Twelve Red Herrings

At this point in the story, the reader is offered the choice of four different endings.

You might decide to read all four of them, or simply select one, and consider that your own particular ending. If you do choose to read all four, they should be taken in the order in which they have been written:

1. RARE

2. BURNT

3. OVERDONE

4. Á POINT

Rare

“Thank you, Michael. I’d like that.”

I smiled, unable to mask my delight. “Good. I know a little restaurant just down the road that I think you might enjoy.”

“That sounds fun,” Anna said, linking her arm in mine. I guided her through the departing throng.

As we strolled together down the Aldwych, Anna continued to chat about the play, comparing it favourably with a production she had seen at the Haymarket some years before.

When we reached the Strand I pointed to a large grey double door on the other side of the road. “That’s it,” I said. We took advantage of a red light to weave our way through the temporarily stationary traffic, and after we’d reached the far pavement I pushed one of the grey doors open to allow Anna through. It began to rain just as we stepped inside. I led her down a flight of stairs into a basement restaurant buzzing with the talk of people who had just come out of theatres, and waiters dashing, plates in both hands, from table to table.

“I’ll be impressed if you can get a table here,” Anna said, eyeing a group of would-be customers who were clustered round the bar, impatiently waiting for someone to leave.

I strolled across to the reservations desk. The head waiter, who until that moment had been taking a customer’s order, rushed over. “Good evening, Mr Whitaker,” he said. “How many are you?”

“Just the two of us.”

“Follow me, please, sir,” Mario said, leading us to my usual table in the far corner of the room.

“Another dry martini?” I asked her as we sat down.

“No, thank you,” she replied. “I think I’ll just have a glass of wine with the meal.”

I nodded my agreement, as Mario handed us our menus. Anna studied hers for a few moments before I asked if she had spotted anything she fancied.

“Yes,” she said, looking straight at me. “But for now I think I’ll settle for the fettucini, and a glass of red wine.”

“Good idea,” I said. “I’ll join you. But are you sure you won’t have a starter?”

“No, thank you, Michael. I’ve reached that age when I can no longer order everything I’m tempted by.”

“The too,” I confessed. “I have to play squash three times a week to keep in shape,” I told her as Mario reappeared.

“Two fettucini,” I began, “and a bottle of …”

“Half a bottle, please,” said Anna. “I’ll only have one glass. I’ve got an early start tomorrow morning, so I shouldn’t overdo things.”

I nodded, and Mario scurried away.

I looked across the table and into Anna’s eyes. “I’ve always wondered about women doctors,” I said, immediately realising that the line was a bit feeble.

“You mean, you wondered if we’re normal?”

“Something like that, I suppose.”

“Yes, we’re normal enough, except every day we have to see a lot of men in the nude. I can assure you, Michael, most of them are overweight and fairly unattractive.”

I suddenly wished I were half a stone lighter. “But are there many men who are brave enough to consider a woman doctor in the first place?”

“Quite a few,” said Anna, “though most of my patients are female. But there are just about enough intelligent, sensible, uninhibited males around who can accept that a woman doctor might be just as likely to cure them as a man.”

I smiled as two bowls of fettucini were placed in front of us. Mario then showed me the label on the half-bottle he had selected. I nodded my approval. He had chosen a vintage to match Anna’s pedigree.

“And what about you?” asked Anna. “What does being ‘in the restaurant business’ actually mean?”

“I’m on the management side,” I said, before sampling the wine. I nodded again, and Mario poured a glass for Anna and then topped up mine.

“Or at least, that’s what I do nowadays. I started life as a waiter,” I said, as Anna began to sip her wine.

“What a magnificent wine,” she remarked. “It’s so good I may end up having a second glass.”

“I’m glad you like it,” I said. “It’s a Barolo.”

“You were saying, Michael? You started life as a waiter…”

“Yes, then I moved into the kitchens for about five years, and finally ended up on the management side. How’s the fettucini?”

“It’s delicious. Almost melts in your mouth.” She took another sip of her wine. “So, if you’re not cooking, and no longer a waiter, what do you do now?”

“Well, at the moment I’m running three restaurants in the West End, which means I never stop dashing from one to the other, depending on which is facing the biggest crisis on that particular day.”

“Sounds a bit like ward duty to me,” said Anna. “So who turned out to have the biggest crisis today?”

“Today, thank heaven, was not typical,” I told her with feeling.

“That bad?” said Anna.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. We lost a chef this morning who cut off the top of his finger, and won’t be back at work for at least a fortnight. My head waiter in our second restaurant is off, claiming he has the flu, and I’ve just had to sack the barman in the third for fiddling with the books. Barmen always fiddle with the books, of course, but in this case even the customers began to notice what he was up to.” I paused. “But I still wouldn’t want to be in any other business.”

“Under the circumstances, I’m amazed you were able to take the evening off.”

“I shouldn’t have, really, and I wouldn’t have, except …” I trailed off as I leaned over and topped up Anna’s glass.

“Except what?” she said.

“Do you want to hear the truth?” I asked as I poured the remains of the wine into my own glass.

“I’ll try that for starters,” she said.

I placed the empty bottle on the side of the table, and hesitated, but only for a moment. “I was driving to one of my restaurants earlier this evening, when I spotted you going into the theatre. I stared at you for so long that I nearly crashed into the back of the car in front of me. Then I swerved across the road into the nearest parking space, and the car behind almost crashed into me. I leapt out, ran all the way to the theatre, and searched everywhere until I saw you standing in the queue for the box office. I joined the line and watched you hand over your spare ticket. Once you were safely out of sight, I told the box office manager that you hadn’t expected me to make it in time, and that you might have put my ticket up for resale. After I’d described you, which I was able to do in great detail, he handed it over without so much as a murmur.”

Anna put down her glass of wine and stared across at me with a look of incredulity. “I’m glad he fell for your story,” she said. “But should I?”

“Yes, you should. Because then I put two ten-pound notes into a theatre envelope and took the place next to you. The rest you already know.” I waited to see how she would react.

She didn’t speak for some time. “I’m flattered,” she eventually said, and touched my hand. “I didn’t realise there were any old-fashioned romantics left in the world.” She squeezed my fingers and looked me in the eyes. “Am I allowed to ask what you have planned for the rest of the evening?”

“Nothing has been planned so far,” I admitted. “Which is why it’s all been so refreshing.”

“You make me sound like an After Eight mint,” said Anna with a laugh.

“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 theatre.

“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 windscreen. 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 the English have learnt 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 manoeuvred the car into the only space left in the mews where I lived. I got out of the car and walked round 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.

“I’ll just be a moment,” I said, and disappeared into the bathroom. As I cleaned my teeth, I began to wonder if it was all a dream. When I returned to the bedroom, would I discover she didn’t exist? I dropped the toothbrush into its mug and went back to the bedroom. Where was she? My eyes followed a trail of discarded clothes that led all the way to the bed. Her head was propped up on the pillow. Only a sheet covered her body.

