The Dish (7 page)

‘A tenner,’ he says.

‘A fiver.’

He holds out his hand to shake on the deal.

‘I’m Adam.’

‘I’m Laura.’

‘You get to choose which half,’ he says, slicing the doughnut confidently in two.

‘Impressive knife skills!’

‘Been training since I was knee-high . . .’

‘Which of us owns the custard on that knife?’ I say.

‘You want the knife as well?’

‘Not if you’re going to charge
me extra for it.’ He must be a City Boy.

‘Remind me never to divorce you. The knife is yours,’ he says grinning.

He’s done a perfect bisection (maybe he’s actually a surgeon?) – and I consider the halves on the plate, each spilling out heavy vanilla-flecked custard. How on earth am I going to sit opposite such a fine-looking man and eat such a messy, all-consuming thing without looking like
a wildebeest?

He gazes at his half with a look akin to a man admiring his firstborn, then attacks it with gusto and has finished before I’ve even started. By the looks of it, he’s one of those furiously annoying people who can eat whatever they want and never put on any weight – he has broad shoulders, a strong, lean upper body.

‘If you’re just going to sit there holding it and staring into
space, you might as well give it back to me,’ he says.

‘No, I’m just trying to work out where I can find that fiver I owe you at such short notice.’

‘Writing cheques your mouth can’t afford . . .’

‘I’m good for it, honest!’ I say, as I gingerly take a bite from one side and watch as a large dollop of custard falls to the table.

‘Don’t look so sad. You can eat off the tables in here, they’re
very clean.’

‘You won’t judge me?’ I dip the tip of my finger into the custard.

‘I’m not going to get on Twitter and tell the world you go round licking tables. Your secret’s safe with me.’

‘I appreciate that, Adam. I’m a very private person, I’m like the J. D. Salinger of table-licking . . .’

‘J. D. Salinger . . .
Catcher in the Rye
, right?’

‘Yes!’

‘That’s the only GCSE book I ever liked.
OK then, Smarty Pants, what does the J. D. stand for?’

‘No idea, Jack Daniels? John Doe? Same as whatever it stands for in JD Sports?’

‘Shame, I was going to invite you to join my pub quiz team . . .’ he says, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair with a look of contentment. ‘I do like this place. They make some of the best bread in London.’

‘The waiter said you’re a regular.’

‘I
always thought their bacon sandwich was my little secret.’

‘I thought it was
mine
.’ I look over my shoulder at the chefs at work. ‘I love it here. The kitchen always looks so relaxed – none of that testosterone bullshit.’

‘What testosterone bullshit?’

‘You know, kitchens where you’ve got a bunch of heavily tattooed macho-men shouting and screaming at each other. Chefs are the new rock stars?
Don’t make me laugh! You’ve just flipped the perfect omelette? Come back to me when you’ve actually done something useful like saved a life. Half of those reprobates would be in jail if they weren’t in a kitchen.’

‘Would you like to see the tattoo I had done when they let me out of jail and I became an omelette chef?’ He moves to pull up the sleeve of his jumper.

‘Go on then.’ I guarantee if
he’s got a tattoo of anything it’ll be a Merrill Lynch logo.

‘I’ll spare you – I don’t think I know you quite well enough yet.’ He smiles the most outrageously contagious smile, which I can’t help but mirror.

‘We’ll save that for next time,’ I say as I blush. I think I’ve been blushing ever since I sat at his table.

We have been sitting and talking for two and a half hours over a bottle of
white wine when his phone rings. He looks at the name on the screen and his smile suddenly falters. ‘Two minutes,’ he says, as he takes the call outside. Don’t go outside! What if you change your mind and never come back?

I take my mirror from my handbag, put on some more lip balm and check that none of the seed cake is stuck in my teeth. Adam is outside, deep in conversation. I hope it’s not
with a girlfriend. I’m sure he’s been flirting with me – though since the tattoo conversation, all we’ve talked about are random subjects – the smell of bookshops, the evolving nature of facial hair in East London, favourite pop video from the eighties: me – ‘Sledgehammer’; him – ‘Addicted To Love’.

