The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [268]
I strolled across to the reservations desk. The head waiter, who until that moment had been taking a customer’s order, rushed over. “Good evening, Mr. Whitaker,” he said. “How many are you?”
“Just the two of us.”
“Follow me, please, sir,” Mario said, leading us to my usual table in the far corner of the room.
“Another dry martini?” I asked her as we sat down.
“No, thank you,” she replied. “I think I’ll just have a glass of wine with the meal.”
I nodded my agreement, as Mario handed us our menus. Anna studied hers for a few moments before I asked if she had spotted anything she fancied.
“Yes,” she said, looking straight at me. “But for now I think I’ll settle for the fettucini, and a glass of red wine.”
“Good idea,” I said. “I’ll join you. But are you sure you won’t have a starter?”
“No, thank you, Michael. I’ve reached that age when I can no longer order everything I’m tempted by.”
“Me too,” I confessed. “I have to play squash three times a week to keep in shape,” I told her as Mario reappeared.
“Two fettucini,” I began, “and a bottle of …”
“Half a bottle, please,” said Anna. “I’ll only have one glass. I’ve got an early start tomorrow morning, so I shouldn’t overdo things.”
I nodded, and Mario scurried away.
I looked across the table and into Anna’s eyes. “I’ve always wondered about women doctors,” I said, immediately realizing that the line was a bit feeble.
“You mean, you wondered if we’re normal?”
“Something like that, I suppose.”
“Yes, we’re normal enough, except every day we have to see a lot of men in the nude. I can assure you, Michael, most of them are overweight and fairly unattractive.”
I suddenly wished I were half a stone lighter. “But are there many men who are brave enough to consider a woman doctor in the first place?”
“Quite a few,” said Anna, “though most of my patients are female. But there are just about enough intelligent, sensible, uninhibited males around who can accept that a woman doctor night be just as likely to cure them as a man.”
I smiled as two bowls of fettucini were placed in front of us. Mario then showed me the label on the half-bottle he had selected. I nodded my approval. He had chosen a vintage to match Anna’s pedigree.
“And what about you?” asked Anna. “What does being ‘in the restaurant business’ actually mean?”
“I’m on the management side,” I said, before sampling the wine. I nodded again, and Mario poured a glass for Anna and then topped up mine.
“Or at least, that’s what I do nowadays. I started life as a waiter,” I said, as Anna began to sip her wine.
“What a magnificent wine,” she remarked. “It’s so good I may end up having a second glass.”
“I’m glad you like it,” I said. “It’s a Barolo.”
“You were saying, Michael? You started life as a waiter …”
“Yes, then I moved into the kitchens for about five years, and finally ended up on the management side. How’s the fettucini?”
“It’s delicious. Almost melts in your mouth.” She took another sip of her wine. “So, if you’re not cooking, and no longer a waiter, what do you do now?”
“Well, at the moment I’m running three restaurants in the West End, which means I never stop dashing from one to the other, depending on which is facing the biggest crisis on that particular day.”
“Sounds a bit like ward duty to me,” said Anna. “So who turned out to have the biggest crisis today?”
“Today, thank heaven, was not typical,” I told her with feeling.
“That bad?” said Anna.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. We lost a chef this morning who cut off the top of his finger, and won’t be back at work for at least a fortnight. My head waiter in our second restaurant is off, claiming he has flu, and I’ve just had to sack the barman in the third for fiddling the books. Barmen always fiddle the books, of course, but in this case even the customers began to notice what he was up to.” I paused. “But I still wouldn’t want to be in any other business.”
“In the circumstances, I’m amazed you were