I quickly took off my clothes, dropping them where they fell, and switched off the main lights, so that only the one by the bed remained aglow. I slid under the sheets to join her. I looked at her for several seconds before I took her in my arms. I slowly explored every part of her body, as she began to kiss me again. I couldn’t believe that anyone could be that exciting, and at the same time so tender. When we finally made love, I knew I never wanted this woman to leave me.

She lay in my arms for some time before either of us spoke. Then I began talking about anything that came into my head. I confided my hopes, my dreams, even my worst anxieties, with a freedom I had never experienced with anyone before. I wanted to share everything with her.

And then she leaned across and began kissing me once again, first on the lips, then the neck and chest, and as she slowly continued down my body I thought I would explode. The last thing I remember was turning off the light by my bed as the clock on the hall table chimed one.

When I woke the following morning, the first rays of sunlight were already shining through the lace curtains, and the glorious memory of the night before was instantly revived. I turned lazily to take her in my arms, but she was no longer there.

“Anna?” I cried out, sitting bolt upright. There was no reply. I flicked on the light by the side of the bed, and glanced across at the bedside clock. It was 7.29. I was about to jump out of bed and go in search of her when I noticed a scribbled note wedged under a corner of the clock.

I picked it up, read it slowly, and smiled.

“So will I,” I said, and lay back on the pillow, thinking about what I should do next. I decided to send her a dozen roses later that morning, eleven white and one red. Then I would have a red one delivered to her on the hour, every hour, until I saw her again.

After I had showered and dressed, I roamed aimlessly around the house. I wondered how quickly I could persuade Anna to move in, and what changes she would want to make. Heaven knows, I thought as I walked through to the kitchen, clutching her note, the place could do with a woman’s touch.

As I ate breakfast I looked up her number in the telephone directory, instead of reading the morning paper. There it was, just as she had said. Dr Townsend, listing a surgery number in Parsons Green Lane where she could be contacted between nine and six. There was a second number, but deep black lettering requested that it should only be used in case of emergencies.

Although I considered my state of health to be an emergency, I dialled the first number, and waited impatiently. All I wanted to say was, “Good morning, darling. I got your note, and can we make last night the first of many?”

A matronly voice answered the phone. “Dr Townsend’s surgery.”

“Dr Townsend, please,” I said.

“Which one?” she asked. “There are three Dr Townsends in the practice — Dr Jonathan, Dr Anna and Dr Elizabeth.”

“Dr Anna,” I replied.

“Oh, Mrs Townsend,” she said. “I’m sorry, but she’s not available at the moment. She’s just taken the children off to school, and after that she has to go to the airport to pick up her husband, Dr Jonathan, who’s returning this morning from a medical conference in Minneapolis. I’m not expecting her back for at least a couple of hours. Would you like to leave a message?”

There was a long silence before the matronly voice asked, “Are you still there?” I placed the receiver back on the hook without replying, and looked sadly down at the hand-written note by the side of the phone.

Burnt

“Thank you, Michael. I’d like that.”

I smiled, unable to mask my delight.

“Hi, Anna. I thought I might have missed you.”

I turned and stared at a tall man with a mop of fair hair, who seemed unaffected by the steady flow of people trying to pass him on either side.

Anna gave him a smile that I hadn’t seen until that moment.

“Hello, darling,” she said. “This is Michael Whitaker. You’re lucky — he bought your ticket, and if you hadn’t turned up I was just about to accept his kind invitation to dinner. Michael, this is my husband, Jonathan — the one who was held up at the hospital. As you can see, he’s now escaped.”

I couldn’t think of a suitable reply.

Jonathan shook me warmly by the hand. “Thank you for keeping my wife company,” he said. “Won’t you join us for dinner?”

“That’s very kind of you,” I replied, “but I’ve just remembered that I’m meant to be somewhere else right now. I’d better run.”

“That’s a pity,” said Anna. “I was rather looking forward to finding out all about the restaurant business. Perhaps we’ll meet again sometime, whenever my husband next leaves me in the lurch. Goodbye, Michael.”

“Goodbye, Anna.”

I watched them climb into the back of a taxi together, and wished Jonathan would drop dead in front of me. He didn’t, so I began to retrace my steps back to the spot where I had abandoned my car. “You’re a lucky man, Jonathan Townsend,” was the only observation I made. But no one was listening.

The next word that came to my lips was “Damn!” I repeated it several times, as there was a distressingly large space where I was certain I’d left my car.

I walked up and down the street in case I’d forgotten where I’d parked it, cursed again, then marched off in search of a phone box, unsure if my car had been stolen or towed away. There was a pay phone just around the corner in Kingsway. I picked up the handset and jabbed three nines into it.

“Which service do you require? Fire, Police or Ambulance,” a voice asked.

“Police,” I said, and was immediately put through to another voice.

“Charing Cross Police Station. What is the nature of your enquiry?”

“I think my car has been stolen.”

“Can you tell me the make, colour and registration number please, sir.”

“It’s a red Ford Fiesta, registration H107 SHV.”

There was a long pause, during which I could hear other voices talking in the background.

“No, it hasn’t been stolen, sir,” said the officer when he came back on the line. “The car was illegally parked on a double yellow line. It’s been removed and taken to the Vauxhall Bridge Pound.”

“Can I pick it up now?” I asked sulkily.

“Certainly, sir. How will you be getting there?”

“I’ll take a taxi.”

“Then just ask the driver for the Vauxhall Bridge Pound. Once you get there, you’ll need some form of identification, and a cheque for £105 with a banker’s card — that is if you don’t have the full amount in cash.”

“One hundred and five pounds?” I repeated in disbelief.

“That’s correct, sir.”

I slammed the phone down just as it started to rain. I scurried back to the corner of the Aldwych in search of a taxi, only to find that they were all being commandeered by the hordes of people still hanging around outside the theatre.

I put my collar up and nipped across the road, dodging between the slow-moving traffic. Once I had reached the far side, I continued running until I found an overhanging ledge broad enough to shield me from the blustery rain.

I shivered, and sneezed several times before an empty cab eventually came to my rescue.

“Vauxhall Bridge Pound,” I told the driver as I jumped in.

“Bad luck, mate,” said the cabbie. “You’re my second this evening.”

I frowned.

As the taxi manoeuvred its way slowly through the rainswept post-theatre traffic and across Waterloo Bridge, the driver began chattering away. I just about managed monosyllabic replies to his opinions on the weather, John Major, the England cricket team and foreign tourists. With each new topic, his forecast became ever more gloomy.

When we reached the car pound I passed him a ten-pound note and waited in the rain for my change. Then I dashed off in the direction of a little Portakabin, where I was faced by my second queue that evening. This one was considerably longer than the first, and I knew that when I eventually reached the front of it and paid for my ticket, I wouldn’t be rewarded with any memorable entertainment. When my turn finally came, a burly policeman pointed to a form Scotch-taped to the counter.

