Page 3 of A Class Act

‘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 havetinnedfish 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 fishwithoutfins? 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 thattenWallbangers, 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.’

‘TenWalburgas,’ 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. Aproperjob 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 cuttingoff 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’ssucha 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 nowtwo 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 knowyoufrom 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 fromanywhere, maybe you’ve found yourself at the Old Bailey at some point? Hmm? For some reason?’

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