say.
‘I want a star so I can get financial backing.I’m done working for other people. I just want a place that’s mine. That’s what I’ve been working towards my whole career,’ he says, smiling softly. ‘That’s what it’s about, what you do with your own name.’
It’s just as well I haven’t used his name in my piece then, I think, resting my cutlery as I ponder whether Roger’s advice might have been wrong.
‘Anyway,’ he says, shyly, ‘I’ve been droningon about my work, I don’t even know what you do? Let me guess. So: polka dot dress, very pretty dress,’ he says, taking a longer appreciative look. ‘You don’t start work till . . .?’
‘Ten a.m.’
‘Lucky you! So media or creative?’
‘Have you been googling me, Adam?’
‘Do people actually do that?’
Do people actually not do that?
‘I don’t even know your surname, Laura, so no, I haven’t been stalkingyou!’
‘Parker.’
‘Bayley.’
We shake hands again. His is warm and strong; it holds on to mine far longer than mere politeness.
‘Out of interest,’ he says, glancing at my plate. ‘How are those scones?’
‘Amazing! The texture’s so soft and yielding in the middle, then that chewy, crispy coating . . .’
‘And what precisely do I have to do to you to get a bite?’ he says, grinning.
I clumsily scrapethe last one onto his plate. He transfers the perfect French toast and examines the scone. He pokes it with his fork, then brings it to his eye as if he’s working forensics before gently tearing it apart to inspect the texture, finally popping it in his mouth.
‘Verdict?’
He chews thoughtfully, then a smile spreads across his face. ‘Laura – did you take maths GCSE?’
‘I got a B. Why?’
‘ThenI’m surprised you’re not familiar with the concept of fractions.’
‘We never said we’d go halves!’
‘It was sort of unspoken.’
‘Well, if it was sort of unspoken it didn’t happen.’
‘Ah, so that’s how your mind works. A master of manipulation, evasion and half-truths. You’re not a lawyer are you?’
‘I’m a secretary.’
‘Cool.’ He’s the only guy I’ve told what I do for a living who hasn’t immediatelysaid, ‘I can’t believe you’re only a secretary,’ or some other dumb thing that suggests being a secretary is not a proper job.
‘Who do you work for then?’ He’s also the only guy who’s actually bothered to ask where I work, once I’ve told him I’m a secretary.
‘A man called Roger Harris.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He edits The Voice ?’
‘ The Voice is great! It’s so free of bullshit, and it’s got TheDish, hasn’t it?’
‘This view!’ I say, putting my fork down and fixing my eyes to the far distance. ‘Is that the Olympic Stadium?’
‘So do you know the guy who does it?’
‘Does what?’
‘The Dish. He always nails a place so perfectly.’
‘You like him?’
‘Love him.’
‘But you just said you didn’t care what critics write?’ I say, picking up my fork again.
‘He’s different. He doesn’t write abouthimself, there’s no ego. He sticks to the point: you get a knife-sharp view of what he ate, the ambience, the staff. You’re right there at the table with him.’
‘This bacon is amazing, isn’t it?’
‘Nowadays everyone’s a critic – but your guy is properly insightful – and funny. And he’s never vicious for the sake of a cheap laugh.’
‘The bourbon glaze on the bacon . . . I love bourbon almost asmuch as I love bacon.’
‘Yeah, me too. So what’s he like to work for, this Roger?’
Thank God, safer ground! ‘There’s a line in an old Barbara Stanwyck film – she says all she wants is a man “to fight off the blizzards and the floods” . And that’s how I think of Roger. He’s charming but sincere. Brave. And ballsy. A total hero.’
‘Nothing like my bosses,’ he says, cutting into the sourdough, thenadding a bite of sausage, some egg and a snippet of scone to the
‘I want a star so I can get financial backing.I’m done working for other people. I just want a place that’s mine. That’s what I’ve been working towards my whole career,’ he says, smiling softly. ‘That’s what it’s about, what you do with your own name.’
It’s just as well I haven’t used his name in my piece then, I think, resting my cutlery as I ponder whether Roger’s advice might have been wrong.
‘Anyway,’ he says, shyly, ‘I’ve been droningon about my work, I don’t even know what you do? Let me guess. So: polka dot dress, very pretty dress,’ he says, taking a longer appreciative look. ‘You don’t start work till . . .?’
‘Ten a.m.’
‘Lucky you! So media or creative?’
‘Have you been googling me, Adam?’
‘Do people actually do that?’
Do people actually not do that?
‘I don’t even know your surname, Laura, so no, I haven’t been stalkingyou!’
‘Parker.’
‘Bayley.’
We shake hands again. His is warm and strong; it holds on to mine far longer than mere politeness.
‘Out of interest,’ he says, glancing at my plate. ‘How are those scones?’
‘Amazing! The texture’s so soft and yielding in the middle, then that chewy, crispy coating . . .’
‘And what precisely do I have to do to you to get a bite?’ he says, grinning.
I clumsily scrapethe last one onto his plate. He transfers the perfect French toast and examines the scone. He pokes it with his fork, then brings it to his eye as if he’s working forensics before gently tearing it apart to inspect the texture, finally popping it in his mouth.
‘Verdict?’
He chews thoughtfully, then a smile spreads across his face. ‘Laura – did you take maths GCSE?’
‘I got a B. Why?’
‘ThenI’m surprised you’re not familiar with the concept of fractions.’
‘We never said we’d go halves!’
‘It was sort of unspoken.’
‘Well, if it was sort of unspoken it didn’t happen.’
‘Ah, so that’s how your mind works. A master of manipulation, evasion and half-truths. You’re not a lawyer are you?’
‘I’m a secretary.’
‘Cool.’ He’s the only guy I’ve told what I do for a living who hasn’t immediatelysaid, ‘I can’t believe you’re only a secretary,’ or some other dumb thing that suggests being a secretary is not a proper job.
‘Who do you work for then?’ He’s also the only guy who’s actually bothered to ask where I work, once I’ve told him I’m a secretary.
‘A man called Roger Harris.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He edits The Voice ?’
‘ The Voice is great! It’s so free of bullshit, and it’s got TheDish, hasn’t it?’
‘This view!’ I say, putting my fork down and fixing my eyes to the far distance. ‘Is that the Olympic Stadium?’
‘So do you know the guy who does it?’
‘Does what?’
‘The Dish. He always nails a place so perfectly.’
‘You like him?’
‘Love him.’
‘But you just said you didn’t care what critics write?’ I say, picking up my fork again.
‘He’s different. He doesn’t write abouthimself, there’s no ego. He sticks to the point: you get a knife-sharp view of what he ate, the ambience, the staff. You’re right there at the table with him.’
‘This bacon is amazing, isn’t it?’
‘Nowadays everyone’s a critic – but your guy is properly insightful – and funny. And he’s never vicious for the sake of a cheap laugh.’
‘The bourbon glaze on the bacon . . . I love bourbon almost asmuch as I love bacon.’
‘Yeah, me too. So what’s he like to work for, this Roger?’
Thank God, safer ground! ‘There’s a line in an old Barbara Stanwyck film – she says all she wants is a man “to fight off the blizzards and the floods” . And that’s how I think of Roger. He’s charming but sincere. Brave. And ballsy. A total hero.’
‘Nothing like my bosses,’ he says, cutting into the sourdough, thenadding a bite of sausage, some egg and a snippet of scone to the
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