The Dining Room

~I~

Felicity swanned into the hotel dining room, pausing just long enough in the doorway to ensure that the restaurant manager would notice her and come rushing over. She’d spent a fashionable five minutes in the ladies’ room powdering her nose and now she was perturbed to find that Gerald, instead of being seated at their usual table, was perched on a stool at the bar and deeply engaged in conversation to a nondescript looking couple drinking beer. Felicity ignored the fumbling restaurant manager hovering next to her and strolled right over to the bar, where she caught the gist of what Gerald was saying.

“…and so I thought it was something that not many people knew much about yet, and wouldn’t it be interesting to start collecting them before everyone wants one.”

Felicity offered her cheek to Gerald and then turned to the poor dreary people he was talking to.

“I do hope my husband hasn’t been boring you. He does tend to go on sometimes. He’s developed a fascination for revenue stamps, of all things. I mean, ordinary postage stamps one can understand.” Felicity selected the bar stool between Gerald and the young woman and, while crossing her shapely legs elegantly, removed her silver cigarette case from her purse. “My uncle William collected postage stamps for many years. He even had a Penny Red in his collection, – or was it a Penny Black, I forget – which he sold for quite a large lump of dosh several years ago. But revenue stamps? I mean, how many people even know what a revenue stamp is? Have you explained it to them, Gerald?” Before he could answer, she went on: “They are the stamps that the Inland Revenue used to use on their tax documents, or something like that. Thrilling, wouldn’t you say? I’ll have a martini, darling.”

Finally, Felicity paused long enough in her castigation of her husband’s hobby to finally take a good look at the couple. They really were a little shabby, and this hotel was obviously a little above their means, which brought her to the inevitable conclusion. “You’re not honeymooners I hope. I don’t think I could imagine a worse place to spend one’s honeymoon.” She laughed a little too superciliously and waved her extra slim cigarette in front of her husband’s nose until he started patting his pockets for his lighter.

“Uh, no… actually, we’re not married,” said the young man. “We’ve just come on a weekend break.” He sipped his lager and his female companion laughed, a little too nervously thought Felicity. She arched an eyebrow as she stirred the olive around in her glass.

“Oh, Gerry, do you hear… how charming! A romantic weekend away!” She giggled naughtily, and exhaled a long stream of tobacco smoke across their heads. “Gerald and I did that once, didn’t we, darling? Before we were married. Ever so naughty! Fortunately, though, Gerald did have the good sense to choose somewhere a little more… tasteful. Not that this is a bad hotel, of course. It’s perfectly alright for a two night stay, but of course, Gerald isn’t trying to woo me anymore, are you darling?” This time she exhaled the smoke into his face and produced a nice wide smile.

“Actually, we’ve been seeing each other for a whole month, so this is a kind of anniversary,” said the sheepish woman. Felicity turned in her direction, stubbing out her almost unsmoked cigarette in the ashtray.

“That’s so delightful to hear,” she said, and stood up. “Gerald, I think we should leave the happy couple to it, don’t you. Our table beckons!” Felicity indicated to the lingering restaurant manager that he should lead the way to their table. Before she left she turned once more to their new acquaintances. “I do so hope you will enjoy your stay. But a word of advice,” here she lowered her voice to a raised whisper: “stay away from the prawn cocktail!”

Chuckling sardonically, Felicity snatched up her purse and departed, leaving poor Gerald to follow with her martini.

~ II ~

Edward paused in the lobby to buff up his shoes on the back of his trousers, to straighten his tie and to check his teeth for the umpteenth time. What on earth was he doing here, he wondered. He was bound to make a complete fool of himself. He told himself that no matter what she was wearing he would not stare at her décolletage again. Last time he saw her, her neck line had plunged so low that he’d found it hard to keep his eyes on her face when she was talking. How embarrassed he’d been when she’d delicately lifted his chin with a perfectly manicured red fingertip and brought his gaze level with hers. How mortifying!

