Though she had not spoken another word after book, Frank nevertheless heard the word cretin in his brain, loud and clear, as if directed at him through some sort of psychic telepathy.
“Ah!” replied Frank, with his hands held aloft. “Well I’m sorry about the weirdo comment. And the pathetic creature comment as well,” he added, not-terribly-sincerely, his hackles raised at the woman’s overly-cold response.
The woman’s eyebrow returned to resting position, but once again, Frank’s inability to shut the hell up at the opportune moment overtook him. “It’s a good idea,” he offered, motioning towards her book. “It is a good idea. At least, with the book, people will know you’re not a… you know… dressed like that…” he told her, with a cringe-worthy type of pointing-by-way-of-fanning-his-hand, to indicate her business attire.
“Will know I’m not a what,” the woman demanded, rearing up now, affronted, like a proud Thoroughbred.
Frank’s collar was once again the subject of his finger’s keen attention. “Shit,” he whispered, looking to a still-present Chantelle for assistance, but met only with a shrug of her indifferent shoulders.
“Are you saying I look like a prostitute?” the businesswoman insisted, slamming her book — titled How to Get Along with Complete Twats, as it should happen — down on the table.
“I didn’t say that!” maintained Frank. “I thought it, mind, but didn’t say… Look, I’m sorry, alright? I’m on all sorts of medication, and.. you know. Well maybe you don’t know. Anyway, em… Anyway, I’ll leave you to your book, yeah?”
Frank turned back to his own table, fully expecting to be struck on the back of the head with the hard, well-heeled spine of a book. “I will have that glass of wine, after all, thanks,” asked Frank, lifting his goblet in his disconcerted-yet-unflappable server’s direction.
Back in the kitchen, Chantelle reported back to Chef Murphy. “Table six might be some time yet, Chef,” she informed him. “Depending on how long he chooses to hang on. Or if he does at all. Looks like he’s been stood up,” she clarified.
“Stood up?” repeated Chef Murphy. “How long so far?”
“I dunno. Forty minutes, maybe?” said Chantelle in reply.
“Excellent! And does this look like there could be tears, by chance?” the chef asked, rubbing his hands together eagerly, a gleeful sparkle in his eyes.
Chantelle shook her head. “Possibly. Very possibly. He’s certainly a bit… unhinged? … Unbalanced?” she mused, looking for just the right word.
“I’ve got crying!” insisted a scrawny youth, in a Scottish drawl.
Chef Murphy doubled in bulk, like quick-rise bread dough, from his already considerable mass, and turned his fiendish, dancing eyes towards the dishwashing station. “Have you, bollocks!” he cried, pointing in the direction of the whiteboard stuck on the back side of the kitchen door. “You’ve got taken-away-in-an-ambulance.” I’ve got tears-at-the-table! Chantelle’s got… Here, what’ve you got, Chantelle?” he enquired.
“Are you still on that stupid bloody game?” she asked.
“The sweepstake is up to three hundred quid,” Murphy returned, running his hands through his hair — hair which looked like it’d been trimmed in the dark, and by a one-armed trainee, and with kitchen shears. Which, in fact, it had.
This information as to the current monetary reward piqued her interest. “Three hundred pounds, you say?” she said, suddenly very interested indeed. “Well, then. In that case, I’ve got drink-thrown-in-face. But…” she went on, stroking her ear as she thought for a moment… “This guy could realistically have any, if not all, done to him tonight. He mentioned medication, and the woman behind him looks like she’s about to trepane his skull with her stiletto.”
“Show me!” Murphy cackled, fit to burst, edging towards the kitchen door with two kitchen porters, and with Chantelle and the owner of the Scottish drawl in hot pursuit. Five heads, looking for all the world like they were missing their bodies to those that might be observing from outside the kitchen — and stacked like a totem pole — then peered around the edge of the door and into the dining area.
“Him with the blazer on?” asked Murphy, glancing down with his eyes only to the top of Chantelle’s head.
“Yes,” Chantelle’s voice whispered, emanating from the top of her head, and making its way back up to that of Murphy’s.
