Free The Dish by Stella Newman

think it’s a great idea . . .’
    ‘That’s an order.’
    ‘Fine. But I’m only going because I feel bad he paid for dinner. One breakfast, cancel my debt.’
    I get up to leave, then have one final thought. ‘Roger, do you remember what the head chef on Thursday lookedlike? He was standing at the pass, shouting. Wearing a cap?’
    ‘I was a little distracted by the hostesses’ golden knickers . . .’
    ‘You don’t remember if he had dark brown hair or bleached blond hair?’
    ‘Now I think about it, he did have one eyelash missing.’
    ‘You don’t remember him at all? You know what? It’s probably nothing.’
    Kiki is the best sub-editor in this building. She’s all of fivefoot one, looks like a fierce Russian doll and has a razor-sharp brain and tongue. Roger loves her, Azeem has a major crush on her and Sandra’s scared of her. (Sandra thinks tattoos are a sign of a personality disorder and Kiki has a dozen.)
    Kiki drinks even more coffee than I do so I pop to the kitchen before heading to her desk on the second floor.
    ‘Can I interest you in a cup of new harvestColombian?’ I say. ‘Toffee notes, very smooth.’
    ‘How’re you feeling?’ she says, giving me a broad, gap-toothed smile. ‘Azeem delivered me a half-eaten pecan brownie on Friday and blamed it on you. Said the stress of Cake Run made him do it.’
    ‘I was still recovering from Thursday . . .’
    ‘When do I get to see your piece?’
    ‘Next week, but in the meantime . . .’ As well as being brilliant at craftingsentences, Kiki’s a dab hand at general subterfuge, and rooting out information: ‘Could you call this woman at Gilded PR and find out a bit about the head chef? Not Jonn Zavragin, the next one down.’
    As she picks up her phone I take my mobile to the corridor to listen to Adam’s message again. Fifth time over and it’s still making my heart flutter slightly.
    ‘. . . Laura? Assuming this is actuallyyou – then hello, this is Adam – the not-banker guy whose doughnut you commandeered . . . half-commandeered. I’m sorry the restaurant tried to poison you last night, I take full responsibility. To make up for it I was wondering: are you free for breakfast on Thursday? My shifts are a nightmare but I could do seven thirty a.m. till eight thirty a.m. And also you still owe me for that doughnut. . . So yes, ring me back before I call in the bailiffs. And even if you can’t find the money, say yes anyway.’
    God, I feel bad about the dim sum. And I absolutely will pay for the doughnut; I’ll buy him breakfast, give him the fiver, make some sort of amends, and be done with it. Yes, that’s exactly what I’ll do.
    Kiki’s written half a page of notes already: ‘Head chef’s name is Adam Bayley.He’s just been poached from The Little Green House, before that he was at Ducasse, then in San Sebastian and Tokyo, and before that at Jonn’s in Chicago.’
    ‘Did you not get his inside leg measurement, Kiki?’
    ‘I wouldn’t say no. Presumably he’s the fit one, not the one who looks like Meatloaf?’
    On her screen is a photo of Adam with Zavragin. The shot looks ten years old, and in it Jonn is presentingAdam with a diploma. Adam must have been mid twenties – his hair cut short, making him look even younger. He has those eyes that are a combination of utter sweetness and naughtiness.
    ‘He looks like one of those sensitive ones who’d be proper filthy when you got down to it,’ she says. Thinking back to the way he consumed that doughnut yesterday, she’s probably right: healthy appetite.
    ‘Hang on,did you say The Greenhouse, in Mayfair?’
    She checks her notes. ‘Little Green House, in Bray, senior sous.’
    That’ll be why I don’t know his name. But two years ago I had an outstanding bacon millefeuille there, and a fall-off-the-bone lamb dish with cumin. He probably cooked it.
    Well, it’s a start. At least he’s telling the truth about his job, though it would be better if he had been