His laptop’s on the table and I sorely want to open it, to see what the document he was working
on so intently was – it looked like a spreadsheet. I still haven’t asked what he does for a living but I’d bet a tenner he’s a banker. His navy jumper and jeans are classic, but they look expensive. His thick brown hair is slightly messy, but not in a poncey
I work in digital media
kind of way. Until he actually says ‘I am a banker’ I can live in a little bubble of fantasy where he’s a doctor
or a human rights lawyer or some other heroic profession.

He walks back in looking weary.

‘Is everything OK?’

‘It will be.’

‘Was that your angry wife on the phone?’– Might as well put it out there.

He laughs. ‘No wife, angry or otherwise.’

‘Do you have to be somewhere?’

He looks at me, thinks about it, and shakes his head. ‘How about another bottle of wine?’

I check my watch – it’s just
gone 2 p.m. ‘This might sound weird . . . but . . . no, it doesn’t matter, actually, it’s a silly idea . . .’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, I have two cinema tickets that are going to waste, three fifteen, at the Barbican . . . dumb idea, you’ve probably got plans . . .’

‘I haven’t been to the cinema in years.’

‘You don’t like films?’

‘I love films! I just never have time, with work. How come you’ve got
two tickets? Do you just hang around nice restaurants, waiting to pounce on people’s doughnuts, then kidnap them with the promise of a movie?’

‘The minute I’ve got you in the darkened cinema, my crack team of organ thieves will have your liver in an ice bucket.’

‘Not sure my liver’s worth stealing,’ he says, draining the last of the wine. ‘I’ll take my chances. How long’s the walk, twenty minutes?’

‘Twenty-five?’

‘That gives us just under an hour. Can we do another bottle in fifty minutes, do you think?’

We’re walking, well, wobbling, into Chinatown from the pub we went to after the cinema. I’m still clutching the roses, though I wonder, if I ditched them now, would Adam try to hold my hand?

This day is turning out so much better than I could have planned. Half a custard doughnut is better
than no custard doughnut. Half a custard doughnut shared with an extremely cute, funny man is much, much better than a whole custard doughnut eaten alone. Half a custard doughnut, and then wine, and a walk, and a film, and another bottle of Rioja, and now a stroll into Soho as the sky turns to night . . . This might just be the perfect Sunday.

‘Ridley Scott will never do anything that touches
Blade Runner
,’ says Adam as we cross the road and he moves to walk on the pavement side.

‘
Thelma and Louise
is
much
better than
Blade Runner
.’

‘Ivan, one of the guys I work for, is trying to make a film. He keeps flying to LA, telling us he spotted Arnie in Malibu and Clooney down at Whole Foods . . .’

‘What’s the story?’

‘He’s hoping for Scorsese or Coppola to direct but he’ll be lucky to
get some talented kid out of film school.’

‘No, I mean what’s the film about?’

‘Oh – it’s his life story: Russian makes his first five million in a dodgy gangster deal, then goes on to run incredibly successful global business, buys mansion in Holland Park, marries trophy wife, applies for planning permission for a double basement extension . . .’

‘Rags to riches, hold the rags . . . And this
guy’s your boss?’

‘One of three, yeah.’

God, I absolutely wish this guy did not work in the City. He must be a hedge funder or some other blood-sucking Master of the Universe vampire type.

‘Please – let’s not talk work,’ he says. ‘I’ve got at least twelve hours before I have to go back in, and I’m having such a good time right now.’

Me too.

‘Those roses are starting to look the worse for
wear,’ he says, taking them from me. ‘They don’t smell of anything, do they?’

I shrug. ‘I’m more of a tulip girl myself.’

‘Why don’t we give them to whoever at that bus stop looks most in need?’

Of course, how sweet. ‘You do it? I’m quite shy about talking to strangers.’

‘Apparently not when there’s a doughnut involved . . .’

‘How about that woman in the grey coat?’

He walks over and the
woman looks up warily. He starts explaining, points to me, then she nods, shrugs and takes them. After he’s headed back I see her smile the sort of shy smile that can’t help itself. It’s the same smile that’s on his face.

‘Why did you buy them, though, if you don’t like them?’ he says.

‘I didn’t . . .’

‘I knew there had to be something wrong with you . . . doughnut thief, organ thief, flower
thief, is there no end to your bad behaviour?’

‘Someone bought them for me.’

‘Oh.’ He’s about to say something, then stops himself. His face looks exactly the way mine would if he’d just turned around and said he had a girlfriend. Slightly crushed, slightly confused, trying to work out what to say next.

