tables looked out over the Thames. A group of waiters, many with grey hair, had gathered near what appeared to be a lectern at the entrance to the restaurant. The oldest of them, whom Ben took to be the manager, broke away to greet him.
‘Can I help at all, sir?’ he asked in a thick East End accent. The man was almost entirely bald, with a dry, ridged complexion like the surface of a golf ball.
‘I’m having dinner with my father,’ Ben told him. ‘He should be here.’
‘The name, sir?’
‘His name is Keen. Christopher Keen. It was for eight fifteen.’
The waiter turned to consult his reservations book. Ben was almost too afraid to scan the tables beyond the glass in case he should catch sight of his father.
‘We don’t seem to have a booking for that name, sir.’
The waiter’s tone suggested that Ben had wasted his time.
‘Are you sure?’
He felt tricked, gripped by the sure thought that his father had bottled out.
‘Quite sure, sir. Of course, it’s possible that you’re dining with us in the Grill Room.’
‘The Grill Room?’
‘Our other restaurant, sir. You would have passed it on the way in. Just go backto the main door. You’ll find it on the right of reception, top of the stairs.’
Muttering an embarrassed thank you, Ben turned and walked back towards the foyer. He felt rushed now, no longer in control. A slim French woman introduced herself at the entrance to The Grill and took his name with a smile. He was surely on the brink of it now, his father only seconds away. She was conferring with one of her colleagues, pointing out into the room, and when Ben looked up to take in the quiet formality of his surroundings he saw his father at the far end of the restaurant, seated at a table backed up against the wall. Their eyes met and Keen nodded, rising to his feet, a man of sixty who seemed never to have aged. A very broad, effortful smile and that steady, unreadable gaze that Ben remembered even as a child. His breathing doubled back on itself as he moved towards the table. Ben tried to set his face but the effort was hopeless.
‘Benjamin.’
‘Hello.’
A firm handshake, a contact of skin, examining his father’s face for the bits that looked like him.
‘It’s so wonderful to see you. So wonderful. Do come and sit down.’
Some men of Keen’s generation had faces weakened by experience, eyes and mouths rendered timid by the failures of age. But his father looked capable, renewed, not someone whom a younger man might profitably challenge. Ben was amazed by the preservation of his good looks; his father had the vigour and apparent fitness of a man half his age. He was, against all expectation, impressed by him.
‘Will you have a glass of something?’ he asked, and Ben nodded at the waiter, dryly requesting water as he sat down.
‘Nothing a little stronger?’
The question, quite unintentionally, came off sounding like a test of Ben’s masculinity. He felt automatically obliged to order a vodka and tonic. Already, so soon, he had been undermined by something like the force of his father’s personality.
‘I’ll have one too, Gerard,’ Keen said to the waiter, who deposited two menus and a wine list on the table. He even knows the waiter’s name. Sweat collected across the upper part of Ben’s back, the shoulders of his suit jacket now tropically dense and hot.
‘And some water as well,’ Keen added, fixing blue eyes on his son. ‘Gas or no gas?’
It was another question to which he must find a quick answer. Ben wanted to say that he didn’t care, but muttered: ‘Without gas, please,’ in a low voice. Then the waiter moved off.
Before he was out of earshot Keen said, ‘I wanted to thankyou right away for agreeing to meet me.’
‘Not at all,’ Ben replied, responding with a smile, and he was immediately frustrated with himself for adhering to decorum. He had badly wanted to make things difficult at this early stage, to find some dark expression of his contempt, but instead was playing the genial, even-tempered son.
‘I went the wrong way when I came in,’ he said, just to fill the silence. ‘Didn’t realize they had two restaurants.’
‘No,’ his father replied, and he might almost have been bored. Why had Ben expected it to be one-way traffic? Why had he thought that the evening would see Keen on bended knee, uttering a grovelling apology? There was no sign of that at all.
‘So why did you want to see me?’ he asked, and it was the first question he had set which carried any kind of weight. Keen leaned forward as if to draw the sting out of it, to envelop Ben in goodwill.
‘Well, it’s been too long,’ he said. ‘Too much time has gone by and I am responsible for that.’
‘Yes, you are.’
That’s better. Put him on the back foot. Claw back some ground.
‘Ah. Our drinks.’
Gerard was returning with two tall glasses of vodka and tonic, balanced on a chrome tray. The moment was lost.
‘Thanks,’ he said, taking a mouthful straight away.
‘Have they made it strong enough?’
‘It’s fine, thank you, fine.’
‘I never think us Brits put enough booze in. Tend to hold back on the vodka, don’t you think?’
‘Really, it’s OK.’
The restaurant’s decor was a time warp of imperial England: more wood panelling, lamps with hexagonal shades bolted to the walls, even slices of Melba toast like dried skin racked on a plate at the table.
‘This a place where you eat a lot?’ Ben asked.
Why hadn’t he at least let the silence linger? Why had he felt the need to rescue the situation?
‘You mean, do I come here often?’
‘I suppose I do.’
‘Not infrequently,’ Keen lied.
Another waiter was standing stiffly beside his chair.
‘Are you ready to order, gentlemen?’
‘I haven’t had a moment to lookat what’s on offer,’ Keen said, idly picking up his menu. ‘Can you give us five minutes, Philippe?’
‘Of course, sir. I’ll come back later.’
And he cleared his throat.
‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’
The simple act of opening the menus swamped the table in silence. Keen seemed oblivious to it, entirely at ease, but Ben was beginning to feel like a young boy on a day out from school. He spent thirty or forty seconds staring at the stiff cream card without registering a single one of the dishes on offer. Pumpkin Bisque with Ricotta? 7.50. Sole Veronique?18.00. Pan-Fried Sea-Bass with Confit Fennel and Chorizo?23.00. Breast of Chicken with Celeriac Fondant and Wild Mushroom Ravioli?24.00. Trying to imagine what each of the dishes would entail was simply impossible: they were just words on a page, a blur of text. Calf’s Liver on Sweet Onion Tart Tatin with Sage Beignet 18.50. Cannon of Lamb with Ratatouille and Basil Cream?23.50. Even by London standards, Ben was astonished by how high the prices were.
Keen closed his menu with what was almost a snap.
‘Have you decided?’
‘There’s such a lot to choose from.’ It was another remark which Ben regretted instantly: his voice sounded childish and flustered. He looked back at the menu and simply went for the first dish that his eyes settled on. ‘I’ll have the Tournedos of Beef.’
‘But nothing to start with?’
‘Vichyssoise,’ Ben replied, vaguely recalling its presence on the menu. The words were out of his mouth when he remembered that Vichyssoise was chilled. He hated cold soup.
‘I believe it’s very good here.’
