The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [269]
“I shouldn’t have, really, and I wouldn’t have, except …” I trailed off as I leaned over and topped up Anna’s glass.
“Except what?” she said.
“Do you want to hear the truth?” I asked as I poured the remains of the wine into my own glass.
“I’ll try that for starters,” she said.
I placed the empty bottle on the side of the table, and hesitated, but only for a moment. “I was driving to one of my restaurants earlier this evening, when I spotted you going into the theater. I stared at you for so long that I nearly crashed into the back of the car in front of me. Then I swerved across the road into the nearest parking space, and the car behind almost crashed into me. I leapt out, ran all the way to the theater, and searched everywhere until I saw you standing in the queue for the box office. I joined the line and watched you hand over your spare ticket. Once you were safely out of sight, I told the box office manager that you hadn’t expected me to make it in time, and that you might have put my ticket up for resale. After I’d described you, which I was able to do in great detail, he handed it over without so much as a murmur.”
Anna put down her glass of wine and stared across at me with a look of incredulity. “I’m glad he fell for your story,” she said. “But should I?”
“Yes, you should. Because then I put two ten-pound notes into a theater envelope and took the place next to you. The rest you already know.” I waited to see how she would react.
She didn’t speak for some time. “I’m flattered,” she eventually said, and touched my hand. “I didn’t realize there were any old-fashioned romantics left in the world.” She squeezed my fingers and looked me in the eyes. “Am I allowed to ask what you have planned for the rest of the evening?”
“Nothing has been planned so far,” I admitted. “Which is why it’s all been so refreshing.”
“You make me sound like an After Eight mint,” said Anna with a laugh.
“I can think of at least three replies to that,” I told her as Mario reappeared, looking a little disappointed at the sight of the half-empty plates.
“Was everything all right, sir?” he asked, sounding anxious.
“Couldn’t have been better,” said Anna, who hadn’t stopped looking at me.
“Would you like some coffee?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Anna. “But perhaps we could have it somewhere a little less crowded.”
I was so taken by surprise that it was several moments before I recovered. I was beginning to feel that I was no longer in control. Anna rose from her place and said, “Shall we go?” I nodded to Mario, who just smiled.
Once we were back out on the street, she linked her arm with mine as we retraced our steps along the Aldwych and past the theater.
“It’s been a wonderful evening,” she was saying as we reached the spot where I had left my car. “Until you arrived on the scene it had been a rather dull day, but you’ve changed all that.”
“It hasn’t actually been the best of days for me either,” I admitted. “But I’ve rarely enjoyed an evening more. Where would you like to have coffee? Annabels? Or why don’t we try the new Dorchester Club?”
“If you don’t have a wife, your place. If you do …”
“I don’t,” I told her simply.
“Then that’s settled,” she said as I opened the door of my BMW for her. Once she was safely in I walked round to take my seat behind the wheel, and discovered that I had left my sidelights on and the keys in the ignition.
I turned the key, and the engine immediately purred into life. “This has to be my day,” I said to myself.
“Sorry?” Anna said, turning in my direction.
“We were lucky to miss the rain,” I replied, as a few drops landed on the windscreen. I flicked on the wipers.
On our way to Pimlico, Anna told me about her childhood in the south of France, where her father had taught English at a boys’ school. Her account of being the only girl among a couple of hundred teenage French boys made me laugh again and again. I found myself becoming more and more enchanted with her company.
“Whatever made you come back to England?” I asked.
“An English mother who divorced my French father,