The Dish (38 page)

‘Mister Twit?’

‘One letter out.’

THE DISH IN HOT WATER – ANONYMOUS HACK SHAMES JOURNALISTS’ PROFESSION

Why Anon should be gone

On my graduation from Oxford in 1981
I took my father’s Morgan down to Cannes with Belles Montague. There, one blistering July day, I first discovered Pierre Lachaise’s ‘Oeuf de Moujins dans un Jus de Truffes Noires’ and was transported to high ecstasy. While others remember where they were when man landed on the moon, I remember where I was when I first supped Koffmann’s croustade; nibbled Marco’s trotter.

I have been writing about
restaurants for nigh on 30 years – I have some small claim to pedigree. Is it too much to ask of today’s critics that they know their onions?

Fine talk, coming from a man who doesn’t know his halibut from his sea bass!

This is not a lament over The Dish’s under-developed vocabulary, their inability to use words of more than three syllables. It is merely an imploration that amateurs should not
be given a voice in print media. As the great Clint Eastwood once said, ‘Opinions are like ***holes. Everybody has one . . .’ To which I’d add: But we don’t need to see it.

I’d wager this ‘critic’ went to a second-rate provincial red brick and lacks formal credentials. I’d hazard a guess they’re female. How else to explain their livid over-reaction to the charming, tongue-in-cheek sanitaryware
in the little boys’ room? And far be it from me to provoke the feminists’ ire, but perhaps this critic without portfolio used certain feminine wiles to ingratiate herself with an ageing male editor? How else to explain such a dilettante being given free rein to pontificate about subjects of which she knows nothing?

Hurling vituperative abuse from behind the sofa of anonymity is an act of cowardice.
If this critic is worth half their Himalayan salt, they should have the guts to criticise a man in their own name. ‘The Dish’, come out, come out, wherever you are . . .

‘Don’t look so disturbed,’ says Azeem. ‘Fergus writes for a paper you get free on the Tube.’

‘That’s the only type anyone reads nowadays. Don’t let Roger see this, he’s still pissed off after yesterday.’

Azeem’s eyes flick
towards Roger’s door. ‘Too late.’

‘It
’s fine, Roger – I don’t care what Fergus writes about me.’ Such a huge fib, but I just want Roger to calm down, he’s looking so agitated.

‘How dare he!’ he says. ‘“Ageing editor”? After the amount of second chances I gave that pompous arsehole. He’s never got over being replaced by a woman.’

‘How about we run a full page in May’s issue: “Fergus Kaye Puts
the Ass in Sea Bass”?’

‘You’re being very forgiving – but I’m not having it.’

‘Roger – I know you don’t want me to, but it’s just easier if I do what Heather says and write a full apology.’

He shakes his head. ‘Your mother would not have lain down like a doormat. She’d have fought back.’

‘I guess . . .’

‘And who’s to say VanRek wouldn’t be trying to sue us if we’d printed the second version?
They’d probably have taken umbrage at something else – people tend to get upset about the truth, Laura, but putting it on the page is our bread and butter.’

‘Roger, I know that.’

‘I am willing to fight this in court.’

‘And I don’t think it’s worth this paper’s time and money. Maybe if the turkeys weren’t kicking off simultaneously.’

‘If you say you’re wrong about the coffee, not only will
you be lying but it dents your credibility. Think through the consequences of that. Our readers are not very forgiving.’

‘I know that too – I do read their letters!’

‘So: I don’t want you sacrificing your reputation because of these cretins,’ he says, taking a hanky from his top pocket to wipe the sweat from his brow.

I don’t want to sacrifice myself for them either – but I’m not sure I have
much choice.

‘I will be deeply disappointed if you roll over and let them win,’ he says, his face darkening. ‘Now, I’ve got to go and see more bloody lawyers with Heather – do
not
make a decision until we’ve spoken again tomorrow. I mean it – sleep on it!’ he says, pointing a finger at me.

‘OK, OK.’

‘Think about what your mother would have done. I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Co
me on, Laura
– you’re normally the one forcing me into it.’

‘Can’t we just go to the pub?’

‘I’ve been eating Celina Summer’s brownie recipes from eight a.m. and if I don’t do some exercise I swear, I will have one more reason to hate that woman on top of the fact she keeps calling me Sylvie.’

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Roger’s not coming back to the office today – we’ll do the six p.m. class?’

‘Katja’s pulled her
hamstring, so apparently we’ve got Chet for Total Body,’ says Sophie, pointing to the poster of a steroid-pumped man mountain doing a one-armed push-up. ‘Do you think Chet’s been retouched?’

