The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [278]
“I suppose I ought to be flattered,” Anna said after a moment’s consideration. “But I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. One thing’s for certain: the woman I’ve been living with for the past ten years will think it’s highly amusing, especially as you paid for her ticket.”
The waiter returned to remove the half-finished plates. “Was everything all right, sir?” he asked, sounding anxious.
“Fine, just fine,” I said unconvincingly. Anna grimaced, but made no comment.
“Would you care for coffee, madam?”
“No, I don’t think I’ll risk it,” she said, looking at her watch. “In any case, I ought to be getting back. Elizabeth will be wondering where I’ve got to.”
She stood up and walked toward the door. I followed a yard behind. She was just about to step onto the pavement when she turned to me and asked, “Don’t you think you ought to settle the bill?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Why?” she asked, laughing. “Do you own the place?”
“No. But it is one of the three restaurants I manage.”
Anna turned scarlet. “I’m so sorry, Michael,” she said. “That was tactless of me.” She paused for a moment before adding, “But I’m sure you’ll agree that the food wasn’t exactly memorable.”
“Would you like me to drive you home?” I asked, trying not to sound too enthusiastic.
Anna looked up at the black clouds. “That would be useful,” she replied, “if it’s not miles out of your way. Where’s your car?” she said before I had a chance to ask where she lived.
“I left it just up the road.”
“Oh, yes, I remember,” said Anna. “When you jumped out of it because you couldn’t take your eyes off me. I’m afraid you picked the wrong girl this time.”
At last we had found something on which we could agree, but I made no comment as we walked toward the spot where I had abandoned my car. Anna limited her conversation to whether it was about to rain again, and how good she had thought the wine was. I was relieved to find my Volvo parked exactly where I had left it.
I was searching for my keys when I spotted a large sticker glued to the windscreen. I looked down at the front offside wheel, and saw the yellow clamp.
“It just isn’t your night, is it?” said Anna. “But don’t worry about me, I’ll just grab a cab.”
She raised her hand and a taxi skidded to a halt. She turned back to face me. “Thanks for dinner,” she managed, not altogether convincingly, and added, even less convincingly, “Perhaps we’ll meet again.” Before I could respond, she had slammed the taxi door closed.
As I watched her being driven away, it started to rain.
I took one more look at my immovable car, and decided I would deal with the problem in the morning.
I was about to rush for the nearest shelter when another taxi came around the corner, its yellow light indicating that it was for hire. I waved frantically and it drew up beside my clamped car.
“Bad luck, mate,” said the cabbie, looking down at my front wheel. “My third tonight.”
I attempted a smile.
“So, where to, guv?”
I gave him my address in Lambeth and climbed into the back.
As the taxi maneuvered its way slowly through the rain-swept post-theater traffic and across Waterloo Bridge, the driver began chattering away. I just about managed monosyllabic replies to his opinions on the weather, John Major, the England cricket team and foreign tourists. With each new topic, his forecast became ever more gloomy.
He only stopped offering his opinions when he came to a halt outside my house in Fentiman Road. I paid him, and smiled ruefully at the thought that this would be the first time in weeks that I’d managed to get home before midnight. I walked slowly up the short path to the front door.
I turned the key in the lock and opened the door quietly, so as not to wake my wife. Once inside I went through my nightly ritual of slipping off my jacket and shoes before creeping quietly up the stairs.
Before I had reached the bedroom I began to get undressed. After