother-in-law for that, don’t you? Are you in pain?’

‘A little?’ I say, gingerly.

‘Those damned peas! Let me see,’ he says, tilting his head to the side in an attempt
to look inside my mouth. I keep my lips firmly sealed.

‘Laura, show me.’

‘Uh-uh, it’s gross.’

‘Just show me!’

I gently pull down the side of my cheek and he peers at the mouth carnage in a way that’s almost impressed.

‘Wow, you did some damage didn’t you? Let me see if the Eastman does emergency walk-in . . .’ he says, taking out his phone.

‘But what about dinner?’

‘Let’s see what the dentist
says first.’

‘It’s fine. I’ll go on my own, there’s no need . . .’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ he says. ‘Hmm. No, they don’t do walk-in . . . there must be somewhere . . .’

‘I don’t need you to come with me,’ I say, putting my hand out to stop him. ‘I’m fine on my own. It’s gross and I feel a little embarrassed if I’m honest.’

‘What sort of a person would abandon you at a time like this?’

Tom?
Useless at the sight of blood; if I nicked my finger slicing onions on the mandolin he’d swoon like a Victorian maiden.

‘You’ve got an early start, Adam. Please – I’m fine.’

‘Hold on . . . There’s one just off Oxford Street, claims it’s twenty-four hours . . .’

He dials the number and starts explaining the problem.

I grab his sleeve. ‘Don’t tell them how it happened!’

‘It’s not like I’m taking
you to A&E with a hamster stuck up your arse . . .’ he whispers. ‘Or is that why you took so long in the bathroom?’

‘Tell them I’ve still got the other half, can they glue it back on? Would that be cheaper?’

‘OK . . . Yup . . . half an hour,’ he says into the phone. ‘Oh, and how much will that be? Oh. Oh. All right then . . . see you soon.’

‘What did they say?’

‘The good news is they can see
you in half an hour.’

‘The bad?’

‘It might cost a few bob. They said they can’t quote without seeing it, but sounds like they’ll need to fit a temporary crown and you’ll have to go back for a permanent.’

‘A crown? Oh no, Dad had one last year and it cost seven hundred euros . . .’

‘Don’t worry about the money. I know your salary’s . . . If you need to borrow some cash, I can put it on my credit
card.’

‘No! That’s extremely generous, but no. Besides,’ I say, smiling weakly, ‘I still haven’t paid you back for that doughnut, I don’t have a very good credit rating . . .’

‘You won’t be eating any more doughnuts unless they’re through a straw if you don’t get that sorted.’ He stands behind me and puts his hands on my shoulder and gently manoeuvres me out of the pub. ‘Don’t make me push you
all the way there.’

‘But the lasagna! You got the basil in specially . . . I could eat on the left?’

‘If the dentist says you can eat tomorrow, I’ll drop some in to you at work.’

‘I’m coming to the restaurant tomorrow night.’

‘I don’t think so,’ he says, pointing at my jaw.

BOLLOCKS. Tuesday then. It’ll be fine by Tuesday.

Out in the street he hails a taxi and we head towards town. ‘Adam,
I need a cashpoint . . .’

‘In the nicest possible way I think you should stop talking, it can’t be good for your mouth.’

We drive past King’s Cross, both staring out the window. My hangover’s kicking in prematurely and I start worrying about the cost of the crown and Tuesday’s meal, but most of all I’m worrying that Adam will wake up tomorrow with a single thought: Thank goodness I never got
round to shagging
that
mess – she’s a nightmare, drinks too much and then will do anything for attention – pulled her own tooth out to try and impress me!

‘Are you OK?’ he says, as he notices both my hands now cradling my jaw.

I nod and attempt a smile, though the taste of blood is making me feel sick.

He shuffles closer and puts his arm around me. ‘You don’t have to be brave,’ he says, as
we pull up outside a shopfront that is half dentist, half mobile phone shop. ‘I’m going to hold your hand whether you like it or not.’

And he does. He takes my hand and places it in the comfort of his, while a dentist with fingers like knives fills my mouth with grey putty and pushes down on the root of a nerve making me gag with pain. Adam holds my hand as I’m sitting up in the chair, rinsing
with green mouthwash. And even though he lets go when we walk back into reception and I take my wallet out to pay £180 for the last half hour’s delights, he takes it back as soon as I’ve finished putting my PIN number in and pocketed my credit card. He holds my hand all the way back to my flat in the cab and kisses me gently on the knuckle of my forefinger as he says goodbye and makes me promise
to call if anything goes wrong in the night.

And as I’m standing on my street, waving to him as he drives off, I think: I had forgotten how nice it is for someone to hold your hand when you really need them to. When you’re having a hard time. I had forgotten that you don’t have to try to cope with everything on your own all the time.

Please don’t turn out to be one of the bad ones, Adam Bayley,
don’t let me down because I’m not sure my heart could take it.

‘Parker, why do you sound like you’ve got a mouthful of cotton wool?’ says Roger, looking at me suspiciously. ‘You haven’t gone and got yourself one of those adult braces have you?’

‘I had a fight last night with a small green vegetable – and lost,’ I say, removing a feather boa from the chair and wrapping it around Lumley’s neck. ‘Why have you got this?’

‘Azeem obviously thought my office
wasn’t sufficiently messy.’

‘Roger – I have a favour to ask, well two . . .’ I say, looking down at my hands as if the answer to all my problems lies at my fingertips. ‘Could we move our dinner to Tuesday so I’ll be able to chew? And can I please have Friday off to go to the dentist?’

‘Friday, yes – Tuesday, no – I’ll be here till late doing final sign-off. Why don’t you take a friend?’

‘I’d
rather wait for you. I could write Wednesday night, file Thursday? Legal and subs will be free by then?’ It’s so up to the wire as to be beyond the wire, but it is, technically, do-able.