“He definitely said he was meeting someone?” queried Murphy, sounding not entirely convinced.
“Yes. I told you that!”
“Nah, I’m not having that,” proclaimed Murphy. “He’s got those leather patches on the elbow.”
“What’s wrong with patches on the elbow?”
“Just looks to me to be a boring geography teacher or the like, the type whose breath smells of stale coffee. And so someone who wouldn’t be meeting a girl, I shouldn’t think.”
“Maybe he’s meeting his carer?” issued the Scottish voice at the bottom of the stack of floating heads.
“You could be right, there,” Murphy nodded, catching his chin on the head below him.
They were silenced for a moment as they watched Frank look up to the ceiling in either frustration or desperation.
“Ohhh,” said Murphy. “I’m sure I saw moisture on his cheek. And his eyes look like they’re welling up.”
They monitored Frank’s progress, as he alternated between entreatments to the ceiling and staring-straight-down appeals to the table, interspersed by regular discreet glances at his watch. At a certain point, Frank performed a new move — grimacing for a moment and clutching at his chest.
“Oh!” exclaimed the Scottish voice. “That wee man’s having a funny turn! Should I phone an ambulance?”
“You’ll do no such thing,” chided Murphy. “He’s only removing his wallet from his blazer pocket. He’s fit as a fiddle, he is. Well, physically, at least, if not emotionally. Emotionally, he’s having a bit of a wobble. Maybe, I should…? Yeah. I should definitely go and talk to him…”
Murphy removed his head from the stack of spectral noggins and tuned his ears into the romantic music radiating throughout his fine establishment. It was Adele’s “Someone Like You.”
“Ohh, turn that up,” he said to nobody in particular. “This is a good’un, and a sad’un, and if he’s been stood up by someone then that should be guaranteed to get the tears flowing indeed. And if it doesn’t…” Murphy considered philosophically… “Then this fellow must be truly dead inside. In which case he’s got far larger problems than being stood up by a date.”
Murphy wiped his hands on his immaculate apron, offering a smile to the patrons enjoying their meal as he sauntered through the restaurant with a spring in his step. Presumably, he was figuring out what he would spend the proceeds of the sweepstake on. Upon approaching Frank, he replaced his smile with what appeared to be an attempt at compassion, but, with his shifty eyes, as well as the mood lighting in the room, it was difficult to know for certain.
“You having an enjoyable evening, sir?” Murphy asked of Frank. “You, eh, waiting for someone?” he added incidentally, indicating, with a grin, the empty seat.
“Yes. Yes I am,” replied Frank, looking at his watch, and smiling, with one side of his mouth, to emphasise the point. Frank was uncertain as to why he was being quizzed in such a manner by the kitchen help. “Do you, em… do you need the chair?” he asked tentatively.
“Ah,” replied Murphy. “No, no. Nothing like that,” he said, while casting a quick — and unnoticed to Frank — glance back in the direction of the column of ethereal floating heads watching on with intense interest.
“Ah,” said Frank, echoing the apron-clad man. He was not sure what else to say.
“Was it a first date?” the chef went on, helpfully. “Maybe she looked through the window, and, you know… kept on walking?” Murphy proposed, gesturing illustratively with his fingers to mimic either said date buggering off or the stabbing motion of two knitting needles — it was difficult to tel
l which, since repeated kitchen mishaps had resulted in the severing of several tendons in Chef Murphy’s hands.
“What? Why would she…?” Frank began, alarmed at the chef’s line of thinking. “I don’t think…” he went on, but trailed off. He paused, attempting to work out, for a moment, why the chef in a packed restaurant was stood in front of him, quizzing him about his love life, or perceived lack thereof.
“Ehm…” replied Frank, after a pause. “It’s our first formal date,” he answered the chap cautiously. “But, not the first time we’ve been out. If you know what I mean.”
“Sure, sure,” replied Murphy instantly, head tilted to one side. “It’s never nice being stood up, though, is it? Perhaps… maybe she’s met someone else? Say, at work?”