I followed its instructions to the letter, first producing my driving license, then writing out a cheque for £105, payable to the Metropolitan Police. I handed them both over, with my cheque card, to the policeman, who towered over me. The man’s sheer bulk was the only reason I didn’t suggest that perhaps he ought to have more important things to do with his time, like catching drug dealers. Or even car thieves.

“Your vehicle is in the far corner,” said the officer, pointing into the distance, over row upon row of cars.

“Of course it is,” I replied. I stepped out of the Portakabin and back into the rain, dodging puddles as I ran between the lines of cars. I didn’t stop until I reached the farthest corner of the pound. It still took me several more minutes to locate my red Ford Fiesta — one disadvantage, I thought, of owning the most popular car in Britain.

I unlocked the door, squelched down onto the front seat, and sneezed again. I turned the key in the ignition, but the engine barely turned over, letting out only the occasional splutter before giving up altogether. Then I remembered I hadn’t switched the sidelights off when I made my unscheduled dash for the theatre. I uttered a string of expletives that only partly expressed my true feelings.

I watched as another figure came running across the pound towards a Range Rover parked in the row in front of me. I quickly wound down my window, but he had driven off before I could shout the magic words “jumper cables”. I got out and retrieved my jumper cables from the trunk, walked to the front of the car, raised the hood, and attached them to the battery. I began to shiver once again as I settled down for another wait.

I couldn’t get Anna out of my mind, but accepted that the only thing I’d succeeded in picking up that evening was the flu.

In the following forty rain-drenched minutes, three people passed by before a young black man asked, “So what’s the trouble, man?” Once I had explained my problem he manoeuvred his old van alongside my car, then raised his bonnet and attached the jumper cables to his battery. When he switched on his ignition, my engine began to turn over.

“Thanks,” I shouted, rather inadequately, once I’d revved the engine several times.

“My pleasure, man,” he replied, and disappeared into the night.

As I drove out of the car pound I switched on my radio, to hear Big Ben striking twelve. It reminded me that I hadn’t turned up for work that night. The first thing I needed to do, if I wanted to keep my job, was to come up with a good excuse. I sneezed again, and decided on the flu. Although they’d probably taken the last orders by now, Gerald wouldn’t have closed the kitchens yet.

I peered through the rain, searching the pavements for a pay phone, and eventually spotted a row of three outside a post office. I stopped the car and jumped out, but a cursory inspection revealed that they’d all been vandalized. I climbed back into the car and continued my search. After dashing in and out of the rain several times, I finally spotted a single phone box on the corner of Warwick Way that looked as if it might just be in working order.

I dialled the restaurant, and waited a long time for someone to answer.

“Laguna 50,” said an Italian-sounding young girl.

“Janice, is that you? It’s Mike.”

“Yes, it’s me, Mike,” she whispered, reverting to her Lambeth accent. “I’d better warn you that every time your name’s been mentioned this evening, Gerald picks up the nearest meat-axe.”

“Why?” I asked. “You’ve still got Nick in the kitchen to see you through.”

“Nick chopped the top off one of his fingers earlier this evening, and Gerald had to take him to hospital. I was left in charge. He’s not best pleased.”

“Oh, hell,” I said. “But I’ve got …”

“The sack,” said another voice, and this one wasn’t whispering.

“Gerald, I can explain …”

“Why you didn’t turn up for work this evening?”

I sneezed, then held my nose. “I’ve got the flu. If I’d come in tonight I would have given it to half the customers.”

“Would you?” said Gerald. “Well, I suppose that might have been marginally worse than giving it to the girl who was sitting next to you in the theatre.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, letting go of my nose.

“Exactly what I said, Mike. You see, unfortunately for you, a couple of our regulars were two rows behind you at the Aldwych. They enjoyed the show almost as much as you seemed to, and one of them added, for good measure, that he thought your date was ‘absolutely stunning’.”

“He must have mistaken me for someone else,” I said, trying not to sound desperate.

“He may have done, Mike, but I haven’t. You’re sacked, and don’t even think about coming in to collect your pay packet, because there isn’t one for a head waiter who’d rather take some bimbo to the theatre than do a night’s work.” The line went dead.

I hung up the phone and started muttering obscenities under my breath as I walked slowly back towards my car. I was only a dozen paces away from it when a young lad jumped into the front seat, switched on the ignition, and lurched hesitatingly into the centre of the road in what sounded horribly like third gear. I chased after the retreating car, but once the youth began to accelerate, I knew I had no hope of catching him.

I ran all the way back to the phone box, and dialled 999 once again.

“Fire, Police or Ambulance?” I was asked for a second time that night.

“Police,” I said, and a moment later I was put through to another voice.

“Belgravia Police Station. What is the nature of your enquiry?”

“I’ve just had my car stolen!” I shouted.

“Make, model and registration number please, sir.”

“It’s a red Ford Fiesta, registration H107 SHV.”

I waited impatiently.

“It hasn’t been stolen, sir. It was illegally parked on a double…”

“No it wasn’t!” I shouted even more loudly. “I paid £105 to get the damn thing out of the Vauxhall Bridge Pound less than half an hour ago, and I’ve just seen it being driven off by a joyrider while I was making a phone call.”

“Where are you, sir?”

“In a phone box on the corner of Vauxhall Bridge Road and Warwick Way.”

“And in which direction was the car travelling when you last saw it?” asked the voice.

“North up Vauxhall Bridge Road.”

“And what is your home telephone number, sir?”

“O81 290 4820.”

“And at work?”

“Like the car, I don’t have a job any longer.”

“Right, I’ll get straight onto it, sir. We’ll be in touch with you the moment we have any news.”

I put the phone down and thought about what I should do next. I hadn’t been left with a great deal of choice. I hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to Victoria, and was relieved to find that this driver showed no desire to offer any opinions on anything during the short journey to the station. When he dropped me I passed him my last note, and patiently waited while he handed over every last penny of my change. He also muttered an expletive or two. I bought a ticket for Bromley with my few remaining coins, and went in search of the platform.

“You’ve just about made it, mate,” the ticket collector told me. “The last train’s due in at any minute.” But I still had to wait for another twenty minutes on the cold, empty platform before the last train eventually pulled into the station. By then I had memorised every advertisement in sight, from Guinness to Mates, while continuing to sneeze at regular intervals.

When the train came to a halt and the doors squelched open I took a seat in a carriage near the front. It was another ten minutes before the engine lurched into action, and another forty before it finally pulled into Bromley station.

I emerged into the Kent night a few minutes before one o’clock, and set off in the direction of my little terraced house.

Twenty-five minutes later, I staggered up the short path to my front door. I began to search for my keys, then remembered that I’d left them in the car ignition. I didn’t have the energy even to swear, and began to grovel around in the dark for the spare front-door key that was always hidden under a particular stone. But which one? At last I found it, put it in the lock, turned it and pushed the door open. No sooner had I stepped inside than the phone on the hall table began to ring.

