The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [45]
She launched immediately into the latest Hollywood gossip, not so much dropping names as reciting them, while I ate my way through the potato chips from the bowl in front of me. A few minutes later a waiter materialized by the table and presented us with two large embossed leather menus, considerably better bound than my novel. The place positively reeked of unnecessary expense. I opened the menu and studied the first chapter with horror; it was eminently put-downable. I had no idea that simple food obtained from Covent Garden that morning could cost quite so much by merely being transported to Mayfair. I could have bought her the same dishes for a quarter of the price at my favorite bistro, a mere one hundred yards away, and to add to my discomfort I observed that it was one of those restaurants where the guest’s menu made no mention of the prices. I settled down to study the long list of French dishes, which only served to remind me that I hadn’t eaten well for more than a month, a state of affairs that was about to be prolonged by a further day. I remembered my bank balance and morosely reflected that I would probably have to wait until my agent sold the Icelandic rights of my novel before I could afford a square meal again.
“What would you like?” I said gallantly.
“I always enjoy a light lunch,” she volunteered. I sighed with premature relief, only to find that “light” did not necessarily mean inexpensive.
She smiled sweetly up at the waiter, who looked as if he wouldn’t be wondering where his next meal might be coming from, and ordered just a sliver of smoked salmon, followed by two tiny tender lamb cutlets. Then she hesitated, but only for a moment, before adding “and a side salad.”
I studied the menu with some caution, running my finger down the prices, not the dishes.
“I also eat lightly at lunch,” I said mendaciously. “The chef’s salad will be quite enough for me.” The waiter was obviously affronted but left peaceably.
She chatted of Coppola and Preminger, of Pacino and Redford, and of Garbo as if she saw her all the time. She was kind enough to stop for a moment and ask what I was working on at present. I would have liked to have replied, “On how I’m going to explain to my wife that I only have sixty-three pence left in the bank,” but I actually discussed my ideas for another novel. She seemed impressed but still made no reference to her husband. Should I mention him? No. Mustn’t sound pushy, or as though I needed the money.
The food arrived, or that is to say her smoked salmon did, and I sat silently watching her eat my bank account while I nibbled a roll. I looked up only to discover a wine waiter hovering by my side.
“Would you care for some wine?” said I, recklessly.
“No, I don’t think so,” she said. I smiled a little too soon: “Well, perhaps a little something white and dry.”
The wine waiter handed over a second leather-bound book, this time with golden grapes embossed on the cover. I searched down the pages for half bottles, explaining to my guest that I never drank at lunch. I chose the cheapest. The wine waiter reappeared a moment later with a large silver bucket full of ice in which the half bottle looked drowned, and, like me, completely out of its depth. A junior waiter cleared away the empty plate while another wheeled a large trolley to the side of our table and served the lamb cutlets and the chef’s salad. At the same time a third waiter made up an exquisite side salad for my guest that ended up bigger than my complete order. I didn’t feel I could ask her to swap.
To be fair, the chef’s salad was superb—although I confess it was hard to appreciate such food fully while trying to work out a plot that would be convincing if I found the bill came to over thirty-seven pounds.
“How silly of me to ask for white wine with lamb,