‘Captain Swan! Such a surprise to see you here on a Saturday! I have in my book “Mr Henry” and I say to myself, “Mr Henry? I don’t know any Mr Henries.” ’
He buttonholed a passing plate-carrier and hissed at him, ‘See to Captain Swan’s table at once,’ and turned back with a professional smile, well-oiled by decades of prudent over-tipping.
‘Is Philippe in the kitchen tonight?’
The head waiter’s world came to an end right there and then. ‘I’m afraid not, Captain Swan. We don’t usually expect to see our regular customers on a Saturday but the grills are all excellent this evening.’ It was more of a warning than a recommendation. ‘Your table is not quite ready, I’m afraid, but perhaps you will have a drink at the bar with my compliments?’
‘Why not?’ Henry Swan knew full well that the man was just buying time while the flunky hastily upgraded him from ‘Mr Henry’s’ poky table near the door to Mr Swan’s usual one in the upstairs window. This involved hustling a middle-aged couple through their pudding and palming them off with free coffee and liqueurs in the bar and a handful of petits fours. The man grumbled a bit and wangled a second liqueur.
‘Champagne cocktails all right for everybody? Splendid. Four champagne cocktails it is. Thank you, Adolphe. Now then, Miss James, may I present Oliver Weaver? Oliver Weaver, Jane James.’
Jane shook hands while Ollie eyed her up approvingly. He kept hold of her hand, stroking the skin with his thumb like young Mr Drayke fingering a quality tweed.
‘Well Ollie,’ boomed Henry, ‘I reckon we’re very fortunate to have the company of two such remarkably beautiful girls. Cheers, everybody!’
Jane sipped suspiciously at her drink. It was like champagne, only worse, but she didn’t let it show, gazing shyly up at Ollie over the rim of her glass.
The two girls were side by side on bar stools, legs crossed by the book. Henry was offering cigarettes from his solid gold case and Suzy took one and went into the usual act but this was obviously a command performance. The ‘O’ of her pretty red mouth round the cigarette; the fingertips steadying his hand; the sucked-in cheeks; the upward glance and suddenly drooping eyelashes. As she drew in the first delicious puff of smoke the fingers tightened their grip just a little on the hand that held the lighter. The first breath out was like a sigh of relief – or ecstasy. It was a work of art, really. Jane decided not to take a cigarette. It was too hard an act to follow.
Their progress through the restaurant caused a bit of a stir. Jane and Suzy weren’t the only young girls in the room but they were by far the prettiest and best-dressed – and a matched pair to boot. People actually turned to look.
Suzy seemed to see someone she knew in a far corner and gave a cheery little wave. They waved back – who wouldn’t? – but they didn’t come over to the table afterwards. Was it just part of the act? Jane saw someone she knew too. It was the skinny customer with the false hips now tricked out in last year’s French mustard brocade. The woman didn’t recognise Jane. Probably hadn’t even looked at her in the first place. She looked at her now though. Jane saw her mechanically registering the Savile Row suits, then checking Jane and Suzy over, looking for cheap shoes, laddered stockings, stray bra straps: some tiny crumb of comfort for not being pretty and glamorous and young. Not a hope. She went back to her duck à l’orange with a face like a squeezed lemon.
‘Jane – is it Jane or Janey? – what will you have to start?’
Here goes. She’d barely had time to glance at the huge tasselled menu but everything she’d learned appeared to be present and correct – all except the prices. Ladies’ menus didn’t have any, it seemed. She shook out her napkin. Do not be intimidated by a swan or water-lily concoction.
‘Do call me Janey.’ Do. Doooo. She nearly blushed at herself.
‘Have you chosen yet?’
‘Saumon fumé, please.’
‘Smoked salmon over here. And then?’
‘Sole grillée.’
‘Then the grilled sole.’
‘Would madam like it on or off the bone?’
‘Janey?’
‘Oh, off, I think.’ Sounded safest. She took care to address her wishes to Henry who then passed them on to the waiter (A lady never gives her order directly to the waiter). Funny rule that. As if she and Suzy only existed in Henry’s imagination.
Suzy went for pâté maison and entrecôte grillée which she wanted saignant. God knows what that meant (it wasn’t covered in the book) but it seemed to surprise and rather excite Henry.
‘You and I seem to be having fish, Janey. Chablis all right for you?’
Well no, actually. She’d much rather have lemonade or gin and orange.
‘Super,’ she heard herself saying but she barely drank any. When Ollie disappeared to the Gents’ (must have a weak bladder) and Henry was busy discussing vintages with the wine waiter, she topped up her Chablis from her water glass. No sense getting tight. She’d only be sick.
Smoked salmon was nice and easy to eat. Once you’d squeezed on the lemon you couldn’t really go wrong. A bit salty but much nicer than tinned. Pâté would have been trickier. Lot of knife and toast work with pâté. And besides, Uncle George had given her a healthy dread of meat paste, whatever fancy name you gave it. Ollie ordered pâté but looked rather surprised when it arrived – it looked like dog meat with a tiny tassel of gherkin on top. He made no attempt to eat it. Ollie had had two champagne cocktails but they were only to keep the whisky and sodas company. He thought Jane was very, very pretty and she seemed to grow prettier all evening. Ollie ordered sole too – on the bone – but after a few half-hearted stabs at the fish on one side he lost interest and concentrated on the Chablis instead.
He was quite nice-looking, really, with greying blond hair and the dregs of some kind of boyish charm. He did something in the City and said, sadly, that his wife – who was super, don’t get him wrong, super girl – did not understand him. Jane thought she probably did but didn’t say so. She didn’t say much all told but she looked nice and listened politely so she seemed to get away with it. A measure of wide-eyed admiration can work miracles. Suzy was a different story. She listened, she flattered, she flirted – like mad – but she told funny stories too. She was telling Henry a joke about a man whose wife had died. His friend at the funeral is very sympathetic but reassures the man that he’ll get over it and eventually find happiness with someone else.
‘ “I know, George, I know,” sobs the widower, “but what about tonight?” ’
Henry’s laugh turned heads in the restaurant. Jealous eyes scanned their table: beautiful girls, rich men, funny stories. Only it wasn’t a funny story. Not Jane’s idea of funny. But she laughed prettily enough.
Even Suzy’s fibs could make them laugh.
‘So, Suzy,’ said Henry, after ordering another bottle of Chablis, ‘what were you up to this afternoon? I telephoned a couple of times but no joy at all. Not even the lovely Lorna.’
Suzy lied beautifully, taking a tiny bit of truth and embroidering it all over with eye-catching rubbish.
‘Oh my God! Don’t ask! Janey’s Uncle Dougie wanted us to go over to his flat and meet his fiancée and her little girl. He knew her back in Gibraltar – was it Gibraltar or Malta, Janey?’ She rhymed them both with a funny northern accent as if she was imitating the imaginary woman.
‘Gibraltar. The Mary woman was Malta.’ Life with Doreen taught a girl to lie nicely.
‘Anyway. I think he wanted her to meet people. Iris, her name is. She’s had a rather terrible life, you know. She was telling me while you and your uncle were fixing the drinks. She moved to Gibraltar after her first husband committed suicide. They found him laid out on her bed, wearing her favourite turquoise suit in full make-up and one of Iris’s wigs. The little girl, Virginia, found him. Poor mite.’