The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [266]
I nodded. “My name’s Michael Whitaker.”
“Anna Townsend,” she said, giving me a warm smile.
“Would you like a drink?” I asked.
“Thank you,” she replied, “that would be nice.” I stood up and led her through the packed huddle that was heading toward the orchestra bar, occasionally glancing back to make sure she was still following me. I was somehow expecting her no longer to be there, but each time I turned to look she greeted me with the same radiant smile.
“What would you like?” I asked, once I could make out the bar through the crowd.
“A dry martini, please.”
“Stay here, and I’ll be back in a moment,” I promised, wondering just how many precious minutes would be wasted while I had to wait at the bar. I took out a five-pound note and held it up conspicuously, in the hope that the prospect of a large tip might influence the barman’s sense of direction. He spotted the money, but I still had to wait for another four customers to be served before I managed to secure the dry martini and a Scotch on the rocks for myself. The barman didn’t deserve the tip I left him, but I hadn’t any more time to waste waiting for the change.
I carried the drinks back to the far corner of the foyer, where Anna stood studying her playbill. She was silhouetted against a window, and in that stylish red silk dress, the light emphasized her slim, elegant figure.
I handed her the dry martini, aware that my limited time had almost run out.
“Thank you,” she said, giving me another disarming smile.
“How did you come to have a spare ticket?” I asked as she took a sip from her drink.
“My partner was held up on an emergency case at the last minute,” she explained. “Just one of the problems of being a doctor.”
“Pity. They missed a quite remarkable production,” I prompted, hoping to tease out of her whether her partner was male or female.
“Yes,” said Anna. “I tried to book seats when it was still at the National Theater, but they were sold out for any performances I was able to make, so when a friend offered me two tickets at the last minute, I jumped at them. After all, it’s coming off in a few weeks.” She took another sip from her martini. “What about you?” she asked as the three-minute bell sounded.
There was no such line in my script.
“Me?”
“Yes, Michael,” she said, a hint of teasing in her voice. “How did you come to be looking for a spare seat at the last moment?”
“Sharon Stone was tied up for the evening, and at the last second Princess Diana told me that she would have loved to have come, but she was trying to keep a low profile.” Anna laughed. “Actually, I read some of the reviews, and I dropped in on the off-chance of picking up a spare ticket.”
“And you picked up a spare woman as well,” said Anna, as the two-minute bell went. I wouldn’t have dared to include such a bold line in her script—or was there a hint of mockery in those hazel eyes?
“I certainly did,” I replied lightly. “So, are you a doctor as well?”
“As well as what?” asked Anna.
“As well as your partner,” I said, not sure if she was still teasing.
“Yes. I’m a GP in Fulham. There are three of us in the practice, but I was the only one who could escape tonight. And what do you do when you’re not chatting up Sharon Stone or escorting Princess Diana to the theater?”
“I’m in the restaurant business,” I told her.
“That must be one of the few jobs with worse hours and tougher working conditions than mine,” Anna said as the one-minute bell sounded.
I looked into those hazel eyes and wanted to say—Anna, let’s forget the second act: I realize the play’s superb, but all I want to do is spend the rest of the evening alone with you, not jammed into a crowded auditorium with eight hundred other people.
“Wouldn’t you agree?”
I tried to recall what she had just said. “I expect we get more customer complaints than you do,” was the best I could manage.
“I doubt it,” Anna said, quite sharply. “If you’re a woman in the medical profession and you don’t cure your patients within a couple of days, they immediately want to know if you’re fully qualified.