I grabbed the receiver.

“Mr Whitaker?”

“Speaking.”

“This is the Belgravia police. We’ve located your car, sir, and…”

“Thank God for that,” I said, before the officer had a chance to finish the sentence. “Where is it?”

“At this precise moment, sir, it’s on the back of a pick-up lorry somewhere in Chelsea. It seems the lad who nicked it only managed to travel a mile or so before he hit the kerb at seventy, and bounced straight into a wall. I’m sorry to have to inform you, sir, that your car’s a total write-off.”

“A total write-off?” I said in disbelief.

“Yes, sir. The garage who towed it away has been given your number, and they’ll be in touch with you first thing in the morning.”

I couldn’t think of any comment worth making.

“The good news is we’ve caught the lad who nicked it,” continued the police officer. “The bad news is that he’s only fifteen, doesn’t have a driver’s licence, and, of course, he isn’t insured.”

“That’s not a problem,” I said. “I’m fully insured myself.”

“As a matter of interest, sir, did you leave your keys in the ignition?”

“Yes, I did. I was just making a quick phone call, and thought I’d only be away from the car for a couple of minutes.”

“Then I think it’s unlikely you’ll be covered by your insurance, sir.”

“Not covered by my insurance? What are you talking about?”

“It’s standard policy nowadays not to pay out if you leave your keys in the ignition. You’d better check, sir,” were the officer’s final words before ringing off.

I put the phone down and wondered what else could possibly go wrong. I slipped off my jacket and began to climb the stairs, but came to a sudden halt when I saw my wife waiting for me on the landing.

“Maureen …” I began.

“You can tell me later why the car is a total write-off,” she said, “but not until you’ve explained why you didn’t turn up for work this evening, and just who this ‘classy tart’ is that Gerald said you were seen with at the theatre.”

Overdone

“No, I’m not doing anything in particular,” said Anna.

I smiled, unable to mask my delight.

“Good. I know a little restaurant just down the road that I think you might enjoy.”

“That sounds just fine,” said Anna as she made her way through the dense theatre crowd. I quickly followed, having to hurry just to keep up with her.

“Which way?” she asked. I pointed towards the Strand. She began walking at a brisk pace, and we continued to talk about the play.

When we reached the Strand I pointed to a large grey double door on the other side of the road. “That’s it,” I said. I would have taken her hand as she began to cross, but she stepped off the pavement ahead of me, dodged between the stationary traffic, and waited for me on the far side.

She pushed the grey doors open, and once again I followed in her wake. We descended a flight of steps into a basement restaurant buzzing with the talk of people who had just come out of theatres, and waiters dashing, plates in both hands, from table to table.

“I don’t expect you’ll be able to get a table here if you haven’t booked,” said Anna, eyeing a group of would-be customers who were clustered round the bar, impatiently waiting for someone to leave.

“Don’t worry about that,” I said with bravado, and strode across to the reservations desk. I waved a hand imperiously at the head waiter, who was taking a customer’s order. I only hoped he would recognise me.

I turned round to smile at Anna, but she didn’t look too impressed.

After the waiter had taken the order, he walked slowly over to me. “How may I help you, sir?” he asked.

“Can you manage a table for two, Victor?”

“Victor’s off tonight, sir. Have you booked?”

“No, I haven’t, but …”

The head waiter checked the list of reservations and then looked at his watch. “I might be able to fit you in around 11.15–11.30 at the latest,” he said, not sounding too hopeful.

“No sooner?” I pleaded. “I don’t think we can wait that long.” Anna nodded her agreement.

“I’m afraid not, sir,” said the head waiter. “We are fully booked until then.”

“As I expected,” said Anna, turning to leave.

Once again I had to hurry to keep up with her. As we stepped out onto the pavement I said, “There’s a little Italian restaurant I know not far from here, where I can always get a table. Shall we risk it?”

“Can’t see that we’ve got a lot of choice,” replied Anna. “Which direction this time?”

“Just up the road to the right,” I said as a clap of thunder heralded an imminent downpour.

“Damn,” said Anna, placing her handbag over her head for protection.

“I’m sorry,” I said, looking up at the black clouds. “It’s my fault. I should have …”

“Stop apologising all the time, Michael. It isn’t your fault if it starts to rain.”

I took a deep breath and tried again. “We’d better make a dash for it,” I said desperately. “I don’t expect we’ll be able to pick up a taxi in this weather.”

This at least secured her ringing endorsement. I began running up the road, and Anna followed closely behind. The rain was getting heavier and heavier, and although we couldn’t have had more than seventy yards to cover, we were both soaked by the time we reached the restaurant.

I sighed with relief when I opened the door and found the dining room was half-empty, although I suppose I should have been annoyed. I turned and smiled hopefully at Anna, but she was still frowning.

“Everything all right?” I asked.

“Fine. It’s just that my father had a theory about restaurants that were half-empty at this time of night.”

I looked quizzically at my guest, but decided not to make any comment about her eye make-up, which was beginning to run, or her hair, which had come loose at the edges.

“I’d better carry out some repair work. I’ll only be a couple of minutes,” she said, heading for a door marked “Signorinas”.

I waved at Mario, who was serving no one in particular. He hurried over to me.

“There was a call for you earlier, Mr Whitaker,” Mario said as he guided me across the restaurant to my usual table. “If you came in, I was to ask you to phone Gerald urgently. He sounded pretty desperate.”

“I’m sure it can wait. But if he rings again, let me know immediately.” At that moment Anna walked over to join us. The make-up had been restored, but the hair could have done with further attention.

I rose to greet her.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said, taking her seat.

“Would you like a drink?” I asked, once we were both settled.

“No, I don’t think so. I have an early start tomorrow morning, so I shouldn’t overdo things. I’ll just have a glass of wine with my meal.”

Another waiter appeared by her side. “And what would madam care for this evening?” he asked politely.

“I haven’t had time to look at the menu yet,” Anna replied, not even bothering to look up at him.

“I can recommend the fettucini, madam,” the waiter said, pointing to a dish halfway down the list of entrées. “It’s our speciality of the day.”

“Then I suppose I might as well have that,” said Anna, handing him the menu.

I nodded, indicating “Me too,” and asked for a half-bottle of the house red. The waiter scooped up my menu and left us.

“Do you …?”

“Can I …?”

“You first,” I said, attempting a smile.

“Do you always order half a bottle of the house wine on a first date?” she asked.

“I think you’ll find it’s pretty good,” I said, rather plaintively.

“I was only teasing, Michael. Don’t take yourself so seriously.”

I took a closer look at my companion, and began to wonder if I’d made a terrible mistake. Despite her efforts in the washroom, Anna wasn’t quite the same girl I’d first seen — admittedly at a distance — when I’d nearly crashed my car earlier in the evening.

Oh my God, the car. I suddenly remembered where I’d left it, and stole a glance at my watch.

