‘Our five nominees in a very strong field this year are …’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ I apologized, scrabbling in my bag, as the names of the other chefs were read out. ‘Probably Laurence. He’s in charge tonight.’
‘If he wants me, I’m busy.’ Helen was gripping Seamus’s hand so tightly both their knuckles were white. ‘Tell him it can wait until Seamus has won.’
‘I hope he does win,’ muttered Dominic. ‘If that’s happy, I don’t want to see disappointed.’
‘From the Marden Arms, Seamus Lynch …’
I answered the phone under the sound of loud applause and cheering from our table. ‘Hello, Rosie McDonald?’
‘Hi, Rosie, it’s Flora. I need to talk to you about something.’
Oh, God. Not Flora. Not now.
‘Hello, Flora!’ I tried to sound calm, which wasn’t easy, given that I had to stage-whisper over the sound of Dominic wolf-whistling. ‘This isn’t a brilliant time. Can I call you back in about … ten minutes?’
I could hear the pout down the phone. ‘It’s urgent. You said I could call you any time. And I can’t get hold of Joe, his phone’s off.’
Helen made a who is it? face. I mouthed Flora and she mimed dropping the phone into the carafe of water, but I shook my head. This was my chance to get a toehold in Flora’s favours, and emergencies were my specialty.
The spotlight was swinging around the tables. I smiled fakely as the spotlight landed on our table, specifically on Seamus’s scowling mug, then leaned backwards out of the spotlight until my back screamed in protest.
‘Smile, Shay!’ Helen hissed under her breath, and he surprised everyone with an absolutely angelic smile that stopped us all in our tracks.
I blinked and focused on dealing with Flora as fast as I could. ‘What can I help you with?’ I pretended to be leaning on my hand while hiding the phone in my palm.
‘Can we get snow for the wedding? I’ve always wanted a winter wedding.’
What?
‘But you’re getting married in June.’
‘I know. But can we get snow? I did this amazing photo shoot last week where it was totally snowy but warm? It wasn’t, like, real snow, I don’t think.’ She sounded a bit doubtful. ‘Anyway, could we do that? Cover the courtyard in snow and I could arrive on a sledge and have a fur-lined cape? Like Narnia? Or Switzerland?’
‘Won’t you be too hot? If you moved the wedding to December, we could arrange some—’
‘But it might rain in December! And I don’t want my guests to be cold,’ she argued with impeccable logic. ‘Isn’t it better to have snow when it’s warm?’
Dominic glared at me, but Flora was still rabbiting on in my ear.
‘Flora, I’ll send you some details about snow over the weekend,’ I promised in an urgent whisper. ‘Okay? But I’ve got to go. Yes, I’ll email them tonight. Tonight. When I’ve got back from – when I’ve got a better line.’ I realized I was leaning lower and lower towards the table until now my cheek was almost resting on it. ‘Bye, Flora. Bye! Bye. Bye, Flora.’
Finally, she hung up, just as the gold envelope was handed to the co-presenter.
‘Was that Flora?’ Dominic asked innocently.
‘Yes.’ I rubbed my ear. ‘I blame Joe. I bet he said something to her about fake snow. It sounds like one of his ideas.’
‘Shh!’ Helen waved her hands at me.
We all sat back, holding our breath. Seamus looked like he couldn’t care less.
Please. Please, God, let Seamus win, I prayed. For Helen. I will deal with Flora and Joe without complaining if you let Seamus win.
The pause lengthened.
And I’ll even persuade Laurence to promote Gemma, I added, as a final gamble.
‘And the winner is … Seamus Lynch.’
‘Yes!’ roared Seamus and punched the air, and also the table decoration, which fortunately Shirin caught before it went crashing to the ground.
Helen looked ecstatic, and managed to land a kiss on his stubbly cheek before he brushed her off and strode towards the stage to collect his award – a big golden fork with the London Eye speared on it.
Only I spotted Helen’s tiny wince, but Josh and Nevin and the others round the table congratulated her, as did a few people we knew nearby, and she glowed with pride.
He’ll say something nice in his speech, though, I thought, still clapping. Seamus certainly had enough to thank Helen for, what with the endless hangover cures and laundry and loans and calls to his boss making up excuses for his AWOLness.
