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 manoeuvred its way slowly through the rainswept post-theatre 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?”
A 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 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
“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 grey 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 grey 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 of people who had just come out of theatres, 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.
Anna leaned over to me and whispered conspiratorially, “It’s the only Italian wine he can pronounce correctly.”
“What would have happened if we’d chosen fish?” I asked her.
“He’s also heard of Frascati, but he’s never quite sure what he’s meant to do when someone orders duck.”
“What are you two whispering about?” asked Jonathan as he handed his menu back to Mario.
“I was asking your sister about the third partner in the practice.”
“Not bad, Michael,” Anna said. “You should have gone into politics.”