Frank wore a confused expression, like he’d smelt a fart and was trying to figure out who’d previously owned it. “What…? What are you…? Seriously, man, what are you on about?”
The chef moved his head from side to side, smiling as he did so, as if to shake away Frank’s concerns.
“It’s never nice. Being jilted. Especially, well, at your age, am I right? You may never find another,” Murphy went on jovially. He then raised his index finger and pointed it at the wall-mounted speaker. “Sad, this song,” he suggested, brightly. “You’re going to be okay, then?” he asked, now resting his hands on the table, but in a sort of tone which suggested he sincerely hoped Frank wasn’t going to be okay. “I know the pain you’re going through,” he commiserated gleefully. “They say it gets easier. But, I’m not so sure it does. It really doesn’t, does it? No, it never does.”
Chef Murphy stood there, his broad, cheerful smile perfectly preserved. After a brief pause, he asked, “Is there anything I can do?” He gave a thumbs-up signal behind his back, for the benefit of those watching from the kitchen, to indicate that everything was going splendidly.
Mouth agape, it took Frank a bit before sorting himself out to an extent that he could respond. Eventually, he came out with a reply…
“You could find out where the waitress went with my wine, actually. If you don’t mind. In fact, can you make it two glasses of wine?”
“Certainly!” Chef Murphy happily agreed, taking this to mean that Frank was doing especially poorly.
“—Because here’s my date now,” Frank finished, looking to the window.
“Oh,” replied Murphy, clearly disappointed. “Oh,” he said again, watching his world before him crumble. “Are you with him?” he asked directly of Jessie once she’d arrived at the table, before she’d even had a chance to remove her scarf. He asked this in a mixture of disbelief and despair.
“Yes,” confirmed Jessie, waving over to Frank. She unbuttoned her coat, turning to hand it to Murphy, who she took to be the cloakroom attendant.
But her coat only dangled there in the air, because Chef Murphy had already buggered off, quick smart, returning, from whence he came, to the kitchen.
“What an odd fellow,” remarked Frank.
A half-snort, half-cough could be heard, from the table next, from the smartly-dressed book-reading businesswoman. Frank gave no reply, as he decided he well deserved it.
Frank moved, momentarily, around the table to ease Jessie into her seat. “I like your hair, Jessie,” he told her, smiling awkwardly. “You really do look lovely,” he added, for lack of anything more clever to say.
For a lady of a certain age, Jessie carried herself with a youthful exuberance. Women fifteen years younger than her would scratch eyes out for her complexion, a complexion, it must be said, which was complemented by her radiant smile.
Jessie took a generous mouthful of the wine that’d arrived, being placed on the table by the now-attentive server. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said to Frank. “Were you okay waiting for me?”
“Of course, of course,” he lied, not troubling her with any details. “Is everything okay?” he asked. “On your end, I mean?” he added, clarifying something, notwithstanding, that clearly didn’t require clarification.
Jessie took the menu, running her finger down the page. “I don’t speak French,” she whispered to Frank.
“There’s a translation underneath each description,” Frank offered encouragingly.
“Oh yes! So there is,” she laughed, releasing an infectious twinkle from her eyes.
Frank hadn’t received a response to his earlier question, but, rather than repeat the query, he sat, watching Jessie nibbling her lip, deciding what she wanted to order.
“Anything take your fancy?” he asked.
“Everything! But I think I’ll try their onion soup. It’s very good, apparently, from what I’ve heard.”
“Oh? What have you heard?” Frank asked inanely. Inane was what he was best at.
“That it’s very good,” Jessie reiterated.
“Ah,” Frank replied sagely.
She continued thumbing through the menu. “This is our first formal date, Frank! And what a lovely venue to spend it…” Jessie said, trailing off towards the end, catching the eye of the woman sat behind Frank. “I’m really sorry I’m so late,” she added, quickly looking back to her own table. “I was on the phone to that insufferable buffoon.”
“Who? Stan?”
“Of course not Stan. Stan is lovely,” tittered Jessie. “I was on the phone to Dave.”
“Dave Quirk? Your son? Why, what’s he done?”