But, obviously, he didn’t. What Seamus actually said was, ‘Cheers, you bastards, I should have had this three years ago.’ Then he brandished it at the crowd in a half-appreciative, half-threatening manner, and walked off, to tumultuous applause.
‘That guy is such a rock star,’ said someone at the table behind me. ‘Bet he gets his own television series.’
But my mouth hung open as I saw Helen’s expression freeze; it was one of pure hurt. I couldn’t believe it. Nothing? Not one word of thanks for everything Helen had done? It was bad enough that he hadn’t thanked his boss, or his kitchen brigade, but not making a nice gesture to Helen …
‘What a total arse,’ Dominic marvelled, and I didn’t even care that he’d said it aloud. I was just glad he had.
Helen’s lip wobbled, and I wished I was closer, to hug her.
‘Hels.’ I reached across the table, but she’d put on her shiny restaurant manager face.
‘I think champagne’s in order!’ she said brightly. ‘Laurence is picking up the tab for the table, isn’t he? Let’s get some champagne before Seamus gets back.’
*
We waited ten minutes after the champagne arrived for Seamus to return, but when he didn’t, I made the decision to open the bottle anyway. It was starting to look like the uninvited guest at the table.
‘It’s a shame Joe isn’t here to see Seamus win,’ I said, taking a nerve-steadying swig. ‘After everything he’s heard about Seamus from you. Mind you, if he had come tonight, he’d probably have slunk off somewhere else by now. As usual. I wonder what he got up to this afternoon, when he should have been tying labels onto two hundred pots of bloody strawberry jam?’
‘You can ask him yourself,’ said Helen, and nodded over my shoulder.
I spun round to see Joe standing right behind our table. My face went red.
‘How long have you been there?’ I blurted out.
‘Long enough. Hello, all. Thought I should come and say hello.’
He raised a Joe-ish hand in greeting, but he looked very different: he was almost in eveningwear, in that he’d put on a dark jacket but drawn the line at a bow tie, and the scraggly ends of his long hair had been chopped into a neater style. He’d also shaved, and there were no signs of his shell-based jewellery.
To be honest, Joe scrubbed up a lot better than I’d expected him to, but still he looked as if he’d rather be at home sorting out the recycling.
‘Joe!’ cried Helen. She was definitely in a professional mood now. ‘Let me introduce you to everyone!’
‘I didn’t know you were coming,’ I said, once she’d done the rounds of the table. ‘Didn’t think these events were your kind of thing.’
He grimaced. ‘I had an offer I couldn’t refuse. Mum had a last-minute invitation to some old friend’s table and needed a plus-one. She made the arrangements,’ he added, hooking his fingers in the air. ‘Up to and including dressing me, and getting my hair cut at the same place she used to drag me to when I was twelve.’
‘So that’s where you were this afternoon?’
‘Yeah. Sorry.’ He looked faintly apologetic. ‘Mum frogmarched me out of the hotel while you were in a meeting. I tried to leave a message with Gemma, but—’
‘It’s fine,’ I said airily. ‘Everything was under control. We only realized you weren’t there at six or so.’
Helen gave me a look.
‘Where are you sitting?’ I asked, angling
my neck to see if I could spot Caroline’s mane of bouffant hair. ‘I’d love to come over and have a chat.’
‘We’re with some caviar importers. Interesting guys, had some good debate about ethics. Mum’s coming to find you, don’t worry. She’s got something she wants to discuss.’ Joe’s mouth twisted in what might have been a self-deprecating way. ‘I hope it’s not me.’
‘I’m sure it won’t be,’ I said. It came out a bit tarter than I’d meant it to and Helen gave me another stop it! look.
‘Whatever she says,’ he replied, ‘take it with a pinch of salt.’
I didn’t have time to probe this gnomic statement further, because there was a buzz from the front of the room and the MC tried unsuccessfully to quell several hundred coffee-fuelled conversations.
‘Who is that guy?’ Joe asked into an unfortunate hush. ‘Should I know who he is?’
‘Er, yes?’ Mimi, the journalist, spoke for the first time. ‘It’s Michael McIntyre.’
