The Collected Short Stories (71 page)

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Authors: Jeffrey Archer

BOOK: The Collected Short Stories
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Twenty-five minutes later, I staggered up the short path to my front door. I began to search for my keys, then remembered
that I'd left them in the car ignition. I didn't have the energy even to swear, and began to grovel around in the dark for the spare front-door key that was always hidden under a particular stone. But which one? At last I found it, put it in the lock, turned it and pushed the door open. No sooner had I stepped inside than the phone on the hall table began to ring.
I grabbed the receiver.
“Mr. Whitaker?”
“Speaking.”
“This is the Belgravia police. We've located your car, sir, and …”
“Thank God for that,” I said, before the officer had a chance to finish the sentence. “Where is it?”
“At this precise moment, sir, it's on the back of a pick-up lorry somewhere in Chelsea. It seems the lad who nicked it only managed to travel a mile or so before he hit the kerb at seventy, and bounced straight into a wall. I'm sorry to have to inform you, sir, that your car's a total write-off.”
“A total write-off?” I said in disbelief.
“Yes, sir. The garage who towed it away has been given your number, and they'll be in touch with you first thing in the morning.”
I couldn't think of any comment worth making.
“The good news is we've caught the lad who nicked it,” continued the police officer. “The bad news is that he's only fifteen, doesn't have a driver's license, and, of course, he isn't insured.”
“That's not a problem,” I said. “I'm fully insured myself.”
“As a matter of interest, sir, did you leave your keys in the ignition?”
“Yes, I did. I was just making a quick phone call, and thought I'd only be away from the car for a couple of minutes.”
“Then I think it's unlikely you'll be covered by your insurance, sir.”
“Not covered by my insurance? What are you talking about?”
“It's standard policy nowadays not to pay out if you leave
your keys in the ignition. You'd better check, sir,” were the officer's final words before ringing off.
I put the phone down and wondered what else could possibly go wrong. I slipped off my jacket and began to climb the stairs, but came to a sudden halt when I saw my wife waiting for me on the landing.
“Maureen …” I began.
“You can tell me later why the car is a total write-off,” she said, “but not until you've explained why you didn't turn up for work this evening, and just who this ‘classy tart' is that Gerald said you were seen with at the theater.”
“No, I'm not doing anything in particular,” said Anna.
I smiled, unable to mask my delight.
“Good. I know a little restaurant just down the road that I think you might enjoy.”
“That sounds just fine,” said Anna as she made her way through the dense theater crowd. I quickly followed, having to hurry just to keep up with her.
“Which way?” she asked. I pointed toward the Strand. She began walking at a brisk pace, and we continued to talk about the play.
When we reached the Strand I pointed to a large gray double door on the other side of the road. “That's it,” I said. I would have taken her hand as she began to cross, but she stepped off the pavement ahead of me, dodged between the stationary traffic, and waited for me on the far side.
She pushed the gray doors open, and once again I followed in her wake. We descended a flight of steps into a basement restaurant buzzing with the talk of people who had just come out of theaters, and waiters dashing, plates in both hands, from table to table.
“I don't expect you'll be able to get a table here if you haven't booked,” said Anna, eyeing a group of would-be
customers who were clustered round the bar, impatiently waiting for someone to leave.
“Don't worry about that,” I said with bravado, and strode across to the reservations desk. I waved a hand imperiously at the headwaiter, who was taking a customer's order. I only hoped he would recognize me:
I turned round to smile at Anna, but she didn't look too impressed.
After the waiter had taken the order, he walked slowly over to me. “How may I help you, sir?” he asked.
“Can you manage a table for two, Victor?”
“Victor's off tonight, sir. Have you booked?”
“No, I haven't, but …”
The headwaiter checked the list of reservations and then looked at his watch. “I might be able to fit you in around 11:15—11:30 at the latest,” he said, not sounding too hopeful.
“No sooner?” I pleaded. “I don't think we can wait that long.” Anna nodded her agreement.
“I'm afraid not, sir,” said the head waiter. “We are fully booked until then.”
“As I expected,” said Anna, turning to leave.
Once again I had to hurry to keep up with her. As we stepped out onto the pavement I said, “‘There's a little Italian restaurant I know not far from here, where I can always get a table. Shall we risk it?”
