The Dish (34 page)

He tries to take my hand again but I move it to my lap.

‘Please – say something, Laura.’

‘Can I have the rest of your beer?’

‘Are you going to pour it over my
head?’

The bottle is warm from being gripped in his hand these last twenty minutes. I take a small sip and sit, my head nodding of its own accord until I’m finally ready to speak.

‘You want to know what I think?’ I think: brilliant. You’ve impregnated some random woman, and for the next eighteen years you’re going to have aggro with her over your son, and as much as I want to take this opportunity
to tell you how gutted I am that you kept this from me – I have no stomach for my own hypocrisy. If you’re a liar and a coward, you can add that to ‘I hate coffee Revels’ – just two more things we have in common. I don’t have a leg to stand on, not a foot, not one toe.

‘Laura, I know how bad it sounds if you only look at the headline . . .’

I do so hope he bears that in mind in the near future.

‘Maybe it was a mistake not to have told you before now, but there was never a good time.’

Yup – hold on to that thought too.

‘And I figured if you at least got to know me properly, you’d understand I’m not a player. And if you knew me then maybe you’d feel enough to give me a chance, because I feel something very strong for you, Laura. I know it’s only been a mo
nth but I don’t think I’ve ever
felt this close to anyone—’

‘Adam, stop!’

‘Because I can imagine starting every day with you. I want us to build a future together, I want—’

‘What’s he called?’

‘His name is Josh.’

‘Josh,’ I say, swallowing a huge lump of emotion I haven’t even begun to process yet. ‘That’s a really sweet name,’ I say, standing abruptly. ‘I’m going to go home now.’

‘Laura . . .’

‘It’s fine, I’m tired.’
It is taking superhuman strength to try and be an adult about this, and if I stay any longer I’ll start acting like a child. I can feel it – disappointment and hurt welling up in me – and I want to do it off-camera.

‘Let me at least call you a cab, it’s raining,’ he says, moving to help me as I struggle with the sleeve of my jacket. I pull away from him instinctively, as if he’s about to hit
me.

‘Laura, please! I don’t want to lose you – we’ve only just found each other. People can make things work if they want to make things work.’

‘It’s just a shock, that’s all . . .’ I say, shaking my head to try and dislodge the news from a point where it seems to be lodged, directly behind my eyeballs, making me dizzy.

And as I walk out in to the dark street a thought comes to me through the
haze: you reap what you sow.

Saturday’s the first truly warm day of the year and Regent’s Park seems to be operating a couples-only policy. Teens with their hands up each other’s tops lie snogging on the grass; thirty-something tired partners push double buggies towards The Garden Café. The old couple with the matching hats are back on the bench, this time in matching cardigans.

I’m actually in a threesome – one of
whom has four legs and is wearing a Juicy velour onesie. Annalex, Sophie and I have been walking, mostly in a large circle, processing the news.

‘You look like shit,’ says Sophie.

‘Yeah, well – I was up half the night, trying to get my head around it. One hideous thought after another came hurtling at me; it was like dodgeball. Firstly, I felt jealous of this woman—’

‘That’s kind of irrational.’

‘I have an image of her and Adam going at it, hammer and tongs for a fortnight and then I have a flashback to him and me last weekend and it makes me feel sick.’

‘Try not to think that thought.’

‘Try not thinking of a pink elephant! And then I think how messed up all this is: I was with Tom nearly a decade and I never have to see his muppet face again; Adam spends two weeks shagging this girl
and she’ll be in his life forever.’

‘Wouldn’t it be worse if they’d been a proper couple? Imagine if they had an entire photo album of happy memories together; Adam didn’t have an issue with the fact you’re divorced.’

‘Why should he? I’m not in love with Tom anymore.’

‘Exactly,’ she says, coming to a halt by a beautiful cherry tree, bubble-gum pink blossom stuck all over its branches. We sit
underneath it on grass more white than green, a blanket of daisies. I lie back and stare at the sky as I run my fingers up through the flower stems. I know this is not the worst thing at all, I do know that.

‘Soph, I had entirely reconciled myself to a man with kids; but a newborn love child never entered the equation.’

‘I know it’s not ideal. But maybe it’s easier when a kid’s so young? They
won’t be resentful of you like an older stepchild might be?’

