The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [276]
“There was a call for you earlier, Mr. Whitaker,” Mario said as he guided me across the restaurant to my usual table. “If you came in, I was to ask you to phone Gerald urgently. He sounded pretty desperate.”
“I’m sure it can wait. But if he rings again, let me know immediately.” At that moment Anna walked over to join us. The makeup had been restored, but the hair could have done with further attention.
I rose to greet her.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said, taking her seat.
“Would you like a drink?” I asked, once we were both settled.
“No, I don’t think so. I have an early start tomorrow morning, so I shouldn’t overdo things. I’ll just have a glass of wine with my meal.”
Another waiter appeared by her side. “And what would madam care for this evening?” he asked politely.
“I haven’t had time to look at the menu yet,” Anna replied, not even bothering to look up at him.
“I can recommend the fettucini, madam,” the waiter said, pointing to a dish halfway down the list of entrées. “It’s our specialty of the day.”
“Then I suppose I might as well have that,” said Anna, handing him the menu.
I nodded, indicating “Me too,” and asked for a half-bottle of the house red. The waiter scooped up my menu and left us.
“Do you … ?”
“Can I … ?”
“You first,” I said, attempting a smile.
“Do you always order half a bottle of the house wine on a first date?” she asked.
“I think you’ll find it’s pretty good,” I said, rather plaintively.
“I was only teasing, Michael. Don’t take yourself so seriously.”
I took a closer look at my companion, and began to wonder if I’d made a terrible mistake. Despite her efforts in the washroom, Anna wasn’t quite the same girl I’d first seen—admittedly at a distance—when I’d nearly crashed my car earlier in the evening.
Oh my God, the car. I suddenly remembered where I’d left it, and stole a glance at my watch.
“Am I boring you already, Michael?” Anna asked. “Or is this table on a time share?”
“Yes. I mean no. I’m sorry, I’ve just remembered something I should have checked on before we came to dinner. Sorry,” I repeated.
Anna frowned, which stopped me saying sorry yet again.
“Is it too late?” she asked.
“Too late for what?”
“To do something about whatever it is you should have checked on before we came to dinner?”
I looked out of the window, and wasn’t pleased to see that it had stopped raining. Now my only hope was that the late-night traffic officers might not be too vigilant.
“No, I’m sure it will be all right,” I said, trying to sound relaxed.
“Well, that’s a relief,” said Anna, in a tone that bordered on the sarcastic.
“So. What’s it like being a doctor?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“Michael, it’s my evening off. I’d rather not talk about my work, if you don’t mind.”
For the next few moments neither of us spoke. I tried again. “Do you have many male patients in your practice?” I asked, as the waiter reappeared with our fettucini.
“I can hardly believe I’m hearing this,” Anna said, unable to disguise the weariness in her voice. “When are people like you going to accept that one or two of us are capable of a little more than spending our lives waiting hand and foot on the male sex?”
The waiter poured some wine into my glass.
“Yes. Of course. Absolutely. No. I didn’t mean it to sound like that …” I sipped the wine and nodded to the waiter, who filled Anna’s glass.
“Then what did you mean it to sound like?” demanded Anna as she stuck her fork firmly into the fettucini.
“Well, isn’t it unusual for a man to go to a woman doctor?” I said, realizing the moment I had uttered the words that I was only getting myself into even deeper water.
“Good heavens, no, Michael. We live in an enlightened age. I’ve probably seen more naked men than you have—and it’s not an attractive sight, I can assure you.” I laughed, in the hope that it would ease the tension. “In any case,” she added, “quite a few men are confident enough to accept the existence of women doctors, you know.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” I said. “I just