They emerge from the Jubilee Line at Green Park.
Must have been a short, sharp shower while they were underground. On one side of the street, moistened paving stones gleam like aluminium in the final few shafts of low, slanting sunlight. Pete giggles at the sight of four hefty youths in hiking gear (shorts included) and skull caps. Is this a tribute band for Pink and Perky, he muses, or a Jewish contingent of the Hitler Youth?
Tony makes another announcement: ‘Got to have solids. Absolutely must have something to eat.’
He leads Pete into the foyer of his club. Already the noise of the street has been shut out. They walk downstairs to the Art Deco restaurant (small steps, designed to be taken fast; for a moment, every man going downstairs to eat gets to feel like Fred Astaire). Just inside the double doors (ebony inlaid with parallel lines of gold leaf), there is a lectern with the bookings book placed solemnly upon it. Our pilgrims respect the temple, and here they wait.
In a few seconds the acolyte appears. She is a young woman from Eastern Europe – girl, really, looks less than 20 – and their arrival causes her to flutter.
This evening it seems there are many bookings, and even the one or two empty tables you can see, are due to be filled at any moment.
‘Of this I can assure you, Mr Skance.’
But of course Tony knows the head waiter, who is just moving away from a table within hailing distance of the lectern.
‘Bona noce, Marcelli,’ he calls out, raising his voice above the diners’ intimate murmur, but not so loud as to break in upon them.
And Marcelli comes over, with a warm smile on his small, quick face. He and Tony seem genuinely pleased to see each other. And then Tony breaks out into his sheepish grin, asking if maybe, perhaps, at a pinch... And Marcelli nods: of course, of course; and both of them are smiling at each other until Tony takes a step back.
‘But I wouldn’t want to spoil your timetable, Anna.’
Already he has it from Marcelli that she is indeed Anna.
‘It is no problem,’ she reassures him, at the same time trying to reassure herself that she has not been made to look foolish.
Anna squares her shoulders and puts away Pete’s satchel – ‘you will not be wanting, no?’ – while Marcelli shows them to their table. They sit. Tony tucks his napkin under his chin like Hercule Poirot.
Pete sits and looks intently at the table, a man staring out to sea. That whisky is hitting on the wine he drank on campus. Getting to the right spot, too!
This is the coolest, creamiest table linen I have ever seen, Pete thinks. If it were the sea, I might drown in it. If only it were a bed, I could crawl into it and never come out.
Tony has waived away the wine list and called for his regular bottle of vin ordinaire (Henri Le Boeuf). It’s there in a trice. No need for the tasting ritual. ‘Just pour’, he insists.
Aggressively but not unpleasantly sharp, the white wine cuts through all the wasted hours and lost days. It brings us, Tony and me, to this moment. After so much time, to this moment and no other, this moment now.
Pete, dear Pete, is thinking that he really shouldn’t let his thoughts run free like this. You’d be embarrassed, Pete, if you ever find yourself thinking these thoughts again. So think again. But no, he’s not going to. Tonight’s the night for not thinking right.
There are so many things I want to say to you, Tony, and maybe this is the time when I can say them, now that we are at this table, now that my voice is richer, creamier.
But at least for the time being, Pete keeps his lyrical thoughts to himself. Dear Reader, perhaps you’re thinking, thank goodness for small mercies.
Meanwhile Marcelli has brushed the crumbs from the table. Tony is signing the bill, £76.34 on his club account. And something for your weekend, Marcelli, he smirks and waves a note. Marcelli inclines his head, bows – not too much – in return.
Come on, Pete, afore ye go you’d better pee in the Art Deco pissoir. Looks exactly like the one exhibited by Duchamp. Thank goodness they haven’t ripped it out and replaced it.
(9) Pete remembers how to growl
Games Makers: A London Satire Page 7