‘And then I have this horrible selfish thought: this little boy will be Adam’s priority, he has to be. But I would like to be the centre of his attention, for a while at least. Adam barely has any time as it is. So now I’m jealous of a baby, how shameful is that?’

‘He’s not going to get anything like half the custody. Did you speak
to him about what he’s doing about access?’

‘He doesn’t know yet. He’s texted and asked me to meet him for lunch tomorrow, he said he wants to talk it all through, about how we go forward from here. Part of me feels I should walk away right now, it’s messy, it’s complicated – it was clearly doomed from day one—’

‘Bullshit!’

‘But . . . if I think about the last four years, it’s basically been
a barren wasteland, temporarily lit up by flares of false hope. Adam wipes the floor with everyone since Tom – including Tom. But I have no idea how it would possibly work with this baby.’ I prop myself up on my elbows; maybe my brain will be able to process all this if it’s vertical.

‘It’s Adam’s child, he’s going to have to figure it out. But I reckon he could use some support.’

‘It’s far
too early in our relationship to be thinking about any of this. A baby? I mean that’s a full-on responsibility.’

‘I doubt he’ll ask you to be the wet nurse.’

‘Soph – I don’t know if I want to take this on. And this Katie woman . . .’

‘Laura, just go along tomorrow with an open mind.’

‘You know what’s the worst part?’ I say, picking a daisy, and running my thumb through the centre of its stalk,
then threading another daisy through the slit, then another. ‘The thing I’m most upset about is the thing I have least right to be. Even though I understand why he kept it a secret, it pisses me off so royally.’

‘Come on, Laura! What was he meant to say? “I’ve fathered a love child with a lying cougar – and I may or may not ever set eyes on this child.” You’d have run a mile from that.’

‘I wouldn’t.
I’d have told him to sort himself out and come back to me when he knew what his situation was with the baby.’

‘That’s bollocks! You’d have judged him on the spot – as a womaniser, irresponsible and too complicated.’

‘And he’s none of those things, Soph. I think he’s fundamentally a decent, honest person.’ I say, tipping my head back to feel the sun on my face. ‘Which brings me back to the bloody
review. The minute I walk into his house I’ll tell him. And the only possible silver lining to all this is that he’s no longer in a position to take the moral high ground.’

‘It’s not that big a deal compared to his stuff anyway. He might even appreciate the irony of the situation.’

‘You reckon?’ I say, chucking my makeshift daisy chain back on the grass.

She nods convincingly.

‘Annalex?’ I
turn to address the dog directly. ‘Do you think Adam will have a sense of humour about all this?’

Annalex gazes back at me and appears to give the question formal consideration – then barks once.

‘I speak fluent dog,’ says Sophie, picking up my discarded daisy chain and chucking it at my head. ‘And one bark means yes.’

On the Tube over to Adam’s, Jess’s voice plays in my head in black and white:
Adam’s a fully-grown adult, contraception is both parties’ responsibility. Why feel sorry for him?

But when he opens his front door, pale, exhausted and with two days of stubble, all I want to do is hug him.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d turn up,’ he says, looking at me with a small but hopeful smile. ‘I thought you’d
probably still be upset about Friday night.’

‘It was all a bit of a shock,’ I say, following him down to the kitchen. ‘But listen – there’s something else I need to talk to you about.’

‘Do you want tea or shall I open a bottle of wine? We’re having roast chicken.’

‘Open the bottle,’ I say. He pours two glasses, while I silently replay my speech in my head, and he comes to sit next to me.

I take a sip of wine, then another, then put my hand in my pocket to check the piece of paper is still there. ‘Listen, Adam. One of the reasons I’m here today is because I understand why people keep certain things to themselves. The thing is . . . when I moved back to London, I took the first job I found . . . Adam, whose scarf is that?’

‘Huh?’

‘On your chair?’ A beautiful print of purple peonies
on a cream silk background.

‘Oh, it’s Mum’s,’ he says. ‘Go on?’

‘Your
mum’s
here?’

‘She just went to get some cream. You were saying?’

‘Hang on, you didn’t tell me your mum was having lunch with us?’

‘She’s not, she was just helping me with some paperwork earlier and then thought it was a crime I wasn’t making you bread sauce,’ he says, smiling softly. ‘If you think I’m a perfectionist, wait
till you see her in action. You were saying, you took the first job . . .’

