My father once exhausted a dog.

He was at a garden party, chatting, and the dog kept bringing him a ball, which idly he’d throw. When he stopped, the dog collapsed.

My messaging relationship with Johann makes me think of that dog. He always replies. He can’t not. If I ever kept on replying back, he’d wear his thumbs down to bone-nubs. So, I ration him. I wait before responding. It’s a kindness.

That’s why, when he sent that lunchtime message, I didn’t immediately read it. I turned my phone face-down—went on chatting, smoking. It wasn’t until 2:06PM that I saw what he’d sent me. Two words:

TOM CRUISE

‘Shit!’

I leapt up, knocking a Magners into two people’s laps.

‘I’m sorry,’ I yelled as I ran for my car. ‘Tom Cruise!’

I peeled out. Traffic was sludgy; I turned on the radio. It was that song, Daft Punk Is Playing, At My House. I screeched incorrect lyrics that didn’t fit:

‘TOM CRUISE IS EATING, AT MY RESTAURANT!’

We’d had stars in before. Bill Pullman. Shirley Bassey. Anne Hathaway once came in, to ask for directions. But Tom Cruise.

I pulled in, knocking over Necati’s moped. I leapt out, sprinted for the kitchen, and when I burst in, newly dressed in whites from the laundry bin, it was to three pale faces. Necati, Anna and Johann. Johann smiled.

‘Just sent starters,’ Anna said, hoarsely.

‘How many covers?’

‘Four,’ said Johann. ‘Tom and three guys who look like movie producers.’

‘Because you know what movie producers look like,’ Necati muttered.

I ignored him. ‘Mains?’

Anna said, ‘Two lamb, one hake, one chowder.’

‘Press?’

‘The Gazette are coming,’ Anna said. 

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Necati, lamb-prep. I’ll be on dessert.’

‘We don’t know if they want dessert,’ Necati said. 

‘Well, why don’t you cook well enough to ensure they do?’

#

I hated this place. Its desperate stink. If it hadn’t been on the studio route, I’d have jacked it in.

But I knew the story of Gavin Leslie. He’d worked at The Frightened Parrot, further down the route.

‘What’re you making?’ Johann asked.

One day, Brad Pitt stopped in, avec entourage. Gavin quietly rang the local news, and when Brad called him out to praise his whipped feta—‘like fuckin’ clouds, man’—it was recorded, published. 

‘They haven’t seen desserts yet,’ Johann said.

Gavin brought a copy of that article to a Soho restaurant. Nobody has seen him since.

‘Should I ask Tom where Shelly Miscavige is buried?’

I looked up from my egg-separating. 

‘Don’t you dare.’

Johann giggled. 

‘Why don’t you do a check-back?’ I suggested ‘Maybe mention there’s a special dessert today?’

Johann lifted himself up.

‘Do you still want to come over later?’ he asked. ‘We could watch Tom Cruise movies.’

‘Sure, fine.’ I emptied flour into a bowl. ‘Now please.’

Johann left. 

Necati appeared.

‘Still keeping that boy on the leash, huh?’ he said.

‘Don’t know what you mean.’

‘Sure you don’t.’ He eyed my ingredients. ‘That looks like a soufflé.’

‘It’s the soufflé, to make Tom Cruise cry, scream and cum. My quintuple-layer soufflé.’

Necati’s brow wrinkled. He sniffed.

‘Have you been drinking?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. I was at your dad’s; we did tequilas and rimmed each other. Now fuck off.’

Necati did. Johann came breezing back.

‘It’s not happening,’ he said. ‘Tom’s clock-watching. Got a meeting.’

‘No, no.’ I seized him. ‘You’ve gotta convince him. Tell him… this soufflé is once-in-a-lifetime. Quintuple-layer.’ I felt Necati’s and Anna’s eyes on me; I gripped Johann’s biceps. ‘Do it for me, baby? I know you can.’

Johann half-smiled, half-rolled his eyes, but went back. I resumed.

‘What was the last good Tom Cruise movie?’ Anna asked. 

‘I don’t watch movies.’ Necati sucked a lemon-wedge. ‘I think this is all bullshit.’

I kept mixing. Johann re-entered and gave a thumbs up. I mouthed ‘hero’; he blushed

The quintuple-layer soufflé. I’d made it twice; it worked once. This time, it worked. I was magnificent. I was God, shooting fire from my fingers. I was four-armed Vishnu, whisking, folding, whisking, caramelising. I was Buddha, serene among stiff peaks. 

Anna took a call. 

‘The Gazette’s here,’ she said. 

I placed the final raspberry. Done. My doll’s house of luscious perfection. It wobbled as oh-so-carefully I plated it.

Johann reappeared. He saw the soufflé and gasped like he’d clocked a couple getting engaged.

‘Hurry,’ I said. ‘It won’t hold forever.’

Gingerly, Johann grasped the plate.

‘One sec!’ 

I leaned close to blow my soufflé a kiss. 

‘Go, masterpiece. Seduce Tom Cruise. Be my golden ticket.’

Chuckling, Johann went. But then he stopped. 

‘Your golden ticket?’ he asked. ‘Ticket to what?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I snapped. ‘Take it!’

Johann frowned.

‘Do you want to leave?’

‘Johann—’

‘I thought you wanted to move in with me?’

‘I… do! I told you, landlord’s selling my place.’

‘Well, that’s not want to, that’s have to.’

Cortisol flooded my body. He wasn’t holding the plate straight.

‘Whenever I ask about the future, you say you hate planning,’ Johann said. ‘When I ask what you see in life beyond this, you flip me and fuck me. What do you want a golden ticket for?’

The plate listed further. A raspberry fell with a plop.

 ‘I… misspoke!’ I cried. ‘I meant to say our golden ticket. Yes, I want to go to Soho. I want Michelin stars. I want to meet Marcus Wareing. But I want… you… with me.’

My voice died on its arse. Anna bowed her head. Necati looked away. 

Johann’s eyes ran over the soufflé.

‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘I look at your empty sleeping face, and I wonder what it feels like to hold another person’s heart in your hands.’ 

He tilted the plate. The soufflé started to slide. 

The worst part? I could see that he hadn’t fully decided whether to do it or not. And it hurt—really hurt—the way he let me keep on hoping, right up until he made his choice.