“Am I boring you already, Michael?” Anna asked. “Or is this table on a time share?”

“Yes. I mean no. I’m sorry, I’ve just remembered something I should have checked on before we came to dinner. Sorry,” I repeated.

Anna frowned, which stopped me saying sorry yet again.

“Is it too late?” she asked.

“Too late for what?”

“To do something about whatever it is you should have checked on before we came to dinner?”

I looked out of the window, and wasn’t pleased to see that it had stopped raining. Now my only hope was that the late-night traffic wardens might not be too vigilant.

“No, I’m sure it will be all right,” I said, trying to sound relaxed.

“Well, that’s a relief,” said Anna, in a tone that bordered on the sarcastic.

“So. What’s it like being a doctor?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“Michael, it’s my evening off. I’d rather not talk about my work, if you don’t mind.”

For the next few moments neither of us spoke. I tried again. “Do you have many male patients in your practice?” I asked, as the waiter reappeared with our fettucini.

“I can hardly believe I’m hearing this,” Anna said, unable to disguise the weariness in her voice. “When are people like you going to accept that one or two of us are capable of a little more than spending our lives waiting hand and foot on the male sex.”

The waiter poured some wine into my glass.

“Yes. Of course. Absolutely. No. I didn’t mean it to sound like that …” I sipped the wine and nodded to the waiter, who filled Anna’s glass.

“Then what did you mean it to sound like?” demanded Anna as she stuck her fork firmly into the fettucini.

“Well, isn’t it unusual for a man to go to a woman doctor?” I said, realising the moment I had uttered the words that I was only getting myself into even deeper water.

“Good heavens, no, Michael. We live in an enlightened age. I’ve probably seen more naked men than you have — and it’s not an attractive sight, I can assure you.” I laughed, in the hope that it would ease the tension. “In any case,” she added, “Quite a few men are confident enough to accept the existence of women doctors, you know.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” I said. “I just thought …”

“You didn’t think, Michael. That’s the problem with so many men like you. I bet you’ve never even considered consulting a woman doctor.”

“No, but… Yes, but …”

“‘No but, yes but’ — Let’s change the subject before I get really angry,” Anna said, putting her fork down. “What do you do for a living, Michael? It doesn’t sound as if you’re in a profession where women are treated as equals.”

“I’m in the restaurant business,” I told her, wishing the fettucini was a little lighter.

“Ah, yes, you told me in the interval,” she said. “But what does being ‘in the restaurant business’ actually mean?”

“I’m on the management side. Or at least, that’s what I do nowadays. I started life as a waiter, then I moved into the kitchens for about five years, and finally …”

“… found you weren’t very good at either, so you took up managing everyone else.”

“Something like that,” I said, trying to make light of it. But Anna’s words only reminded me that one of my other restaurants was without a chef that night, and that that was where I’d been heading before I’d allowed myself to become infatuated by Anna.

“I’ve lost you again,” Anna said, beginning to sound exasperated. “You were going to tell me all about restaurant management.”

“Yes, I was, wasn’t I? By the way, how’s your fettucini?”

“Not bad, considering.”

“Considering?”

“Considering this place was your second choice.”

I was silenced once again.

“It’s not that bad,” she said, taking another reluctant forkful.

“Perhaps you’d like something else instead? I can always …”

“No, thank you, Michael. After all, this was the one dish the waiter felt confident enough to recommend.”

I couldn’t think of a suitable response, so I remained silent.

“Come on, Michael, you still haven’t explained what restaurant management actually involves,” said Anna.

“Well, at the moment I’m running three restaurants in the West End, which means I never stop dashing from one to the other, depending on which is facing the biggest crisis on that particular day.”

“Sounds a bit like ward duty to me,” said Anna. “So who turned out to have the biggest crisis today?”

“Today, thank heaven, was not typical,” I told her with feeling.

“That bad?” said Anna.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. We lost a chef this morning who cut off the top of his finger, and won’t be back at work for at least a fortnight. My head waiter in our second restaurant is off, claiming he has ‘flu, and I’ve just had to sack the barman in the third for fiddling the books. Barmen always fiddle the books, of course, but in this case even the customers began to notice what he was up to.” I paused, wondering if I should risk another mouthful of fettucini. “But I still wouldn’t want to be in any other business.”

“In the circumstances, I’m frankly amazed you were able to take the evening off.”

“I shouldn’t have, really, and wouldn’t have, except …” I trailed off as I leaned over and topped up Anna’s wine glass.

“Except what?” she said.

“Do you want to hear the truth?” I asked as I poured the remains of the wine into my own glass.

“I’ll try that for starters,” she said.

I placed the empty bottle on the side of the table, and hesitated, but only for a moment. “I was driving to one of my restaurants earlier this evening, when I spotted you going into the theatre. I stared at you for so long that I nearly crashed into the back of the car in front of me. Then I swerved across the road into the nearest parking space, and the car behind almost crashed into me. I leapt out, ran all the way to the theatre, and searched everywhere until I saw you standing in the queue for the box office. I joined the line and watched you hand over your spare ticket. Once you were safely out of sight, I told the box office manager that you hadn’t expected me to make it in time, and that you might have put my ticket up for resale. Once I’d described you, which I was able to do in great detail, he handed it over without so much as a murmur.”

“More fool him,” said Anna, putting down her glass and staring at me as if I’d just been released from a lunatic asylum.

“Then I put two ten-pound notes into a theatre envelope and took the place next to you,” I continued. “The rest you already know.” I waited, with some trepidation, to see how she would react.

“I suppose I ought to be flattered,” Anna said after a moment’s consideration. “But I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. One thing’s for certain; the woman I’ve been living with for the past ten years will think it’s highly amusing, especially as you paid for her ticket.”

The waiter returned to remove the half-finished plates. “Was everything all right, sir?” he asked, sounding anxious.

“Fine, just fine,” I said unconvincingly. Anna grimaced, but made no comment.

“Would you care for coffee, madam?”

“No, I don’t think I’ll risk it,” she said, looking at her watch. “In any case, I ought to be getting back. Elizabeth will be wondering where I’ve got to.”

She stood up and walked towards the door. I followed a yard behind. She was just about to step onto the pavement when she turned to me and asked, “Don’t you think you ought to settle the bill?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Why?” she asked, laughing. “Do you own the place?”

“No. But it is one of the three restaurants I manage.”

Anna turned scarlet. “I’m so sorry, Michael,” she said. “That was tactless of me.” She paused for a moment before adding, “But I’m sure you’ll agree that the food wasn’t exactly memorable.”

“Would you like me to drive you home?” I asked, trying not to sound too enthusiastic.

Anna looked up at the black clouds. “That would be useful,” she replied, ‘if it’s not miles out of your way. Where’s your car?” she said before I had a chance to ask where she lived.

“I left it just up the road.”