‘That arm is a wall of orange muscle,’ I say. ‘What is Chet short for anyway?’

‘It’s bound to be a made-up name, like Wolfgang Wolf . . .’

‘Like you’d take Wolfgang seriously if you knew his real name was
Larry,’ I say, sitting on the bench and resting my head in my hand.

‘You OK?’

‘Bit of a headache . . .’

‘No word from Adam?’

‘Nope,’ I say. ‘And to be honest I’m so stressed about work this week I can’t cope with his tantrum too. He’s conveniently forgotten he was the one begging me for forgiveness two weeks ago, so as far as I’m concerned, we’re quits.’

‘Quits as in
over
?’

‘No – quits as
in I’m done apologising.’

‘Do you know what will cheer you up?’ she says. ‘Investing in some heavily branded merchandise. Would you prefer the racer back T-shirt or the all-terrain water bottle?’

‘Decisions, decisions . . . The blue T-shirt’s all right, but thirty-eight pounds? That’s blatantly a Camden market four-pound T-shirt.’

‘How about these?’ she says, holding a pair of tiny white Lycra
shorts up to my waist.

‘Got about fifty classes to go before I attempt those,’ I say, hanging them back on the rack. ‘Come on, let’s go dump our bags and get this over with.’

As we’re heading to the lockers, my phone rings. I have a sixth sense it’s Adam, but when I reach into my bag I see Heather’s name. I’d better take it, you never know, it might be good news.

‘Work call – back in two secs,’
I say to Sophie as I take my phone outside.

A minute later I walk back in.

‘You’re not ducking out already are you?’ says Sophie. ‘What’s wrong, Laura? Laura – what’s wrong?’

The familiar prickle of panic infects me like tiny needles as I walk through the doors to the waiting room and see Heather sitting, eyes fixed on the doors to the resuscitation area.

‘Heather – what happened? Is he all right?’

She shakes her head. ‘We had a tricky round table with SunFarms’ lawyers – Roger seemed very distracted; then in the cab after, he went the most terrible grey colour,
sweating and complaining of a pain in his jaw.’ Her hand moves to soothe her own cheek at the memory. ‘I thought it might be something with his teeth, maybe an abscess but then it moved down into his shoulder . . . And then he stopped talking altogether . . .’

‘Heather – are
you
OK? Can I get you a cup of tea?’

‘The cabbie was brilliant, brought us straight here – by which time Roger was making
no sense at all. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a person go that colour . . . really, the most awful colour . . . and his lips . . . almost blue . . .’

‘What have the doctors said?’

‘Oh Christ, go in!’ she says, pointing to the door. ‘Yes, go in and tell them you’re his daughter! They wouldn’t let me through but there’s a nice nurse with a beard looking after him, Graeme, his name is – I told
him you were on your way.’

‘He was conscious though, when he arrived?’

She nods distractedly.

‘Are you sure you’re OK, Heather?’

‘I’m fine, yes, absolutely.’

But I can tell she’s not, because in her mind she’s still in the back of a cab with Roger.

Roger’s sitting up in bed in one of the bays in a blue gown and socks, surrounded by a team checking his blood pressure and heart rate, a bag
of saline slowly dripping into his right arm.

‘Oh, hello you!’ he says, giving me a strained smile. Heather’s right – he is the most terrible colour and his hand, when I reach out to hold it, is wet with sweat. ‘What a bloody fuss over nothing, hey? Stuck polka dots all over me like a ladybird,’ he says, waving his hand feebly down at the paper discs monitoring his chest.

Graeme, the nurse,
reaches over to check the probe on Roger’s finger is properly attached, checks the monitor again, then turns to his colleague and says in a low voice, ‘We’re struggling to keep his sats up to eighty-eight per cent, can you let the Reg know – and try beeping cardiac again?’

‘Roger?’ says Graeme. ‘Has your physician given you a GTN spray for angina in the last few months?’

‘G and T spray, perhaps?’
says Roger, laughing weakly. ‘No! I don’t think so. Laura – you’re Nurse Ratched – tell my lovely nurse – or are you a doctor, Graeme?’

‘Nurse!’ says Graeme, smiling.

‘Tell the lovely nurse what I take, I can’t think of the bloody names,’ he says, rubbing his head in confusion.

‘He’s just on a statin, er, Simvastatin? And Rampirel?’

‘Ramipril,’ says Graeme, making a note of it.

‘What’s wrong
with him?’

‘Are you next of kin?’

‘She is!’ says Roger, hoarsely.