‘When did she go out?’ There’s a Waitrose by the Tube, a Tesco nearer – she’s more Waitrose than Tesco, which gives me an extra five minutes to confess.

‘Laura, don’t look so panicked, Mum’s cool. You were saying, you took the first job you found when you came down to London . . .’

‘Er, OK . . . I took the first job
I could find so I was Roger’s PA full time – which was fine for a while because I was still feeling a little fragile and there was a lot of change in my life. But then after a year an opportunity came up at the magazine, and Roger – because of my coffee background and also because he thought the readers might respond well to a more down-to-earth point of view – well, Roger decided to let me have a
go at writing The . . . Adam, has your mum got a key?’

‘She took mine, why?’

We both look to the ceiling as a light footstep passes overhead and moves down the stairs.

‘Adam, they only had single cream at Waitrose, so I’m afraid I had to go to the dreadful Tesc– Oh, is it one o’clock already?’ she says, her face lighting up when she sees me. ‘I didn’t think I’d get to say hello.’

She comes
over and kisses me, then holds me at arm’s length and gives me a sympathetic look. ‘Not the best week, all round?’

‘Mum!’ says Adam.

‘I’m just saying! Anyway, carry on, I won’t interrupt you two, I’ll just make the bread sauce and head off.’

Adam flashes me an apologetic smile, and refills my wine glass. ‘Sorry, Laura, go on.’

Behind us, his mother lines up the ingredients on the counter and
stands, hands on hips, surveying the line-up.

‘Mrs Bayley –’ I say.

‘Anna, please.’

‘Anna – thank you so much for letting me stay at your house in Italy. It was the loveliest place.’

‘Oh, my pleasure, dear! I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

‘We had such a good time,’ I say, looking over at Adam, who flashes me a smile at the memory.

‘Adam was quite cross with me that I don’t stock that kitchen like
a professional chef, but there’s a fantastic little market in the nearest village on weekdays, and I tend to buy bits and pieces as I need them. He did take you to La Collina I hope?’

‘The place with the truffles?’

‘Isn’t it wonderful? And so reasonable, not like the nonsense prices they charge at his new place. Adam said you’re into food – have you ever made bread sauce?’

‘Never, actually.’

‘Mum, we’re in the middle of discussing something!’

‘Oh, hush – it’ll only take ten minutes, I’ve already infused the milk, come over here,’ she says, beckoning to me.

Adam shrugs in resignation. ‘You’d better do what she says, she never takes no for an answer.’

‘We can’t open a third bottle,’ says Anna, looking at me with a mischievous smile suggesting that’s exactly what we can and will do.

‘I’ll get you a cab home, Mum, you might as well,’ says Adam, looking at his watch.

‘Go on then,’ she says, flashing me a smile. ‘It is rather good wine. And I’m having such a lovely time!’

As am I.

I’ve learnt how to make world-class bread sauce. I’ve been introduced to the basics of painting on silk; and I am rather drunkenly enamoured with Adam’s mother.

After the first bottle of wine we
bonded about marrying rubbish first husbands. ‘Painful but instructive. Never let a man make you feel less than who you are. Now my daughter, Vicky – she got it right first time round. Slightly boring, dare I say it – but his heart’s in the right place.’

After the second bottle, when Adam popped to the loo, she gave my arm a little squeeze and told me he seemed happier than she’d seen him in
years, and that he deserved a chance. ‘You know it’s about the way you play the hand, not the hand itself.’

Halfway down the third bottle, she touches on the Katie situation. ‘Always disappointing when a woman behaves quite so badly.’ For a minute, she reminds me of Tom’s mum who always made excuses for Her Golden-Balls Boy Who Could Do No Wrong.

But then she looks at Adam, and says, ‘You may
have been unlucky – but you’re as much to blame as she is. Anyway – I shan’t say “unlucky”, that’s a terrible word. Children can be exhausting, infuriating and frankly a pain in the arse – but they are without a doubt the greatest luck you can have in this world.’

As a final act of generosity, as she’s leaving she invites me to her flat next Saturday, to share with me the secrets of Granny Ailsa’s
shortcrust pastry. We tipsily hug our goodbyes, and it’s only as Adam and I are walking back downstairs that I remember my own secret, with dread. In the now-quiet kitchen, the good cheer still hangs in the air like the smell of roast potatoes, but I feel the imp of truth tugging impatiently at my hem.