“Oh, yes, I remember,” said Anna. “When you jumped out of it because you couldn’t take your eyes off me. I’m afraid you picked the wrong girl this time.”

At last we had found something on which we could agree, but I made no comment as we walked towards the spot where I had abandoned my car. Anna limited her conversation to whether it was about to rain again, and how good she had thought the wine was. I was relieved to find my Volvo parked exactly where I had left it.

I was searching for my keys when I spotted a large sticker glued to the windscreen. I looked down at the front offside wheel, and saw the yellow clamp.

“It just isn’t your night, is it?” said Anna. “But don’t worry about me, I’ll just grab a cab.”

She raised her hand and a taxi skidded to a halt. She turned back to face me. “Thanks for dinner,” she managed, not altogether convincingly, and added, even less convincingly, “Perhaps we’ll meet again.” Before I could respond, she had slammed the taxi door closed.

As I watched her being driven away, it started to rain.

I took one more look at my immovable car, and decided I would deal with the problem in the morning.

I was about to rush for the nearest shelter when another taxi came around the corner, its yellow light indicating that it was for hire. I waved frantically and it drew up beside my clamped car.

“Bad luck, mate,” said the cabbie, looking down at my front wheel. “My third tonight.”

I attempted a smile.

“So, where to, guv?”

I gave him my address in Lambeth and climbed into the back.

As the taxi manoeuvred its way slowly through the rainswept post-theatre traffic and across Waterloo Bridge, the driver began chattering away. I just about managed monosyllabic replies to his opinions on the weather, John Major, the England cricket team and foreign tourists. With each new topic, his forecast became ever more gloomy.

He only stopped offering his opinions when he came to a halt outside my house in Fentiman Road. I paid him, and smiled ruefully at the thought that this would be the first time in weeks that I’d managed to get home before midnight. I walked slowly up the short path to the front door.

I turned the key in the lock and opened the door quietly, so as not to wake my wife. Once inside I went through my nightly ritual of slipping off my jacket and shoes before creeping quietly up the stairs.

Before I had reached the bedroom I began to get undressed. After years of coming in at one or two in the morning, I was able to take off all my clothes, fold and stack them, and slide under the sheets next to Judy without waking her. But just as I pulled back the cover she said drowsily, “I didn’t think you’d be home so early, with all the problems you were facing tonight.” I wondered if she was talking in her sleep. “How much damage did the fire do?”

“The fire?” I said, standing in the nude.

“In Davies Street. Gerald phoned a few moments after you’d left to say a fire had started in the kitchen and had spread to the restaurant. He was just checking to make certain you were on your way. He’d cancelled all the bookings for the next two weeks, but he didn’t think they’d be able to open again for at least a month. I told him that as you’d left just after six you’d be with him at any minute. So, just how bad is the damage?”

I was already dressed by the time Judy was awake enough to ask why I had never turned up at the restaurant. I shot down the stairs and out onto the street in search of another cab. It had started raining again.

A taxi swung round and came to a halt in front of me.

“Where to this time, guv?”

Á Point

“Thank you, Michael. I’d like that.”

I smiled, unable to mask my delight.

“Hi, Pipsqueak. I thought I might have missed you.”

I turned and stared at a tall man with a mop of fair hair, who seemed unaffected by the steady flow of people trying to pass him on either side.

Anna gave him a smile that I hadn’t seen until that moment.

“Hello, Jonathan,” she said. “This is Michael Whitaker. You’re lucky — he bought your ticket, and if you hadn’t turned up I was just about to accept his kind invitation to dinner. Michael, this is my brother, Jonathan — the one who was held up at the hospital. As you can see, he’s now escaped.”

I couldn’t think of a suitable reply.

Jonathan shook me warmly by the hand. “Thank you for keeping my sister company,” he said. “Won’t you join us for dinner?”

“That’s kind of you,” I replied, “but I’ve just remembered that I’m meant to be somewhere else right now. I’d better…”

“You’re not meant be anywhere else right now,” interrupted Anna, giving me the same smile. “Don’t be so feeble.” She linked her arm in mine. “In any case, we’d both like you to join us.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“There’s a restaurant just down the road that I’ve been told is rather good,” said Jonathan, as the three of us began walking off in the direction of the Strand.

“Great. I’m famished,” said Anna.

“So, tell me all about the play,” Jonathan said as Anna linked her other arm in his.

“Every bit as good as the critics promised,” said Anna.

“You were unlucky to miss it,” I said.

“But I’m rather glad you did,” said Anna as we reached the corner of the Strand.

“I think that’s the place I’m looking for,” said Jonathan, pointing to a large grey double door on the far side of the road. The three of us weaved our way through the temporarily stationary traffic.

Once we reached the other side of the road Jonathan pushed open one of the grey doors to allow us through. It started to rain just as we stepped inside. He led Anna and me down a flight of stairs into a basement restaurant buzzing with the talk of people who had just come out of theatres, and waiters dashing, plates in both hands, from table to table.

“I’ll be impressed if you can get a table here,” Anna said to her brother, eyeing a group of would-be customers who were clustered round the bar, impatiently waiting for someone to leave. “You should have booked,” she added as he began waving at the head waiter, who was fully occupied taking a customer’s order.

I remained a yard or two behind them, and as Mario came across, I put a finger to my lips and nodded to him.

“I don’t suppose you have a table for three?” asked Jonathan.

“Yes, of course, sir. Please follow me,” said Mario, leading us to a quiet table in the corner of the room.

“That was a bit of luck,” said Jonathan.

“It certainly was,” Anna agreed. Jonathan suggested that I take the far chair, so his sister could sit between us.

Once we had settled, Jonathan asked what I would like to drink.

“How about you?” I said, turning to Anna. “Another dry martini?”

Jonathan looked surprised. “You haven’t had a dry martini since…”

Anna scowled at him and said quickly, “I’ll just have a glass of wine with the meal.”

Since when? I wondered, but only said, “I’ll have the same.”

Mario reappeared, and handed us our menus. Jonathan and Anna studied theirs in silence for some time before Jonathan asked, “Any ideas?”

“It all looks so tempting,” Anna said. “But I think I’ll settle for the fettucini and a glass of red wine.”

“What about a starter?” asked Jonathan.

“No. I’m on first call tomorrow, if you remember — unless of course you’re volunteering to take my place.”

“Not after what I’ve been through this evening, Pipsqueak. I’d rather go without a starter too,” he said. “How about you, Michael? Don’t let our domestic problems get in your way.”

“Fettucini and a glass of red wine would suit me just fine.”

“Three fettucini and a bottle of your best Chianti,” said Jonathan when Mario returned.

Anna leaned over to me and whispered conspiratorially, “It’s the only Italian wine he can pronounce correctly.”

“What would have happened if we’d chosen fish?” I asked her.

“He’s also heard of Frascati, but he’s never quite sure what he’s meant to do when someone orders duck.”

“What are you two whispering about?” asked Jonathan as he handed his menu back to Mario.