“Oh, he’s got some daft notion in his head. He’s only gone and quit his job is all.”
“What?” Frank replied, a wide grin spreading across his face like an oil stain on a rag.
“You’re smiling?”
Frank tried to avoid direct eye contact. “Am I?”
Jessie leaned closer, lowering her voice to barely a whisper. “Frank, don’t look. But there is a woman sat behind you glaring at the back of your head.”
“There is?” he replied nervously, pretending he didn’t know what Jessie could possibly be referring to. Then, relenting, he leaned forward himself to join the huddle. “I might have implied… somehow or other… who knows how these things happen… purely a misunderstanding… it’s funny, really, when you…”
“What?” Jessie pressed.
“Well it’s like this,” Frank said. “I sort of… completely by accident, mind you… you know…”
“No I don’t know,” Jessie corrected him.
“… Implied that she was a prostitute. Somehow,” Frank offered by way of explanation.
“A substitute?” asked Jessie, raising her voice slightly to be heard over the music. “A substitute teacher?” she said, confused as to why such a thing might have caused offence.
Frank shook his head and repeated, a bit louder, “No. That she was a prostitute.” He said this, unfortunately, at the same time as the music ended.
“I’m not a bloody prostitute!” bellowed the well-to-do voice from behind Frank’s head. “I’m visiting the Island! With work!”
Frank didn’t turn around. There was no need. He lowered his head like a naughty dog. “So…” he continued cautiously, attempting to change the subject. “You were saying… about Dave?”
Jessie’s face was etched with confusion and possibly an element of fear. “Frank, what in…?”
“Look, I’ll tell you later,” Frank assured her. “So.” He coughed. “Dave?”
“Yeah,” she reflected. “He’s got some notion about working in the great outdoors! He’s quit his job for one with no prospects. I despair with the boy at times.”
“Did he mention where this new particular job was, erm, particularly?” Frank enquired expectantly.
Frank coughed again. There was apparently something stuck in his throat.
Jessie looked at Frank.
Frank looked back at Jessie.
Jessie looked at Frank some more. “It’s you, isn’t it?” she said, finally. “Well, you and Stan. You’ve offered Dave a job on the farm, haven’t you? And this is what he means by the great outdoors.”
“Another drink?” offered Frank accommodatingly, pointing to her glass of wine, a glass that was already all but filled to the brim.
Jessie laughed. “You and bloody Stan! I should have known! At least we know Dave can keep a secret. Because he wouldn’t tell me what the job was. Couldn’t get it out of him at all, the rotter.”
“I asked him not to mention it to anyone till we got the keys. Sorry, Jessie.”
She placed her hands atop of his. “It’s fine. I feel better knowing it’s you two crazy idiots that are employing him, at least.”
“He’s not the only idiotic buffoon we’ve got on board, either.”
“Ooh… let me see,” teased Jessie. “I’m a good guesser. And I’m predicting one Shaun ‘Monty’ Montgomery in the mix as well?”
“You are indeed a good guesser,” Frank gave her, only guesser inadvertently came out sounding like kisser.
Frank’s phone — which lay on the tabletop — at that moment saved him, erupting into light, and drawing the eyes of the both of them. A summary of the text displayed, for their benefit:
Jessie, it would appear, was rather adept at reading upside down, as she gave out a little chuckle. “Oh, it’ll be an adventure, I suppose,” she said, referring to the endeavour in general. “Besides, he’s a grown man and I should really stop treating him like a little boy.”
“It’s a long time since anybody thought of Dave as a little boy,” agreed Frank. “Or little, at least. Anyhow, sorry I didn’t tell you about the job. That was actually one of the reasons for inviting you out tonight.”
Frank waved a bunch of keys to Jessie, playfully, like one would entertain a baby. Naturally, this backfired as he soon sat staring at the keys himself, mesmerised. They were, after all, quite shiny.
Jessie clapped her hands in delight, snapping Frank back into the present in the process. “You got the keys to the farm!” she exclaimed.
Frank 'n' Stan's Bucket List #3 Isle 'Le Mans' TT: Featuring Guy Martin Page 3