“Can't see that we've got a lot of choice,” replied Anna. “Which direction this time?”
“Just up the road to the right,” I said as a clap of thunder heralded an imminent downpour.
“Damn,” said Anna, placing her handbag over her head for protection.
“I'm sorry,” I said, looking up at the black clouds. “It's my fault. I should have …”
“Stop apologizing all the time, Michael. It isn't your fault if it starts to rain.”
I took a deep breath and tried again. “We'd better make a
dash for it,” I said desperately. “I don't expect we'll be able to pick up a taxi in this weather.”
This at least secured her ringing endorsement. I began running up the road, and Anna followed closely behind. The rain was getting heavier and heavier, and although we couldn't have had more than seventy yards to cover, we were both soaked by the time we reached the restaurant.
I sighed with relief when I opened the door and found the dining room was half-empty, although I suppose I should have been annoyed. I turned and smiled hopefully at Anna, but she was still frowning.
“Everything all right?” I asked.
“Fine. It's just that my father had a theory about restaurants that were half empty at this time of night.”
I looked quizzically at my guest, but decided not to make any comment about her eye makeup, which was beginning to run, or her hair, which had come loose at the edges.
“I'd better carry out some repair work. I'll only be a couple of minutes,” she said, heading for a door marked “Signorinas.”
I waved at Mario, who was serving no one in particular. He hurried over to me.
“There was a call for you earlier, Mr. Whitaker,” Mario said as he guided me across the restaurant to my usual table. “If you came in, I was to ask you to phone Gerald urgently. He sounded pretty desperate.”
“I'm sure it can wait. But if he rings again, let me know immediately.” At that moment Anna walked over to join us. The makeup had been restored, but the hair could have done with further attention.
I rose to greet her.
“You don't have to do that,” she said, taking her seat.
“Would you like a drink?” I asked, once we were both settled.
“No, I don't think so. I have an early start tomorrow morning, so I shouldn't overdo things. I'll just have a glass of wine with my meal.”
Another waiter appeared by her side. “And what would madam care for this evening?” he asked politely.
“I haven't had time to look at the menu yet,” Anna replied, not even bothering to look up at him.
“I can recommend the fettucini, madam,” the waiter said, pointing to a dish halfway down the list of entrées. “It's our specialty of the day.”
“Then I suppose I might as well have that,” said Anna, handing him the menu.
I nodded, indicating “Me too,” and asked for a half-bottle of the house red. The waiter scooped up my menu and left us.
“Do you … ?”
“Can I … ?”
“You first,” I said, attempting a smile.
“Do you always order half a bottle of the house wine on a first date?” she asked.
“I think you'll find it's pretty good,” I said, rather plaintively.
“I was only teasing, Michael. Don't take yourself so seriously.”
I took a closer look at my companion, and began to wonder if I'd made a terrible mistake. Despite her efforts in the washroom, Anna wasn't quite the same girl I'd first seen—admittedly at a distance—when I'd nearly crashed my car earlier in the evening.
Oh my God, the car. I suddenly remembered where I'd left it, and stole a glance at my watch.
“Am I boring you already, Michael?” Anna asked. “Or is this table on a time share?”
“Yes. I mean no. I'm sorry, I've just remembered something I should have checked on before we came to dinner. Sorry,” I repeated.
Anna frowned, which stopped me saying sorry yet again.
“Is it too late?” she asked.
“Too late for what?”
“To do something about whatever it is you should have checked on before we came to dinner?”
I looked out of the window, and wasn't pleased to see that it had stopped raining. Now my only hope was that the late-night traffic officers might not be too vigilant.
“No, I'm sure it will be all right,” I said, trying to sound relaxed.
“Well, that's a relief,” said Anna, in a tone that bordered on the sarcastic.
“So. What's it like being a doctor?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“Michael, it's my evening off. I'd rather not talk about my work, if you don't mind.”
For the next few moments neither of us spoke. I tried again. “Do you have many male patients in your practice?” I asked, as the waiter reappeared with our fettucini.
“I can hardly believe I'm hearing this,” Anna said, unable to disguise the weariness in her voice. “When are people like you going to accept that one or two of us are capable of a little more than spending our lives waiting hand and foot on the male sex?”
