“I distinctly said I want no starters!” says Big, sitting up and glaring.
“Amuse bouche are not hors d’oeuvres sir. They are a free gift from the management for which customers are not charged.”
“Don’t try to blind me with your French,” says Big, “there is no such thing in the world as a free gift. This unasked-for rubbish will not con me into thinking I am getting something for nothing. The management makes customers pay for it by increasing the price of what they really want. Remove this trash.”
“I’ll keep mine thank you,” says Proody, closing her magazine and taking a fork to a small plate as the waitress removes the other. Big tastes his black velvet, looking brighter and more wide-awake for his outburst. “Are you always rude to underlings?” asks Proody in a pleasant way. He answers pleasantly, “Only when they don’t give me what I expect. I’m not rude to people I trust.”
“Were bosses rude to you when you were an underling?” “The efficient ones were, at first. As I climbed the company ladder they saw it wasn’t necessary.”
“I’ve decided to leave you,” she says.
He murmurs, “Ah.”
They are silent for a long time. The main course is served and they start eating.
At the next table the woman says, “There is surely such a thing as real information, information on a national basis.”
“I don’t deny it,” says the man, his voice growing loud again, “but we are not really making things change because we have not pulled the right levers. What we do in a detailed way should depend on a better understanding of topic selection. Until you have the right concept in place you are basically incapable of setting up an effective hub.”
“So where, practically speaking, are we coming from?”
“Hard to say. We used to have the Institute for Improvement and Development behind us, but it was disbanded a month ago.”
“But somebody must be responsible for improving things, surely?”
“Yes. Us.”
“Us? That’s a terrifying idea.”
“Because we lack a concept of a new hub of values that will respond to levers we can actually, basically, handle.”
“Bullshit!” says Big loudly for the first time. “They’re drowning us in the stuff.”
“Are you talking about us?” the other man demands fiercely.
“No. Only about you,” says Big. “After a hard day’s work your drivel (which I could not help hearing) is intolerable. In my business words have precise meanings. Your jargon is more destructive of sensible thought than the noise of a pneumatic drill or a modern pop group.”
“You know nothing about my business,” cries the other, “nothing about what we were discussing.”
“You are obviously something in local government,” says Big, “someone with no real power nowadays, so you try to hide the fact with meaningless speeches. You can’t admit that the levers controlling Britain are handled by real businessmen like me. Every year we buy hundreds of you. M.P.s and local councillors and the police cost most. The rest of you are comparatively cheap.
“Are you suggesting that I and my friend are corrupt?” demands his victim. “Certainly not!” says Big with a sudden cheerful grin. “Your jargon makes it clear you have so little power that you aren’t worth bribing. I am sorry to hurt your companion’s feelings, because she seems keen to understand things …” (the woman at the other table seems near to tears) “… so let us all talk more quietly now.”
“Bring me the bill!” the other man tells the waitress. “I will never set foot in this restaurant again, and will make sure none of my friends do either.”
He pays. The couple leave. Before reaching the door the man tells Big, “You are a right bastard.”
Big chuckles and resumes his meal.
Without obvious blame Proody says, “You enjoyed humiliating that man.”
“It relieved my feelings,” says Big pleasantly. “You must admit that he talked a lot of shit.”
“Did you hear me say I was going to leave you?”
“Yes.”
“Anything to say about that?”
“No. I knew you were going to leave me.”
“Since when?”
“Since we became lovers.”
She stares at him until Big feels an explanation is due.
“You’re very attractive Proody,” he says, “attractive and intelligent. I find it easy to charm women like you at first and can keep doing it if they don’t see much of me. But when the sex thing starts they do see more of me, and start not liking what they often see.”
“A bully,” she tells him.
“If you say so,” he answers humbly.
They stop eating. After a while she almost begs, “Since you know yourself so well, can you not change?”
“I’ve tried. I was married you know, with kids and apologies for not remembering anniversaries and politeness to in-laws who bored me stiff. I kept forgetting how much hypocrisy marriage needs to keep it going. I employ more than forty people, some of them with smart ideas of their own. I can only control them by being what you call an bully. I am not a Mr Hyde or Ebenezer Scrooge at work who could completely become Dr Jekyll or Mr Pickwick in the bosom of my family. Maybe that was possible in pre-mobile phone days, but now folk with thriving businesses can never lose touch with them. My wives couldn’t understand that. Luckily I can afford to support them, being one of those fat cats people complain about.”
They are silent for a whole minute then she says, “So from the start you knew our affair was an episode? An emotional dead end?”
“That’s an ugly way to describe some very nice times we’ve had, Proody.”
“From now on my name is Prue or Prudence.”
They are speaking too quietly for the waitress to hear. She comes to remove the plates, saying that the kitchen is closed but she can serve coffee or anything else they wish to drink. Big says, “Bring me — ” but Prue or Prudence interrupts saying, “Nothing for me. I’m leaving. Make out a bill for the risotto and my glass of wine.”
“Please don’t leave like this dear!” he begs. “Can’t we part like friends?”
“No. I will lose all self-respect if I stay with you another minute.”
She follows the waitress to the bar, pays and receives her coat. He stares forlornly after her, but she leaves the restaurant without a backward glance.
Putting an elbow on the tabletop he rests his chin on the palm of the hand, sighs deeply and groans quietly. Seeing the waitress approach he groans more theatrically and announces, “I may not seem a tragic figure to you, but once again a good woman has rejected, dumped and done with me, having discovered what a selfish, exploitive bastard I am. I have never got used to this, no matter how often it happens.”
Unimpressed, she asks, “Do you want the rest of your champagne?”
“You are a clever girl, Maggie. I must indeed soothe myself with plonk before leaving, but not with the plonk in my black velvet which, though tolerable mixed with Guinness, was obviously your cheapest. Bring me a bottle of your most expensive.”
“My name is not Maggie.”
“You astonish me. What is it?”
Almost surprised into smiling she says, “None of your business. We have Moet et Chandon 2003, seventy-three pounds.”
He pleads pathetically, “Please don’t leave me to drink it alone. For a short time before leaving here I need a good-looking, intelligent woman to sit here pretending my company is bearable. I will not try to make you drunk. Please invite the chef to drink with us too.”