If I wanted to be mysterious or try to make him jealous, I could tell him about Russell
in a way that made me look more desirable. ‘Some guy I’m seeing . . . nothing serious of course . . . though clearly he thinks I’m flower-worthy . . .’ But I’m not mysterious, and I would hate someone to try to make me jealous in that way. And besides, why wouldn’t I tell him the truth? I’m not a liar.

‘I had a date this morning . . .’

‘First date?’

‘Fourth.’

‘Going somewhere.’

‘No. Not really.
I mean, not now.’

‘What happened?’

‘Basically he went out last night and shagged another girl.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I asked.’

‘And that’s not OK because . . .’

‘Because I didn’t sign up to be in the harem of a bloke who works in IT!’

‘Fair play. I was just checking he knew you wanted something exclusive.’

‘Absolutely. I made it clear at the start, because of my . . . well,
just because.’

‘Some people think it’s OK to see other people at the start of a relationship.’

‘Four dates in? Are you one of those people?’

‘Not at all. But then why would he tell you?’

‘Because I had a hunch, I suppose. And because he knew he wouldn’t get away with lying to me. He probably thought if he told the truth, I might be cool with it.’

‘So the moral of that story is he should have
kept his big mouth shut . . .’

‘The thing is, I would have put up with his baggage, in theory . . .’

‘What baggage?’

‘A nightmare ex, and a kid. Actually I thought the fact he’d been married and had a child was a good thing – proof he wasn’t a commitment-phobe . . .’

‘So the kid and the ex didn’t put you off?’

‘No. I can handle baggage if I think someone’s worth it.’

‘Major baggage or just
hand luggage?’

‘Who hasn’t got baggage? I have baggage, I’m sure you have too, but I cannot be dealing with a liar.’

‘But he didn’t lie.’

‘He withheld information.’

‘So now would be a good time to unload all my baggage, right here in the street outside Sainsbury’s?’

‘Yeah, go on then. What have you got? Raging alcoholic? Clearly you are – though I can hardly throw stones in that direction
. . . History of philandering? Drug habit? Secret love child? Porn addict? Psycho ex-wife? Your parents were first cousins? You shot a man in Reno . . .?’

He opens his mouth to say something, then stops and shakes his head. After another thirty seconds, during which he actually appears to be doing some sort of calculation, he says, ‘My father is a pathological philanderer, my sister had the drug
habit, well, marijuana only; I did recently discover I’ve fathered a love child with a crazy waitress, but she won’t return my calls. My father had an affair with a cousin – but they’re second cousins, barely counts; plus with the volume of women he shagged it was only a matter of time before he called upon family. With all that going on, understandably I have no time left for a porn habit and
I can safely say I’ve never been to Reno.’

‘Me neither,’ I say, relieved that his frown has turned into a joke, I was worried for a moment there I’d actually offended him. ‘Adam – I don’t even know where Reno is! Is it in Texas?’

‘Nevada, I think.’

‘While we’re at it, full disclosure, I once stole a Kit Kat from our local newsagent after my sister dared me to. And I’m rather too fond of sniffing
marker pens.’

‘What colour?’

‘Depends what’s in the stationery cupboard, mostly the red ones.’

‘They’re the least addictive. Stay away from blue – they’re lethal.’

‘OK,’ I say, rubbing my hands together. ‘Well, that’s all taken care of then. So I guess we’re fine?’

‘I guess we’re fine.’

‘Adam, these dumplings are amazing. Normally the veg are chopped so small you can’t taste them, but the
way they’ve cut these, it’s like you can taste the texture.’

He stares at me as if I’ve said something strange. I guess it does sound strange, talking about the taste of a texture.

‘I’m glad you like them,’ he says, as he dips another fat little white parcel in soy and ginger dressing, and holds it out to me on his chopsticks.

‘In the bowl, please.’ When Tom and I first started dating he went
all
9 1/2 Weeks
on me and tried to feed me a dim sum that was too big for my mouth – a fact I didn’t realise until he’d stuck it in my gob and it got wedged there. It was too big to chew and there was no way I could spit it out; in the end I had to shoo him from the table with hand gestures before I choked to death. Not running the risk of death by violent dumpling at this point in such a perfect
day.