The waiter poured some wine into my glass.
“Yes. Of course. Absolutely. No. I didn't mean it to sound like that …” I sipped the wine and nodded to the waiter, who filled Anna's glass.
“Then what did you mean it to sound like?” demanded Anna as she stuck her fork firmly into the fettucini.
“Well, isn't it unusual for a man to go to a woman doctor?” I said, realizing the moment I had uttered the words that I was only getting myself into even deeper water.
“Good heavens, no, Michael. We live in an enlightened age. I've probably seen more naked men than you have—and it's not an attractive sight, I can assure you.” I laughed, in the hope that it would ease the tension. “In any case,” she added, “quite a few men are confident enough to accept the existence of women doctors, you know.”
“I'm sure that's true,” I said. “I just thought …”
“You didn't think, Michael. That's the problem with so many men like you. I bet you've never even considered consulting a woman doctor.”
“No, but … Yes, but …”
“‘No but, yes but'—Let's change the subject before I get really angry,” Anna said, putting her fork down. “What do you do for a living, Michael? It doesn't sound as if you're in a profession where women are treated as equals.”
“I'm in the restaurant business,” I told her, wishing the fettucini were a little lighter.
“Ah, yes, you told me in the interval,” she said. “But what does being ‘in the restaurant business' actually mean?”
“I'm on the management side. Or at least, that's what I do nowadays. I started life as a waiter, then I moved into the kitchens for about five years, and finally …”
“ … found you weren't very good at either, so you took up managing everyone else.”
“Something like that,” I said, trying to make light of it. But Anna's words only reminded me that one of my other restaurants was without a chef that night, and that that was where I'd been heading before I'd allowed myself to become infatuated by her.
“I've lost you again,” Anna said, beginning to sound exasperated. “You were going to tell me all about restaurant management.”
“Yes, I was, wasn't I? By the way, how's your fettucini?”
“Not bad, considering.”
“Considering?”
“Considering this place was your second choice.”
I was silenced once again.
“It's not that bad,” she said, taking another reluctant forkful.
“Perhaps you'd like something else instead? I can always …”
“No, thank you, Michael. After all, this was the one dish the waiter felt confident enough to recommend.”
I couldn't think of a suitable response, so I remained silent.
“Come on, Michael, you still haven't explained what restaurant management actually involves,” said Anna.
“Well, at the moment I'm running three restaurants in the West End, which means I never stop dashing from one to the
other, depending on which is facing the biggest crisis on that particular day.”
“Sounds a bit like ward duty to me,” said Anna. “So who turned out to have the biggest crisis today?”
“Today, thank heaven, was not typical,” I told her with feeling.
“That bad?” said Anna.
“Yes, I'm afraid so. We lost a chef this morning who cut off the top of his finger, and won't be back at work for at least a fortnight. My head waiter in our second restaurant is off, claiming he has flu, and I've just had to sack the barman in the third for fiddling the books. Barmen always fiddle the books, of course, but in this case even the customers began to notice what he was up tao.” I paused, wondering if I should risk another mouthful of fettucini. “But I still wouldn't want to be in any other business.”
“In the circumstances, I'm frankly amazed you were able to take the evening off.”
“I shouldn't have, really, and wouldn't have, except …” I trailed off as I leaned over and topped up Anna's wine glass.
“Except what?” she aid.
“Do you want to hear the truth?” I asked as I poured the remains of the wine into my own glass.
“I'll try that for starters,” she said.
I placed the empty bottle on the side of the table, and hesitated, but only for a moment. “I was driving to one of my restaurants earlier this evening, when I spotted you going into the theater. I stared at you for so long that I nearly crashed into the back of the car in front of me. Then I swerved across the road into the nearest parking space, and the car behind almost crashed into me. I leapt out, ran all the way to the theater, and searched everywhere until I saw you standing in the line for the box office. I joined the line and watched you hand over your spare ticket. Once you were safely out of sight, I told the box office manager that you hadn't expected me to make it in time, and that you might have put my ticket up for resale. Once I'd described you, which I was able to do in great detail, he handed it over without so much as a murmur.”

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