Graeme takes another loo
k at the monitor. ‘We’re just waiting for the chest bloods to come back. I think he’s had an NSTEMI, a heart event – well, he’s definitely had some kind of event. He’s struggling to breathe. We’re giving him some oxygen but unfortunately he’s COPD as well, so we can’t give him too much. I’m concerned that
his—’

‘Can I go home yet?’ says Roger. ‘I’m going to miss
The Archers
at this rate.’

‘I believe you can get it on podcast nowadays,’ says Graeme, his eyes flicking back up to the monitor. ‘Roger, do you have any pain in your chest?’

Roger shrugs, guiltily.

‘That’s a yes,’ I say, as Roger lies back on the bed and closes his eyes.

Graeme keeps checking the monitor, one eye on Roger’s fluids,
one on the wiggly lines glaring from the defibrillator. Two minutes later, the registrar arrives and briefly observes Roger’s chest, heaving up and down. The registrar mumbles something to Graeme, something I can’t hear. My own heart starts to pound.

The registrar’s eyes stay fixed on Roger’s chest as it struggles for air. I look to Roger but his eyes are firmly shut. He seems to be asleep but
he’s frowning, his lips moving silently. In his hand, the registrar holds a piece of paper like a till receipt. His eyes glance briefly at it before he turns back to Graeme.

‘OK, his troponin level’s up at zero point zero four five, and his serial ECGs show worsening ST elevation, I’ve spoken to the cardiac team, they’ve accepted him – the nurses need to transfer him to ACW.’

He turns and addresses
a navy blue uniform this time. ‘Sister, can we get a transfer over to Heart please, priority, as in yesterday?’

‘What’s going on?’ I say. ‘Has he had a heart attack or is he about to have one?’

‘He’s had an event of some kind and he’s at risk of another if we don’t find out what’s going on. They’ll do an angiogram—’

‘What’s that?’

‘A scan – when he gets there. You might want to call whoever
you need to call – your mother, maybe?’

‘My . . . my
mother
?’

‘Or Roger’s current partner?’

‘He – he has an ex-wife . . . yeah, I should go and call her. What should I tell her?’

‘Just say we’re transferring him for further investigation.’

‘And then what? What will the scan show?’

‘If he has a blockage in one of his arteries.’

I take a breath. ‘And if he does?’

He shrugs. ‘He may need
surgery – a stent or even a cabbage.’

‘A
what
?’

‘Sorry, a CABG, otherwise known as a heart bypass.’

My eyes are drawn again to the bed. Roger’s looking worse than he did five minutes ago, his brow creased in pain, his breath increasingly laboured. I lower my voice and turn from him. ‘Is he going . . . is he going to be OK?’

The doctor looks at me as if to say:
Do you actually think I’d commit
– verbally – to saying he won’t die?
‘Your father’s not in good shape at the moment – but if he needs some kind of intervention, the work we do with the heart nowadays is quite routine.’

‘OK,’ I say, relief flooding my veins. ‘OK, thank you. Thank you very much.’

‘But obviously,’ he says – an afterthought as he turns to go – ‘as with any operation, there’s always the risk of complication.’

And the minute he says that word, my heart sinks and all I can think about is Roger’s daughter – and how quickly she can get herself on a plane back home.

I’d forgotten what ITU is like. Maybe I hadn’t forgotten, maybe I’d just tried to, because sitting here next to Roger’s bed feels horribly like I’m straight back in my worst nightmare.

I remember when Mum was ill – I’d thought this type of ward was called Intensive Care – so when people referred to it as ITU, the IT part made me think of computers. Which is a reasonable connection to make,
really, because ITU is full of technology. Technology, doctors and nurses, and patients who hover in a too-narrow space between life and death.

It’s not like a normal ward. It’s not just the light – bright and white, with a sickly green sheen; a light that never goes off because in ITU it’s perpetual day or perpetual fluorescent night. It smells different – it doesn’t smell of much. Missing are
the normal ward smells of over-boiled vegetables and indecipherable creamed soup, of vomit and flowers – there’s just the faint smell of pink anti-bacterial wash, mixed with a lot of anxiety.

And there isn’t much in the way of human sound; generally people aren’t in a talkative mood – certainly not the patients. Many can’t breathe on their own, so they’re intubated – big, plastic ventilator tubes
rammed ungraciously down their throats. When Mum was in, there was a young man next to her for ten days who’d been stabbed in a gang fight. His friends made a racket and his mum and girlfriend would row over his comatose body, but he survived and they moved him down to High Dependency and replaced him with a 48-year-old man who’d had a heart attack and lay in his own silent world, his wife beside
him sobbing constantly until they read him his Last Rites, and then there was peace – for him.