The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [46]
She finished the white wine and then launched into the theater, music, and other authors. All those who were still alive she seemed to know, and those who were dead she hadn’t read. I might have enjoyed the performance if it hadn’t been for the fear of wondering if I would be able to afford it when the curtain came down. When the waiter cleared away the empty dishes he asked my guest if she would care for anything else.
“No, thank you,” she said—I nearly applauded. “Unless you have one of your famous apple surprises.”
“I fear the last one may have gone, madam, but I’ll go and see.”
“Don’t hurry,” I wanted to say, but instead I just smiled as the rope tightened around my neck. A few moments later the waiter strode back in triumph, weaving between the tables holding the apple surprise in the palm of his hand, high above his head. I prayed to Newton that the apple would obey his law. It didn’t.
“The last one, madam.”
“Oh, what luck,” she declared.
“Oh, what luck,” I repeated, unable to face the menu and discover the price. I was now attempting some mental arithmetic as I realized it was going to be a close-run thing.
“Anything else, madam?” the ingratiating waiter inquired.
I took a deep breath.
“Just coffee,” she said.
“And for you, sir?”
“No, no, not for me.” He left us. I couldn’t think of an explanation for why I didn’t drink coffee.
She then produced from the large Gucci bag by her side a copy of my novel, which I signed with a flourish, hoping the headwaiter would see, and feel I was the sort of man who should be allowed to sign the bill as well, but he resolutely remained at the far end of the room while I wrote the words “An unforgettable meeting” and appended my signature.
While the dear lady was drinking her coffee I picked at another roll and called for the bill, not because I was in any particular hurry, but like a guilty defendant at the Old Bailey, I preferred to wait no longer for the judge’s sentence. A man in a smart green uniform whom I had never seen before appeared carrying a silver tray with a folded piece of paper on it, looking not unlike my bank statement. I pushed back the edge of the bill slowly and read the figure: thirty-six pounds and forty pence. I casually put my hand into my inside pocket and withdrew my life’s possessions, then placed the crisp new notes on the silver tray. They were whisked away. The man in the green uniform returned a few moments later with my sixty pence change, which I pocketed, since it was the only way I was going to get a bus home. The waiter gave me a look that would have undoubtedly won him a character part in any film produced by the lady’s distinguished husband.
My guest rose and walked across the restaurant, waving at, and occasionally kissing, people I had previously seen only in glossy magazines. When she reached the door she stopped to retrieve her coat, a mink. I helped her on with the fur, again failing to leave a tip. As we stood on the Curzon Street sidewalk, a dark blue Rolls-Royce drew up beside us and a liveried chauffeur leaped out and opened the rear door. She climbed in.
“Good-bye, darling,” she said as the electric window slid down. “Thank you for such a lovely lunch.”
“Good-bye,” I said and, summoning up my courage, added: “I do hope when you are next in town I shall have the opportunity of meeting your distinguished husband.”
“Oh, darling, didn’t you know?” she said.
“Know what?”
“We were divorced ages ago.”
“Divorced?” said I.
“Oh, yes,” she said gaily, “I haven’t spoken to him for years.”
I just stood there looking helpless.
“Oh, don’t worry yourself on my account,” she said. “He’s no loss. In any case, I recently married again”—another film producer I prayed—“in fact, I quite expected to bump into my husband today—you see, he owns the restaurant.”
Without another word the electric window purred up and the Rolls-Royce glided effortlessly out of sight, leaving me to walk to the nearest bus stop.