Chapter 2
2
In order to eat out in the most expensive square of the Monopoly board, I’ve always reckoned, those being seated by Claude, the restaurant’s front of house, must have either a) saved up for years, or b) just won a shedload on the lottery. Or c), as was more often the case at Graphite, the diners simply had more dosh than they knew what to do with and didn’t give a second thought to spending obscene amounts of it there, where a starter of oysters with just a squeeze of lemon would set them back the same as feeding a whole family living on the brown square of the Old Kent Road.
Whether it was my own working-class roots, or a steadily increasing leaning to the political left, the more I saw of this blatant squandering of wealth , the more I questioned my own part in pandering to the wealthy while helping to further this inequality. When I’d raised this with Jess, my big sister, who worked long hours as a carer in a home for the elderly on the outskirts of our pretty Yorkshire village of Beddingfield, she’d just given me one of her looks. It was just the way of the world, it always had been, and, as far as she could see, always would be.
Giving a surreptitious glance down at the offending stain on my waistcoat, I realised I could just about hide it by hitching up my apron and retying it over the chocolate. While this did nothing to ensure sartorial elegance, at least it gave me cover until I could beg Claude – who was my mate and disliked Miss Muffler as much as the rest of us did – to look out another in the pile back from the laundry.
I was making my way over to Claude when the front door opened, bringing in the remains of the heavenly late-spring evening and a party of nine. I quickly and perhaps prejudicially surmised they fell into my category c) guests. The women, all slim, tanned, manicured and coiffed with swishy locks, wearing tiny designer dresses the price of which would have kept me in hummus for a decade, stepped through the door with the confidence and elan found only in women who’ve been born into wealth and privilege. While the five women wore the colours of exotically plumaged birds, the men were soberly suited in conventional city blacks and greys and still to loosen, let alone remove, their neckwear.
Claude greeted and immediately escorted the nine to the far table in my assigned station and I followed at a distance, conscious of my apron hovering somewhere below my breasts instead of on my hips, turning to check my cart of linen, silver, glasses, and china had been adequately restocked by the outgoing waiter. Although a large group like this would mean a lot of extra work depending on how much alcohol they put away – and Friday usually meant more than average – tips were often in direct proportion to booze drunk. I sent up a tiny prayer of thanks to the Front of House in that Great Restaurant in the Sky: if all went well I might have enough by the end of the evening to treat myself to a good seat at the musical Mrs. Doubtfire at the Shaftesbury Theatre.
‘Good evening and welcome,’ I trilled, conscious that Walburga Muffler was hovering, watching my every move while probably desperate to readjust my pinny now anchored snugly beneath my armpit. Graphite was getting a name for its fabulous selection of cocktails and that old 1970’s favourite, The Harvey Wallbanger – a heady mix of vodka, Galliano, and orange juice – was making a comeback. Because of this, Bess, Claude and I had rechristened Walburga ‘Wallbanger’ and every order for it had me wanting to titter.
‘Wallbangers all round, I think,’ the diminutive, slightly rotund and balding chap who’d taken charge demanded of me without deigning to look my way. I stood smiling benignly while biting the inside of my lip at the thought of asking Marcel, tonight’s bar steward, for nine Walburgas .
‘Lovely, you’ve made a good choice there.’ I beamed, not one person at the table apparently interested in my opinion. ‘I’ll fetch menus for you,’ I went on, ‘but we have a specials board just to your right…’ I interrupted their conversation, indicating in the manner of an air stewardess pointing out emergency exits. The response was that doubtless expected by any airline attendant: total lack of interest, bordering on irritation.
‘Any allergies?’ I asked, poised to take note on my iPad.
That piqued a flurry of interest.
‘Sesame, gluten intolerant,’ one beautiful brunette said, without looking up.
‘Any crustacean,’ the girl at the end of the table offered with a wintry smile. At least she’d made eye contact.
‘Any tree nut,’ a third said. I pulled a face, mystified. Weren’t all nuts grown on trees? ‘Oh, and tinned fish,’ she added.
‘Don’t worry, we don’t have tinned fish here at Graphite.’ I smiled, with slight condescension, my chance to get one back at this snooty lot.
‘Well, that’s good.’ She visibly shuddered. ‘But I actually said, if you’d been listening, any finned fish .’
There were fish without fins? Fish with physical disabilities, then? ‘But you’re OK with crustaceans?’ I asked, now slightly pink and feverishly making notes, wanting to laugh but conscious that my apron was descending asymmetrically to reveal the chocolate stain. ‘Is that it? Lovely.’
‘We are waiting for one more of us,’ Ms Fish Face, a stunning blonde who really was the most strikingly attractive girl I’d ever seen, now chirruped. ‘Don’t take our food orders until he arrives,’ she commanded.
‘Make that ten Wallbangers, then,’ the little chap shouted in my direction.
Did his nanny not teach him to say please and thank you? ‘Of course.’ I smiled. ‘I’ll get that sorted straight away and take your food orders once your colleague arrives.’
