Twelve Red Herrings
“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? Annabel’s? 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 windshield. 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, and the chance to study medicine at St. Thomas’s.”
“But don’t you miss the south of France, especially on nights like this?” I asked as a clap of thunder crackled above us.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. I was about to respond when she added, “In any case, now that the English have learned how to cook, the place has become almost civilized.” I smiled to myself, wondering if she was teasing me again.
I found out immediately. “By the way,” she said, “I assume that was one of your restaurants we had dinner at.”
“Yes, it was,” I said sheepishly.
“That explains how you got a table so easily when it was packed out, why the waiter knew it was a Barolo you wanted without your having to ask, and how you could leave without paying the bill.”
I was beginning to wonder if I would always be a yard behind her.
“Was it the missing waiter, the four-and-a-half-fingered chef, or the crooked bartender?”
“The crooked bartender,” I replied, laughing. “But I sacked him this afternoon, and I’m afraid his deputy didn’t look as if he was coping all that well,” I explained as I turned right off Millbank and began to search for a parking space.
“And I thought you only had eyes for me,” sighed Anna, “when all the time you were looking over my shoulder and checking on what the deputy barman was up to.”
“Not all the time,” I said as I maneuvered the car into the only space left in the mews where I lived. I got out of the car and walked around to Anna’s side, opened the door and guided her to the house.
As I closed the door behind us, Anna put her arms around my neck and looked up into my eyes. I leaned down and kissed her for the first time. When she broke away, all she said was, “Don’t let’s bother with coffee, Michael.” I slipped off my jacket and led her upstairs and into my bedroom, praying that it hadn’t been the housekeeper’s day off. When I opened the door, I was relieved to find that the bed had been made and the room was tidy.