‘Who?’
‘Michael McIntyre?’ she repeated, in the same tone you’d use to say, ‘Prince Charles’.
‘Joe’s been abroad,’ I explained.
‘How far abroad?’ Mimi looked stunned. ‘Mars?’
‘Sit down.’ Dominic gestured at the empty chair next to me: the one Seamus had been in, until quite recently. I realized he’d been gone about twenty minutes. ‘People will think you’re going up for the award. And this is my category. Not that I’m going to win,’ he added loudly. ‘Again. I shouldn’t think.’
A faint look of distaste crossed Joe’s face, but he smiled politely enough. ‘Well, good luck, but I should get back.’ But as he turned, we realized his route back to Caroline’s table was now blocked by the television cameras covering the event for some digital channel.
‘Stay here in Seamus’s seat until they change shots,’ suggested Helen. ‘He’s probably talking to some reporters or being congratulated by friends. Or something.’
A flipbook of all the other things Seamus was more likely to be doing ran through my head and, going by his raised eyebrows, also through Dominic’s.
‘And now we come to the category that no one wants to read out the introduction for! Food Writer of the Year.’
‘For which no one wants to read out the introduction,’ said Dominic, just loud enough to be heard at the tables around us. He was famous for his impeccable grammar.
‘Joe, just sit down,’ I hissed, smiling for the benefit of everyone looking round at us.
‘It’s an impressive line-up this year,’ the host went on. ‘The nominees are Marina O’Loughlin, Giles Coren, Dominic Crosby, Steve Morris, and Zoe Williams. And now, to give us a taste – ho-ho! – of each nominee’s work, we have some guest readers!’
My heart sank as various chefs and restaurant owners gamely trailed out onto the stage, including Karyn Chan of the tempura scouring pads. As she stepped up to the podium, she shot a particularly poisonous look over at our table, and I knew which nominee’s clippings she’d have on her golden clipboard.
‘All an act,’ Dominic reassured Mimi, who flinched at Karyn’s death-ray eyes. ‘Chefs love it. Banter.’
I kept my smile up through the readings, although my heart was pounding in my chest. Dominic had said he knew he wasn’t going to win, but I couldn’t stop myself willing them to read out his name. He deserved to win.
I glanced at Joe, hoping he’d be a bit impressed. I was pleased Caroline was here – I wanted her to see me out there, networking and making industry connections like a future general manager of the Bonneville. As Karyn read out a particularly cutting sentence, Joe looked up, met my eye, and pretended to wince at Dominic’s rapier wit.
I think he pretended to wince, anyway. I wasn’t sure he was really getting the very bantery nature of the evening.
‘And the winner is …’
‘It won’t be me, by the way,’ Dominic reminded the table. ‘Which is fine.’
‘… Steve Morris from the Balham Post.’
My heart sank with disappointment, and Dominic’s expression flickered; then he got up and started applauding generously. Maybe a little bit too loudly? No, it just looked hearty. It was fine. Fine.
Joe leaned across to me and muttered, ‘He seems very pleased for that guy.’
‘He is,’ I said, clapping. ‘He’s a big supporter of the journalistic craft.’
Then Mimi joined in, and Shirin, and we were all clapping and commiserating with Dominic, who was being very gracious, when suddenly there was a bit of a commotion behind him.
For a moment I thought it was Steve Morris making his way to the podium – the Balham Post hadn’t stumped up for a table near the front – but then I realized the crowds were parting to make way for Seamus, who was weaving his way unsteadily towards us.
‘He took his time!’ I said to Helen, but the oh, you! expression on her face froze when Seamus pushed past and squared up to Dominic.
‘You two-faced, fat bastard!’ he bellowed and took an actual swing at him.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I’m not fat.’ Dominic took a nimble step back and turned his palms up with a shrug. ‘Literally. You’re slurring. Can’t make out a thing. Something about … a basket?’
‘Come here and I’ll punch it into your head in Morse fecking code.’ Seamus lurched for Dominic, who raised his hands in a come on, come on pose, not easy in the limited amount of space available between the tables.
‘Can you two knock it off?’ My face was already scarlet with mortification; heads were turning our way. ‘You’re about three feet from a television camera!’
