Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  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.”

  “More fool him,” said Anna, putting down her glass and staring at me as if I’d just been released from a lunatic asylum.

  “Then I put two ten-pound notes into a theater envelope and took the place next to you,” I continued. “The rest you already know.” I waited, with some trepidation, to see how she would react.

  “I suppose I ought to be flattered,” Anna said after a moment’s consideration. “But I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. One thing’s for certain: the woman I’ve been living with for the past ten years will think it’s highly amusing, especially as you paid for her ticket.”

  The waiter returned to remove the half-finished plates. “Was everything all right, sir?” he asked, sounding anxious.

  “Fine, just fine,” I said unconvincingly. Anna grimaced, but made no comment.

  “Would you care for coffee, madam?”

  “No, I don’t think I’ll risk it,” she said, looking at her watch. “In any case, I ought to be getting back. Elizabeth will be wondering where I’ve got to.”

  She stood up and walked toward the door. I followed a yard behind. She was just about to step onto the pavement when she turned to me and asked, “Don’t you think you ought to settle the bill?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Why?” she asked, laughing. “Do you own the place?”

  “No. But it is one of the three restaurants I manage.”

  Anna turned scarlet. “I’m so sorry, Michael,” she said. “That was tactless of me.” She paused for a moment before adding, “But I’m sure you’ll agree that the food wasn’t exactly memorable.”

  “Would you like me to drive you home?” I asked, trying not to sound too enthusiastic.

  Anna looked up at the black clouds. “That would be useful,” she replied, “if it’s not miles out of your way. Where’s your car?” she said before I had a chance to ask where she lived.

  “I left it just up the road.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember,” said Anna. “When you jumped out of it because you couldn’t take your eyes off me. I’m afraid you picked the wrong girl this time.”

  At last we had found something on which we could agree, but I made no comment as we walked toward the spot where I had abandoned my car. Anna limited her conversation to whether it was about to rain again, and how good she had thought the wine was. I was relieved to find my Volvo parked exactly where I had left it.

  I was searching for my keys when I spotted a large sticker glued to the windscreen. I looked down at the front offside wheel, and saw the yellow clamp.

  “It just isn’t your night, is it?” said Anna. “But don’t worry about me, I’ll just grab a cab.”

  She raised her hand and a taxi skidded to a halt. She turned back to face me. “Thanks for dinner,” she managed, not altogether convincingly, and added, even less convincingly, “Perhaps we’ll meet again.” Before I could respond, she had slammed the taxi door closed.

  As I watched her being driven away, it started to rain.

  I took one more look at my immovable car, and decided I would deal with the problem in the morning.

  I was about to rush for the nearest shelter when another taxi came around the corner, its yellow light indicating that it was for hire. I waved frantically and it drew up beside my clamped car.

  “Bad luck, mate,” said the cabbie, looking down at my front wheel. “My third tonight.”

  I attempted a smile.

  “So, where to, guv?”

  I gave him my address in Lambeth and climbed into the back.

  As the taxi maneuvered its way slowly through the rain-swept post-theater traffic and across Waterloo Bridge, the driver began chattering away. I just about managed monosyllabic replies to his opinions on the weather, John Major, the England cricket team and foreign tourists. With each new topic, his forecast became ever more gloomy.

  He only stopped offering his opinions when he came to a halt outside my house in Fentiman Road. I paid him, and smiled ruefully at the thought that this would be the first time in weeks that I’d managed to get home before midnight. I walked slowly up the short path to the front door.

  I turned the key in the lock and opened the door quietly, so as not to wake my wife. Once inside I went through my nightly ritual of slipping off my jacket and shoes before creeping quietly up the stairs.

  Before I had reached the bedroom I began to get undressed. After years of coming in at one or two in the morning, I was able to take off all my clothes, fold and stack them, and slide under the sheets next to Judy without waking her. But just as I pulled back the cover she said drowsily, “I didn’t think you’d be home so early, with all the problems you were facing tonight.” I wondered if she was talking in her sleep. “How much damage did the fire do?”

  “The fire?” I said, standing in the nude.