‘Ten Walburgas ,’ I said with a laugh in my best pronounced German accent, ‘for the city slickers in the corner.’ I grinned at Marcel, who didn’t respond as he usually did to our little joke, but instead lowered his eyes from mine and got on with the order.
‘Ms Allen,’ Walburga Muffler, snapping at my heels like the terrifying Rottweiler she was, had me up against the bar, pulling unceremoniously at my apron to reveal the smeared chocolate stain, which now resembled, somewhat uncannily, a map of Italy. ‘I will take this order for Harvey Wallbangers while you go and change that waistcoat. There are clean ones in the rest room. I have my eye on you, tonight, Ms Allen. Now go.’
I went.
Oh, Lordy, I sent up a silent prayer as I grabbed a newly laundered and ironed waistcoat, please give me a job. A proper job on stage. I’ll act my tush off and dance until I drop like the girl in the red shoes. Well, maybe not: didn’t she end up cutting off her feet to stop dancing? Mind you, anything to get out of having to serve pillocks like the table for ten upstairs.
I plastered on a smile – as well as more lipstick – before heading for the restaurant floor, glancing towards the main door as another couple of guests arrived. And I swear my heart actually stopped and then did a quite spectacular lurch because there, in front of me, was the missing tenth guest.
Fabian Mansfield Carrington. Three weeks on from my research outing to the Central Criminal Court, his name was still emblazoned in my memory. The only thing different about him this evening was the lack of judicial wig, which now allowed a full reveal of fairly long dark, curling hair.
‘Fabian!’ Ms Fish Face jumped out of her seat, flinging beautifully toned and bronzed arms around him, before leading him to the vacant chair at her side. ‘You are naughty being so late, when it’s such a special occasion.’
I hesitated, trying to work out from the others’ greetings what this occasion might be. The four men were now standing, shaking Carrington’s hand, patting his back, while the little bloke had him in an ill-thought-out bear hug that didn’t quite come off, his bald head bumping unceremoniously and somewhat embarrassingly into Carrington’s armpit.
Lucky bloke to be in such near contact, I mused as Miss Muffler shoved ten menus in my direction.
‘Good evening,’ I addressed the back of Carrington’s head. ‘I believe you’re all here now? Are you ready to order?’ Nervous excitement at having Carrington within touching distance was making me forget the right way to go about things.
‘No, of course not,’ Fish Face snapped crossly. ‘Would you mind just giving us some time, waitress?’
Waitress? I looked slightly askance at the woman but, remembering I needed this job to pay the rent, which was now two weeks overdue, I nodded demurely and went to help Miss Muffler with the drinks order.
‘Excuse me?’ I moved towards Carrington with my tray, placing the sliced-orange-and-cherry-adorned frosted glass in front of him.
‘Thank you so much.’ He glanced up at me, his brown eyes meeting mine, appraising. He was even more beautiful close up. Often, seeing and being near someone at close range when only previously viewing from afar can be a bitter let down: eyes cold and with no soul, teeth that need work, a shoulder full of dandruff; blackheads in a pitted nose; halitosis even.
Fabian Mansfield Carrington did not disappoint. Tall, with olive skin and brown eyes, he was as utterly devastating as I remembered. He picked up his glass, taking a long, obviously much-needed drink, but then turned back to me, holding my gaze until I had to look away.
‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ He smiled. ‘You look very familiar.’
‘She’s just the waitress, Fabian,’ Fish Face said slightly irritably, taking his arm in an obvious attempt to regain his attention. ‘Come on, it’s your birthday – let’s celebrate.’
Ah, his birthday? Suddenly, not caring, I smiled down at him as he turned once more in my direction. ‘I’m sure I know you from somewhere too. TV perhaps?’ I pretended to hesitate. ‘Aren’t you the presenter on that kids’ programme? Shaboom , is it?’ I held his eye for a good few seconds, enjoying the excuse to have his attention.
‘Kids’ programme?’ Fish Face snorted disparagingly. ‘Fabian here happens to be one of the top defence barristers in London. If you recognise him from anywhere , maybe you’ve found yourself at the Old Bailey at some point? Hmm? For some reason?’
‘Ah.’ I nodded slowly, giving Carrington the benefit of what I hoped was a mysterious and engaging smile, one I’d often practised for a part. ‘Of course . That explains it.’
And with that, I moved round the table, taking orders, offering recommendations, and suggesting dishes, aware that not only Miss Muffler, but now Fabian Mansfield Carrington as well, were keeping a close eye on my performance.
The evening passed in the usual flurry of greeting guests, being at my most charming, listening and always putting the interests of the customer before my own. Even though I was desperate for, in no particular order: a glass of iced water, a pee, a foot massage, a sodding great G and T and, if I’d smoked, a quick fag outside the back door of the kitchen.
