he sat down again to loud cheers from his cronies.
'It's not how we prefer our guests to behave,' the waiter said, hurrying off.
'Tell me about the restaurants,' I said to Annabelle. 'And this designer you're meeting.'
'I don't know much about it myself,' she replied, leaning forward.
'Xav's meeting me off the train and I expect I'll be whisked away to a meeting, or a working lunch. Working lunches are very popular in this business.'
'I bet they are.'
'Xav sent me some drawings of the interiors of the restaurants, sort of three-dimensional plans, looking inside, if you follow me…'
'I think they're called isometric sketches,' I said, although I was guessing.
'Are they? I was wondering if you'd have a look at them with me, when we go home. Will I be able to colour them, to compare how different designs would look?'
'Of course you will,' I replied, smiling. Ever since we met I've broken the rules to involve her in my work. Now she was doing it with me. A roar went up from the rowdies in the corner. I looked across and Annabelle turned in her seat. One of them, jacket off and sleeves rolled up, was pretending to sing, using a Liebfraumilch bottle as a microphone. The others started chanting: 'Sit down you bum, sit down you bum.'
'This used to be a posh place,' I said by way of an apology.
'I think we picked a bad night,' she replied.
The manager, tall and elegant, scuttled out of the kitchen and headed towards them, a diplomat dashing to quell trouble with the natives.
Behind him the chef took up a position in the doorway, meat cleaver in his hand. He looked like a cross between Pavarotti and the King of Tonga. I decided to be on his side.
The manager knew what he was doing. His hands flapped as he spoke, faces nodded at him, smiles broke out and hands were shaken. He went back to his retreat and the chef closed the door.
We ate our pate and Annabelle told me that the next Luxotel would be on a new complex near West Midlands Airport. Hopefully, she'd be in from the start with the decor of this one. It was nearing completion and decisions needed making in the next few days. I could understand her enthusiasm.
The halibut was superb. I was asking Annabelle if she'd like to change her mind about the wine a glass of dry white would have gone well with it when there was another commotion in the corner. They were all on their feet, hooking jackets off the backs of chairs and reaching for wallets.
'Breathe easy,' I said. 'They're leaving.'
'Thank goodness for that.'
They filed towards us, threading between the tables in line astern, bellies thrust forward as they swayed with a curious grace, like sailors on a moving deck, and stifled their belches. They could have been the descendants of the men in the paintings, fat and arrogant but minus the class.
Fifth in the line was Darryl Buxton. He was wearing a cream tuxedo with red cummerbund and dicky bow, and a frilly shirt. Each frill was edged in black, in case you hadn't noticed it. He looked like something from the Great Barrier Reef.
'Well, well, well,' he shouted as he saw me, raising an arm above his head in a parody of a bullfighter, 'look who it fuckin' isn't.'
The man in front turned and grabbed him. 'C'mon, Darryl,' he said.
'That's the bastard who's trying to frame me,' Darryl declared. 'I didn't know cops ate 'ere. I wouldn't have suggested it if I'd known cops ate 'ere.'
The parade had shuffled to a halt at our table. My only thought was with Annabelle. We were in a situation that was not of my making, so how could I extract us with minimum embarrassment and maybe even earn a bit of kudos for myself? Was it to be Gregory Peck in The Big Country, or Stallone in… whatever? Freud would have loved me., 'Take him away, please,' I said to his companion, my hands spreadeagled on the table so he could see I wasn't going for my gun.
'He's a fuckin' cop,' Darryl told the restaurant.
'C'mon,' his pal said. 'He's not worth it.'
They started to bundle him away and I looked across at Annabelle. Her face was white but she was staring defiantly at him.
'I'll fix him,' I heard Darryl say. 'I'll fuckin' fix you,' he shouted, further away.
The manager was with us, apologising. 'I assure you sir, we won't be accepting a booking from them again, and I'm most sorry for any inconvenience or upset caused to you. Please try to enjoy the rest of your meal. Allow me to bring you a complimentary bottle of wine? Sir?
Madam?'
'Who are they?' I asked.
'They said they were estate agents. A company called Homes 4 U, I believe. We took the booking about a week ago. It is the last time they will eat at the Wool Exchange, I promise you. Now, about that wine, sir?'
I shook my head. 'No, we're all right, thanks.' Annabelle had pushed her plate away, cutlery neatly laid on it. I felt the same way.
'I think we'll just have the bill,' I said.
He trowel led the apologies on like marzipan and offered us coffees or liqueurs. I told him that the halibut was excellent but we'd lost our appetites, so he knocked ten pounds off the bill and hoped that we'd eat there again. I promised him we would.
I held the car door open for Annabelle and carefully closed it behind her. I walked round and took my own seat. I pulled my seatbelt on but didn't start the engine.
'That didn't quite work out how I'd planned it,' I said.
'It wasn't your fault, Charles,' she replied, putting her hand on mine.
'I'd wanted tonight to be special.'
'I know.' She smiled, and said: 'Up to then, it had been.'
'Well, at least it wasn't dull,' I chuckled.
'You can certainly say that again. Who was he, that obnoxious man?'
'That was Darryl Buxton, acquitted of rape five times and in the frame for another.'
'Five times!'
'That we know of.'
'That's… horrible. Be careful, Charles,' she said, 'he looked dangerous.'
'Only with women,' I assured her. 'I can handle the Darryl Buxtons of this world any time at all.' There's no harm in a flash of macho, now and again, as long as you keep it under control.
As we drove out of town I said: 'I think the Wool Exchange must be jinxed for me.'
Annabelle asked me why, and I told her about my wedding reception.
'Oh, Charles, I am sorry.'
'Tell me about yours,' I said.
'My wedding reception?'
'Yes. Where was it?'
'In Kenya.'
'Whereabouts?'
'A little township called Navashonga, in the north.'
'Go on. I like to hear you talk about Kenya.'
We were at the traffic lights. They changed to green and I eased forward, Annabelle's hand on my knee. When I was in top gear again I put mine back on it.
'It was the start of the long wet season,' she began, 'so the acacia trees were in blossom. The church was made of breeze blocks and flattened oil drums, with a piano that had several keys missing. After the service we had a picnic, everybody invited. People came from miles around half of Africa must have been there and the Samburu danced for us. It was wonderful.'
I could picture it, through her eyes. She'd shown me her photographs and books and the images were as vivid to me as if I'd been there myself: the flat-topped fever thorn trees, the cattle, swirling dust and pogo-stick dancing of the Samburu, close cousins of the Masai. She was happy when she reminisced, and that usually made me happy,