Edward looked at his watch. He was twenty minutes early. Should he wait in the hall, or take a seat at the bar? Mrs Simmons – Michelle as she kept instructing him to call her – had emailed him to say that she would be in London for a few days and would like to discuss a business proposition with him. She had told him the name of her hotel and had suggested they could eat there, because it had a rather good reputation and the prawn cocktail was supposed to be delicious. She had made all the arrangements. He merely had to turn up, but that was not an easy a prospect as he’d thought it would be. In fact, he’d been having anxiety dreams all week. In one, he would walk into the restaurant and take his seat at the table, only to find himself stark naked, and all the patrons staring at him in open mouthed shock and horror; or worse still, he’d walk in wearing only his Valentine Day boxer shorts that his mates at work had sent him as a practical joke last year; or, in one particularly extravagant yet lucid surrealist episode, he would cough and splutter his prawn cocktail upon her breasts, whereupon she would remove her clothing and dance the flamenco naked on the table top.

If truth be told, he’d had a bit of a thing for Mrs Simmons ever since his mother had introduced her as her boss, at a New Year’s party in Edinburgh the previous year. The fact that she was a good decade his senior only helped the fantasy blossom and blow itself into the epitome of his ideal sexual fantasy: a sex goddess who would gather him to her ample bosom and nurture his every need.

Edward entered the dining room and looked around. He tried several times to catch the restaurant manager’s attention, but he seemed to be busy attending to a dignified looking lady seated at the bar with some other people. He wasn’t sure if he should take a seat at the bar and wait for Mrs Simmons, or ask which one their table was and wait for her there. He tried to picture himself in each situation and wondered which would seem the most mature and distinguished from her point of view. If he sat at the table, he would be able to rise like a gentleman and help her with her chair. If he sat at the bar, he would come across as a bit more casual, more aloof. That would be good, but he didn’t want to come across as too cool. She may mistake it for disinterest.

What on earth was he thinking! As if Mrs Simmons had time for his small-boy fantasies. Surely she would get straight to the business she had come for; she’d want to get it over with quickly and probably wouldn’t even order a main course. Then she’d shake hands, thank him for coming and bid him goodnight. That would be all, and he’d catch the last bus home again.

Edward tried again to catch the waiter’s eye, but he seemed to just look right through him, as if he wasn’t there. He raised his hand and coughed, but the waiter was already seeing to a couple seated nearby. He checked his watch. He was still fifteen minutes early. Maybe he should go for a walk and come back again. But then, what if she turned up and asked for him? Punctuality was important. He was sure she was going to offer him a job in her company, hopefully a managerial position. He realised he was biting his nails and stopped quickly. A waiter caught his eye, nodded and hurried by, as if Edward’s only purpose for standing there like a lemon was to make eye contact for a brief second with passing waiters.

Trying to dispel the unbidden images of Michelle Simmons removing his shirt with her teeth, Edward decided he’d better get himself a drink at the bar after all. He was about to order a pint of bitter but then he thought it wouldn’t make much of an impression on Mrs Simmons, so he ordered a whiskey instead.

“Any particular whiskey?” asked the barman, indicating a shelf stacked with about twelve different kinds. “Irish? Scotch? Single malt?”

“Erm… maybe just… that one!” he pointed at one with a label he recognised, and then, hoping to sound a bit more debonair, he added in his best 007 voice: “on the rocks, if you don’t mind.”

At that moment he heard a polite cough at his shoulder and turned to see the restaurant manager hovering next to him.

“Mr Edward Wilkins?”

“Yes?” said Edward, accepting his drink from the barman.

“I have a message for you from a Mrs Simmons.”

Edward tried to keep the anxiety out of his face. Oh no, she was going to cancel. She had better things to do with her evening. She didn’t know what she was thinking inviting such a nobody to meet with her.

“Yes?” he said, swallowing back his worries.

“Mrs Simmons has asked me to tell you that she has decided to order dinner for two in her suite and she would like you to go straight up. Room 412.”

Edward nearly fell off his stool.

