Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [6]
The restaurant, which was tucked away in a part of the city which the Doctor had called Soho, was cheap and tatty: although, despite its squalor, it appeared to enjoy a brisk trade. As Chris surveyed the room, a commotion broke out at a table near the door. A woman, who Chris guessed was in her late forties, had stood up and was now shouting at her male companion, a well-dressed older man who had flushed bright red.
‘You may drive a Rolls Royce for all I know, deah,’ the woman said loudly, projecting her aristocratic voice so the whole restaurant could hear, ‘but that still does not entitle you to put your hand up my dress. Not in public and certainly not when I’m dining at the French.’ And with that, the woman picked up her half-full glass of red wine and threw it in her companion’s face. ‘Now, perhaps you would be good enough to bugger off, but not before,’ she added quickly. ‘you’ve settled the bill with Gaston.’
Her companion complied meekly and then hurried out of the restaurant.
The woman turned and caught sight of Chris staring at her across the room.
‘Politicians,’ she exclaimed, before turning her attention to the landlord, Gaston, who had arrived at her table to refill her wineglass.
The woman was tall and painfully thin, with striking, hawk-like features.
She wore her jet black hair scraped back over her head, reminding Chris, simultaneously, of an aging prima donna ballerina and a Victorian governess.
Despite having caused the most enormous scene she seemed completely at her ease, sharing a joke with Gaston.
‘She seems like an interesting person; shall we invite her to join us for coffee?’ The Doctor asked and, not waiting for an answer to his question, waved her over.
The distraction over, Chris felt the familiar ache of grief return. The last thing he wanted to do was socialize. ‘Actually, Doctor,’ he began, ‘I’m not sure that I’m very good company at the moment.’
‘ Deah, you can’t possibly be any worse company than that tiresome fat old man. Right Honourable. Right Dis honourable, more like it,’ the woman exclaimed as she marched towards them. Chris felt himself blush furiously. How on Earth had she managed to hear him from the other side of the restaurant?
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean. . . ’ But the dark-haired woman dismissed his apology with a wave of her hand. She sat down and refilled her wineglass from their bottle. ‘You’ll get used to me, I’m an acquired taste,’ she said, took a large 9
gulp of wine and then grimaced. ‘A bit like this wine. What are you drinking?’
She turned and shouted over to the bar, ‘Gaston, what kind of filth are you trying to pass off on my friends? Bring us something decent immediately or I shall be forced to dine here all next week. And if you don’t bring the wine here in thirty seconds I shall bring all my friends with me when I come.’
The woman returned her attention to the Doctor and Chris. ‘I’m Tilda, Tilda Jupp.’ She extended a hand which the Doctor kissed lightly. Chris shook it politely.
‘I’m the Doctor and this is my friend, Christopher Cwej.’
‘The Doctor? How mysterious. I like that in a man.’
Gaston arrived with the wine. After three glasses had been poured, Tilda asked what had brought the two travellers to Soho.
‘We’re resting in London for a little while,’ the Doctor explained. ‘Planning to see the sights, that sort of thing.’
Tilda brightened. ‘Then you can’t possibly miss out on an evening at the Tropics. It’s a little club I run. Strictly informal. Opens after the pubs shut.
Theatre people mostly. The drinks aren’t cheap, but I’m sure you’ll adore it.’
She brandished a card which the Doctor perused politely.
‘Ah, it sounds intriguing, but I’m afraid it’s a little past my bedtime. However, it sounds perfect for my companion,’ the Doctor commented, handing the card over to Chris.
‘Then that’s settled. I shall expect you at eleven, Christopher.’
Chris nodded wearily, knowing that the Doctor wasn’t going to allow him a quiet evening on his own. ‘Very well, eleven it is, Ms Jupp.’
‘Oh call me Mother, deah,’ Tilda