“I was asking your sister about the third partner in the practice.”

“Not bad, Michael,” Anna said. “You should have gone into politics.”

“My wife, Elizabeth, is the third partner,” Jonathan said, unaware of what Anna had been getting at. “She, poor darling, is on call tonight.”

“You note, two women and one man,” said Anna as the wine waiter appeared by Jonathan’s side.

“Yes. There used to be four of us,” said Jonathan, without explanation. He studied the label on the bottle before nodding sagely.

“You’re not fooling anyone, Jonathan. Michael has already worked out that you’re no sommelier,” said Anna, sounding as if she was trying to change the subject. The waiter extracted the cork and poured a little wine into Jonathan’s glass for him to taste.

“So, what do you do, Michael?” asked Jonathan after he had given a second nod to the wine waiter. “Don’t tell me you’re a doctor, because I’m not looking for another man to join the practice.”

“No, he’s in the restaurant business,” said Anna, as three bowls of fettucini were placed in front of us.

“I see. You two obviously swapped life histories during the interval,” said Jonathan. “But what does being ‘in the restaurant business’ actually mean?”

“I’m on the management side,” I explained. “Or at least, that’s what I do nowadays. I started life as a waiter, then I moved into the kitchens for about five years, and finally ended up in management.”

“But what does a restaurant manager actually do?” asked Anna.

“Obviously the interval wasn’t long enough for you to go into any great detail,” said Jonathan as he jabbed his fork into some fettucini.

“Well, at the moment I’m running three restaurants in the West End, which means I never stop dashing from one to the other, depending on which is facing the biggest crisis on that particular day.”

“Sounds a bit like ward duty to me,” said Anna. “So who turned out to have the biggest crisis today?”

“Today, thank heaven, was not typical,” I said with feeling.

“That bad?” said Jonathan.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. We lost a chef this morning who cut off the top of his finger, and won’t be back at work for at least a fortnight. My head waiter in our second restaurant is off, claiming he has ‘flu, and I’ve just had to sack the barman in the third for fiddling the books. Barmen always fiddle the books, of course, but in this case even the customers began to notice what he was up to.” I paused. “But I still wouldn’t want to be in any other…”

A shrill ring interrupted me. I couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from until Jonathan removed a tiny cellular phone from his jacket pocket.

“Sorry about this,” he said. “Hazard of the job.” He pressed a button and put the phone to his ear. He listened for a few seconds, and a frown appeared on his face. “Yes, I suppose so. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.” He flicked the phone closed and put it back into his pocket.

“Sorry,” he repeated. “One of my patients has chosen this particular moment to have a relapse. I’m. afraid I’m going to have to leave you.” He stood up and turned to his sister. “How will you get home, Pipsqueak?”

“I’m a big girl now,” said Anna, “so I’ll just look around for one of those black objects on four wheels with a sign on the top that reads T-A-X-I, and then I’ll wave at it.”

“Don’t worry, Jonathan,” I said. “I’ll drive her home.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Jonathan, ”because if it’s still pouring by the time you leave, she may not be able to find one of those black objects to wave at.”

“In any case, it’s the least I can do, after I ended up getting your ticket, your dinner and your sister.”

“Fair exchange,” said Jonathan as Mario came rushing up.

“Is everything all right, sir?” he asked.

“No, it isn’t. I’m on call, and have to go.” He handed over an American Express card. “If you’d be kind enough to put this through your machine, I’ll sign for it and you can fill in the amount later. And please add fifteen per cent.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Mario, and rushed away.

“Hope to see you again,” said Jonathan. I rose to shake him by the hand.

“I hope so too,” I said.

Jonathan left us, headed for the bar and signed a slip of paper. Mario handed him back his American Express card.

As Anna waved to her brother, I looked towards the bar and shook my head slightly. Mario tore up the little slip of paper and dropped the pieces into a waste-paper basket.

“It hasn’t been a wonderful day for Jonathan, either,” said Anna, turning back to face me. “And what with your problems, I’m amazed you were able to take the evening off.”

“I shouldn’t have, really, and wouldn’t have, except…” I trailed off as I leaned over and topped up Anna’s glass.

“Except what?” she asked.

“Do you want to hear the truth?” I asked as I poured the remains of the wine into my own glass.

“I’ll try that for starters,” she said.

I placed the empty bottle on the side of the table, and hesitated, but only for a moment. “I was driving to one of my restaurants earlier this evening, when I spotted you going into the theatre. I stared at you for so long that I nearly crashed into the back of the car in front of me. Then I swerved across the road into the nearest parking space, and the car behind almost crashed into me. I leapt out, ran all the way to the theatre, and searched everywhere until I saw you standing in the queue for the box office. I joined the line and watched you hand over your spare ticket. Once you were safely out of sight, I told the box office manager that you hadn’t expected me to make it in time, and that you might have put my ticket up for resale. After I’d described you, which I was able to do in great detail, he handed it over without so much as a murmur.”

Anna put down her glass of wine and stared across at me with a look of incredulity. “I’m glad he fell for your story,” she said. “But should I?”

“Yes, you should. Because then I put two ten-pound notes into a theatre envelope and took the place next to you,” I continued.

“The rest you already know.” I waited to see how she would react. She didn’t speak for some time.

“I’m flattered,” she said eventually. “I didn’t realise there were any old-fashioned romantics left in the world.” She lowered her head slightly. “Am I allowed to ask what you have planned for the rest of the evening?”

“Nothing has been planned so far,” I admitted. “Which is why it’s all been so refreshing.”

“You make me sound like an After Eight mint,” said Anna with a laugh.

“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.

“Is 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 a coffee, madam?” Mario asked her.

“No, thank you,” said Anna firmly. “We have to go in search of a marooned car.”

“Heaven knows if it will still be there after all this time,” I said as she rose from her place.

I took Anna’s hand, led her towards the entrance, back up the stairs and out onto the street. Then I began to retrace my steps to the spot where I’d abandoned my car. As we strolled up the Aldwych and chatted away, I felt as if I was with an old friend.

“You don’t have to give me a lift, Michael,” Anna was saying. “It’s probably miles out of your way, and in any case it’s stopped raining, so I’ll just hail a taxi.”

“I want to give you a lift,” I told her. “That way I’ll have your company for a little longer.” She smiled as we reached a distressingly large space where I had left the car.

“Damn,” I said. I quickly checked up and down the road, and returned to find Anna laughing.

“Is this another of your schemes to have more of my company?” she teased. She opened her bag and took out a mobile phone, dialled 999, and passed it over to me.

“Which service do you require? Fire, Police or Ambulance?” a voice asked.

“Police,” I said, and was immediately put through to another voice.

“Charing Cross Police Station. What is the nature of your enquiry?”

“I think my car has been stolen.”

“Can you tell me the make, colour and registration number please, sir.”

“It’s a blue Rover 600, registration K857 SHV.”