But this evening was different. My smile was genuine, my feet almost skipping round my station, while Carrington was constantly glancing my way, trying to work out if he really did know me.
His table became clamorous, rowdy, one step from raucous, as the evening went on and glasses were refilled, raised and downed in celebration of Carrington’s birthday. And yet Fabian Carrington himself appeared to be drinking very little. His hand, I noticed, was often held over his glass as one of his companions endeavoured to share with him yet another bottle of expensive champagne and, when I took the bottle from the ice bucket and offered to fill his glass, he placed a warm hand over my own, holding it there for longer than necessary while smiling and shaking his head. It was a wonderful, exciting game the two of us were playing, cleverly carried out secretly – by me because it was the restaurant’s policy for staff not to fraternise with guests, and, I assumed, by him because Miss Fish Face kept a steely eye on his every movement that didn’t involve her.
As midnight approached, Carrington’s table was the only one left and Bess, Claude, Marcel and Miss Muffler were, despite Miss Muffler’s usually unbreakable rule of not to start the clearing-up process while any guests were still in situ, doing just that. I went to join them, helping to restock each station’s cart ready for the following day’s lunch session.
‘Tell ’em to eff off now,’ Bess whispered in my direction, yawning discreetly as she did so. ‘I’ve had enough. Mind you, there is one hell of a gorgeous man on that table.’
‘Oh?’ I said, folding the starched Graphite-logoed napkins. ‘Is there? I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Hmm,’ Bess went on. ‘Apparently it’s his birthday and yet he’s drinking water .’
‘Maybe he’s a recovering alcoholic?’ I ventured.
‘I don’t think alcoholics ever recover, do they?’ She frowned, considering. ‘My Uncle Trevor who was—’ She broke off, dropping the knife she was polishing in her excitement. ‘Shhh, shhh, he’s coming over…’
Carrington walked towards us and, ignoring Bess – who was now openly gawping – and me, addressed Miss Muffler. In perfect German to boot, my boss melting like snow in spring as the pair conversed in her native tongue. Carrington finally turned to the rest of us and said, ‘I’m so sorry to keep you from your beds. It really is incredibly rude of us, and I apologise. We’re on our way now.’
‘Do come on, Fabian, we’re heading off to Kadies . We need you to get us in.’ The little bald bloke was obviously the worse for wear, tottering slightly on his stacked heels, his pink pate and forehead sweating as he tried to manoeuvre Carrington towards the door.
‘Not me.’ Fabian Carrington shook his head. ‘It’s been a long, long hard day.’
‘Oh, come on, Fabian,’ Fish Face wheedled. ‘You’ve so much to celebrate, darling.’
‘Sorry, all of you. Taxi for me and home.’
This was promising, then, if Fish Face didn’t appear to have an open invitation to join him in his taxi and, presumably, his bed. The nine of them drunkenly tumbled out of the restaurant and Carrington turned to follow, offering a final wave and ‘sorry’ in our direction.
I made my way back over to their abandoned table, knowing just another ten minutes and I’d be heading off myself, but feeling the same sense of unfinished business I’d experienced on leaving Carrington at the criminal courts a few weeks earlier.
Finally I joined Bess in the rest room, quickly chucking my uniform into the laundry basket and pulling on the jeans and T-shirt I’d changed out of hours earlier.
‘Blimey, he was a bit of all right, wasn’t he?’ Bess sighed. ‘And way out of your league, Claude,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Don’t you go having fantasies about him , mon petit chou .’ She planted a kiss on Claude’s cheek. ‘Come on, let’s find some entertainment. The night is but young.’
Claude turned, tutting. ‘ Merde , I suppose I have to do this?’ He raised an eye crossly.
‘What, come out on the town with me?’ Bess grinned. ‘It’s all right, we can head for Ku Bar,’ she added, naming one of Soho’s favourite gay bars and clubs.
‘ Non. ’ Claude tutted again. ‘This here.’ He handed me a piece of paper.
Please ring me.
Followed by a phone number.
Oh! Glory be! He’d left his number. Fabian Mansfield Carrington had left his number for me! I felt as though I’d won the lottery, my pulse racing, my feet ready to dance all the way back home to Soho.
‘Robyn, she wins again.’ Claude sniffed crossly. ‘Ah, to be born so jolie ,’ he added, somewhat cattily, as if every evening spent working at Graphite culminated in some sort of contest. ‘Come on,’ he conceded, linking my arm with his. ‘I’m still not talking to you. But, we’ll walk your way, anyway,’ he added. ‘And we’re not in danger any more.’
‘Danger?’
‘That batard who abducts women and does horrible things to them before, you know’ – Claude pulled his arm from my own, taking a dramatic hand across his throat – ‘has been caught. You’ve not heard?’
‘Oh, really?’ I felt total relief that the man dubbed the Soho Slasher, who’d abducted, raped and murdered six young women in the past couple of years, had been caught. One of his victims had been found only a couple of streets down from my own in Soho.
Could this evening get any better?