  “In Davies Street. Gerald phoned a few moments after you’d left to say a fire had started in the kitchen and had spread to the restaurant. He was just checking to make certain you were on your way. He’d cancelled all the bookings for the next two weeks, but he didn’t think they’d be able to open again for at least a month. I told him that as you’d left just after six you’d be with him at any minute. So, just how bad is the damage?”

  I was already dressed by the time Judy was awake enough to ask why I had never turned up at the restaurant. I shot down the stairs and out onto the street in search of another cab. It had started raining again.

  A taxi swung round and came to a halt in front of me.

  “Where to this time, guv?”

  À POINT

  “Thank you, Michael. I’d like that.”

  I smiled, unable to mask my delight.

  “Hi, Pipsqueak. I thought I might have missed you.”

  I turned and stared at a tall man with a mop of fair hair, who seemed unaffected by the steady flow of people trying to pass him on either side.

  Anna gave him a smile that I hadn’t seen until that moment.

  “Hello, Jonathan,” she said. “This is Michael Whitaker. You’re lucky—he bought your ticket, and if you hadn’t turned up I was just about to accept his kind invitation to dinner. Michael, this is my brother, Jonathan—the one who was held up at the hospital. As you can see, he’s now escaped.”

  I couldn’t think of a suitable reply.

  Jonathan shook me warmly by the hand. “Thank you for keeping my sister company,” he said. “Won’t you join us for dinner?”

  “That’s kind of you,” I replied, “but I’ve just remembered that I’m meant to be somewhere else right now. I’d better …”

  “You’re not meant to be anywhere else right now,” interrupted Anna, giving me the same smile. “Don’t be so feeble.” She linked her arm in mine. “In any case, we’d both like you to join us.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “There’s a restaurant just down the road that I’ve been told is rather good,” said Jonathan, as the three of us began walking off in the direction of the Strand.

  “Great. I’m famished,” said Anna.

  “So, tell me all about the play,” Jonathan said as Anna linked her other arm in his.

  “Every bit as good as the critics promised,” said Anna.

  “You were unlucky to miss it,” I said.

  “But I’m rather glad you did,” said Anna as we reached the corner of the Strand.

  “I think that’s the place I’m looking for,” said Jonathan, pointing to a large gray double door on the far side of the road. The three of us weaved our way through the temporarily stationary traffic.

  Once we reached the other side of the road Jonathan pushed open one of the gray doors to allow us through. It started to rain just as we stepped inside. He led Anna and me down a flight of stairs into a basement restaurant buzzing with the talk o
f people who had just come out of theaters, and waiters dashing, plates in both hands, from table to table.

  “I’ll be impressed if you can get a table here,” Anna said to her brother, eyeing a group of would-be customers who were clustered round the bar, impatiently waiting for someone to leave. “You should have booked,” she added as he began waving at the head waiter, who was fully occupied taking a customer’s order.

  I remained a yard or two behind them, and as Mario came across, I put a finger to my lips and nodded to him.

  “I don’t suppose you have a table for three?” asked Jonathan.

  “Yes, of course, sir. Please follow me,” said Mario, leading us to a quiet table in the corner of the room.

  “That was a bit of luck,” said Jonathan.

  “It certainly was,” Anna agreed. Jonathan suggested that I take the far chair, so his sister could sit between us.

  Once we had settled, Jonathan asked what I would like to drink.

  “How about you?” I said, turning to Anna. “Another dry martini?”

  Jonathan looked surprised. “You haven’t had a dry martini since …”

  Anna scowled at him and said quickly, “I’ll just have a glass of wine with the meal.”

  Since when? I wondered, but only said, “I’ll have the same.”

  Mario reappeared, and handed us our menus. Jonathan and Anna studied theirs in silence for some time before Jonathan asked, “Any ideas?”

  “It all looks so tempting,” Anna said. “But I think I’ll settle for the fettucini and a glass of red wine”.

  “What about a starter?” asked Jonathan.

  “No. I’m on first call tomorrow, if you remember—unless of course you’re volunteering to take my place.”

  “Not after what I’ve been through this evening, Pipsqueak. I’d rather go without a starter too,” he said. “How about you, Michael? Don’t let our domestic problems get in your way.”

  “Fettucini and a glass of red wine would suit me just fine.”

  “Three fettucini and a bottle of your best Chianti,” said Jonathan when Mario returned.