Page 4 of A Class Act

‘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. ‘Ofcourse. 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, despiteMiss 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 drinkingwater.’

‘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,hewas a bit of all right, wasn’t he?’ Bess sighed. ‘And way out ofyourleague, Claude,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Don’t you go having fantasies abouthim,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 Ihaveto 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 hadleft his numberfor 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 sojolie,’ 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?’

‘Thatbâtardwho 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.

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