I turned round. Several tables back, Steve Morris, beaming modestly and unaware of the punch-up brewing ahead of him, was weaving his way through the chairs, straight towards us.
‘There is nothing pedestrian about my shepherd’s pie,’ Seamus spat at Dominic. ‘You lisping fat ponce, with your stupid fecking … beard. How you’ve got the fecking nerve to post that online and then sit down to dinner with me—’
‘Come on, Shay,’ Helen pleaded, at the same time that I snapped, ‘For Christ’s sake, be quiet!’
Seamus turned to Helen and curled his lip. ‘Give it a rest, willya, Helen. You’re not the boss of me.’
‘Listen, guys, guys …’ Joe, clearly unimpressed, made ineffectual soothing noises that wouldn’t even have calmed Gemma down from a disappointing sandwich. ‘Can’t we cool it …’
Seamus turned to Joe, and that’s when I could see that wherever he’d been in the last twenty minutes or so had had generous refreshment facilities. His eyes were bright red, with pinprick pupils. My heart sank even further. This was going to be a scene. There was no way back now.
Seamus jabbed his finger in Joe’s face. ‘And you can shut your hole, you—’
We never found out what Seamus was going to call Joe, because Joe had Seamus’s right hand up against his shoulder blades in the time it took Dominic to start removing his jacket (he claimed later he’d got his cuff link caught in the lining and didn’t want to rip it). I actually saw Seamus’s eyes widen in surprise, then roll back in his head, as Joe did something to the back of his neck with a thumb.
Joe then slipped Seamus’s limp form back onto his chair like a chef sliding an omelette onto a plate, keeping his grip on Seamus’s collar to stop him from slipping embarrassingly under the table.
Dominic, Helen and I stared in awe. So did Steve Morris, who’d come within an inch of getting lamped. And so did everyone else in the room who’d been watching Steve Morris’s progress to the stage on the big screen, which was now focused on our table.
I have never wanted to sink into the ground more than at that moment. I actually had to shove my nails into my palm to convince myself it wasn’t a hideous dream.
‘Where did you learn to do that?’ Dominic asked, which was only what we were all thinking. ‘Harrow?’
‘You don’t fight with a brother in the cadet corps without learning a few thi
ngs,’ muttered Joe.
Seamus made a low groan, which suggested he was coming round again.
‘You know what,’ said Helen brightly, ‘I think it might be time to call it a night.’
‘I think so,’ said a familiar voice.
We turned round. Just to put the tin lid on it, Caroline was standing by the table. Like Joe, she was looking very, very unimpressed, and my shame intensified by another factor of ten.
It wasn’t the most mortifying moment of my life involving public humiliation by a thoughtless bloke, but it was a very, very close second. And this time, I didn’t have a car standing by to whisk me away from the scene, or my dad to tell me no one had really noticed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I don’t know whether it was a good thing or a bad thing that I had to go in to work the morning after the awards fiasco, but I did: I had to supervise a wedding reception for a couple of accountants from Stoke Newington.
Bad, because I’d got no sleep at all. I’d lain awake most of the night, staring at the ceiling and wondering whether a true best mate would just get in a taxi, track Helen down, and bring her home to detox her of that useless, selfish waste of oxygen. But she wasn’t answering her phone, and I couldn’t get hold of her. I gave up at about 2 a.m., and turned instead to thinking about what kind of socially maladjusted idiot slagged off his girlfriend’s best friend’s boyfriend’s restaurant the same night that he had dinner with him – and didn’t even look remorseful about it. In fact, I’d heard Dominic laughing about it with two journalists.
Seamus had behaved inexcusably, but Dominic hadn’t exactly come out of the evening smelling of roses either. I couldn’t ignore it: he thought more about his stupid column than he did about me. The whole evening had been mortifying and, worst of all, had taken place in front of the exact roomful who could turn it into a hilarious anecdote for months to come. Every time I thought about everyone’s eyes turning to our chaotic table, I felt hot and cold with embarrassment.
Dominic had told me I was being stupid. He refused to discuss it, then fell into a drunken slumber and snored like a pig straight away. I was revolted and furious and exhausted, and in the end, I was so cross I slept on the sofa.