There was a long pause, during which I could hear other voices talking in the background.

“No, it hasn’t been stolen, sir,” said the officer who had been dealing with me when he came back on the line. “The vehicle was illegally parked on a double yellow line. It’s been removed and taken to the Vauxhall Bridge Pound.”

“Can I pick it up now?” I asked.

“Certainly, sir. How will you be getting there?”

“I’ll take a taxi.”

“Then just ask the driver for the Vauxhall Bridge Pound. Once you get there, you’ll need some form of identification, and a cheque for £105 with a banker’s card — that is if you don’t have the full amount in cash.”

“£105?” I said quietly.

“That’s correct, sir.”

Anna frowned for the first time that evening.

“Worth every penny.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Nothing, officer. Goodnight.”

I handed the phone back to Anna, and said, “The next thing I’m going to do is find you a taxi.”

“You certainly are not, Michael, because I’m staying with you. In any case, you promised my brother you’d take me home.”

I took her hand and hailed a taxi, which swung across the road and came to a halt beside us.

“Vauxhall Bridge Pound, please.”

“Bad luck, mate,” said the cabbie. “You’re my fourth this evening.”

I gave him a broad grin.

“I expect the other three also chased you into the theatre, but luckily they were behind me in the queue,” I said to Anna as I joined her on the back seat.

As the taxi manoeuvred its way slowly through the rainswept post-theatre traffic and across Waterloo Bridge, Anna said, “Don’t you think I should have been given the chance to choose between the four of you? After all, one of them might have been driving a Rolls-Royce.”

“Not possible.”

“And why not, pray?” asked Anna.

“Because you couldn’t have parked a Rolls-Royce in that space.”

“But if he’d had a chauffeur, that would have solved all my problems.”

“In that case, I would simply have run him over.”

The taxi had travelled some distance before either of us spoke again.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Anna eventually said.

“If it’s what I think it is, I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“Then you go first.”

“No — I’m not married,” I said. “Nearly, once, but she escaped.” Anna laughed. “And you?”

“I was married,” she said quietly. “He was the fourth doctor in the practice. He died three years ago. I spent nine months nursing him, but in the end I failed.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, feeling a little ashamed. “That was tactless of me. I shouldn’t have raised the subject.”

“I raised it, Michael, not you. It’s me who should apologise.”

Neither of us spoke again for several minutes, until Anna said, “For the past three years, since Andrew’s death, I’ve immersed myself in work, and I seem to spend most of my spare time boring Jonathan and Elizabeth to distraction. They couldn’t have been more understanding, but they must be heartily sick of it by now. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jonathan hadn’t arranged an emergency for tonight, so someone else could take me to the theatre for a change. It might even give me the confidence to go out again. Heaven knows,” she added as we drove into the car pound, “enough people have been kind enough to ask me.”

I passed the cabbie a ten-pound note and we dashed through the rain in the direction of a little Portakabin.

I walked up to the counter and read the form sellotaped to it. I took out my wallet, extracted my driving licence, and began counting.

I only had eighty pounds in cash, and I never carry a chequebook.

Anna grinned, and took the envelope I’d presented to her earlier in the evening from her bag. She tore it open and extracted the two ten-pound notes, added a five-pound note of her own, and handed them over to me.

“Thank you,” I said, once again feeling embarrassed.

“Worth every penny,” she replied with a grin.

The policeman counted the notes slowly, placed them in a tin box, and gave me a receipt.

“It’s right there, in the front row,” he said, pointing out of the window. “And if I may say so, sir, it was perhaps unwise of you to leave your keys in the ignition. If the vehicle had been stolen, your insurance company would not have been liable to cover the claim.” He passed me my keys.

“It was my fault, officer,” said Anna. “I should have sent him back for them, but I didn’t realise what he was up to. I’ll make sure he doesn’t do it again.”

The officer looked up at me. I shrugged my shoulders and led Anna out of the cabin and across to my car. I opened the door to let her in, then nipped round to the driver’s side as she leant over and pushed my door open. I took my place behind the wheel and turned to face her. “I’m sorry,” I said. “The rain has ruined your dress.” A drop of water fell off the end of her nose. “But, you know, you’re just as beautiful wet or dry.”

“Thank you, Michael,” she smiled. “But if you don’t have any objection, on balance I’d prefer to be dry.”

I laughed. “So, where shall I take you?” I asked, suddenly aware that I didn’t know where she lived.

“Fulham, please. 49 Parsons Green Lane. It’s not too far.”

I pushed the key into the ignition, not caring how far it was. I turned the key and took a deep breath. The engine spluttered, but refused to start. Then I realised I had left the sidelights on.

“Don’t do this to me,” I begged, as Anna began laughing again. I turned the key a second time, and the motor caught. I let out a sigh of relief.

“That was a close one,” Anna said. “If it hadn’t started, we might have ended up spending the rest of the night together. Or was that all part of your dastardly plan?”

“Nothing’s gone to plan so far,” I admitted as I drove out of the pound. I paused before adding, “Still, I suppose things might have turned out differently.”

“You mean if I hadn’t been the sort of girl you were looking for?”

“Something like that.”

“I wonder what those other three men would have thought of me,” said Anna wistfully.

“Who cares? They’re not going to have the chance to find out.”

“You sound very sure of yourself, Mr Whitaker.”

“If you only knew,” I said. “But I would like to see you again, Anna. If you’re willing to risk it.”

She seemed to take an eternity to reply. “Yes, I’d like that,” she said eventually. “But only on condition that you pick me up at my place, so I can be certain you park your car legally, and remember to switch your lights off.”

“I accept your terms,” I told her. “And I won’t even add any conditions of my own if we can begin the agreement tomorrow evening.”

Once again Anna didn’t reply immediately. “I’m not sure I know what I’m doing tomorrow evening.”

“Neither do I,” I said. “But I’ll cancel it, whatever it is.”

“Then so will I,” said Anna as I drove into Parsons Green Lane, and began searching for number forty-nine.

“It’s about a hundred yards down, on the left,” she said.

I drew up and parked outside her front door.

“Don’t let’s bother with the theatre this time,” said Anna.

“Come round at about eight, and I’ll cook you some supper.” She leant over and kissed me on the cheek before turning back to open the car door. I jumped out and walked quickly round to her side of the car as she stepped onto the pavement.

“So, I’ll see you around eight tomorrow evening,” she said.

“I’ll look forward to that.” I hesitated, and then took her in my arms. “Goodnight, Anna.”

“Goodnight, Michael,” she said as I released her. “And thank you for buying my ticket, not to mention dinner. I’m glad my other three would-be suitors only made it as far as the car pound.”

I smiled as she pushed the key into the lock of her front door.

She turned back. “By the way, Michael, was that the restaurant with the missing waiter, the four-and-a-half-fingered chef, or the crooked bartender?”

“The crooked bartender,” I replied with a smile.

She closed the door behind her as the clock on a nearby church struck one.