“Shall I have your drink sent up, sir?”

“Er, yes please,” said Edward, as he picked himself up, straightening his jacket. As he did so, the young waiter he’d signalled earlier suddenly appeared in front of him, smiling broadly, suddenly looking keen to help.

“How can I help you, sir?”

Edward looked at him, for a moment, puzzled. Then he smiled and patted the young chap on the arm. “Perhaps. Do you bring up the room service? I think I might be having dinner upstairs after all. Room 412.”

And with that, he took a deep breath, and headed for the lifts.

~ III ~

By the time they arrived downstairs at the restaurant, Shelley was deliriously intoxicated. Those few minutes in the lift had been enough for both of them to want to press the fourth floor button again and return to their room, but Chris reminded her they would lose their table reservation and they had already skipped lunch.

As the elevator door slid silently open, Shelley paused to straighten her dress and tuck a stray wisp of hair back into place. Chris closed his eyes and tried to remember the mathematical formula he’d been forced to memorise in high-school, and when that didn’t work he tried to imagine being served a bowl of cold rice pudding by his grandma.

“Oh, Chris,” Shelly whispered, licking his ear as they entered the dining room, “let’s start with the strawberries. I’ve heard they’re an aphrodisiac!” Chris grinned sheepishly and pulled her close, grazing her neck with his lips.

“Don’t tempt me,” he warned. A few heads turned in their direction but nobody paid them much heed.

“Do you have a reservation, sir?” asked the restaurant manager.

“Yes,” said Chris. “For Mr and Mrs Smith.”

The restaurant manager’s face remained marble. “Ah yes, of course. You have a table reserved for eight o’clock. If you don’t mind being seated at the bar, we’ll have your table ready for you in just a few moments.”

Chris and Shelley allowed the restaurant manager to lead them to the bar. Shelley perched herself up on one of the tall bar stools, intentionally revealing a lot more thigh than was necessary, and Chris had to stop himself from sliding his hand all the way up her leg. He put his arm around her back and pulled her close.

“Would you like something to drink?” interrupted the barman.

Chris pulled himself away from Shelley just long enough to ask: “Do you have fresh strawberries?”

Shelley wriggled seductively and giggled. “And cream?”

Nonplussed, the barman informed them that strawberries were no longer in season, but he could check with the kitchen in case they had any.

“Maybe later then,” said Chris, kissing Shelley’s fingers. “I’ll just have a half a pint of larger.”

“Me too,” said Shelley, and uncrossed her legs, revealing the faintest glimmer of red satin underwear.

“You’re a real devil, you know,” gushed Chris, surreptitiously running the tip of her fingers over his tongue. “You know how hungry I am, and you’re trying to force me to skip straight to desert! That’s no way to treat your boss!”

“Well, how often do we get to do this, Mr Simmons? We may as well make the most of it. I can’t sit around forever waiting for your wife to go out of town.”

“Don’t talk to me about Michelle. You’ll spoil the mood.” As Chris leaned over to grab his larger, he noticed that an oldish balding man sitting next to Shelley was watching them.

“It’s a lovely little hotel, this isn’t it?” said the man, taking a sip from his pint of bitter.

Shelley turned round to face him too. “It’s alright,” she said, then smiled, “for our purposes.”

Chris squeezed Shelley’s thigh and she turned her attention back to him. The last thing he wanted was to get into a conversation with some boring old geezer at the bar.

“I’m here with my wife,” said the man. “We’re going to the auction tomorrow. They’ve got some fascinating stamps up for auction, and I hope to buy a few.” Shelley and Chris reluctantly turned their attention back to him. He seemed to take that as a signal to go on. “Not ordinary postage stamps, mind you,” he took a long slurp of his bitter. It left a white moustache on his top lip which he sucked away with his bottom lip. Shelley took Chris’s hand and put it back on her thigh, slightly parting her knees as she did so. “I started collecting revenue stamps a few years back. Not many people know very much about revenue stamps, and so I thought it was something that not many people knew much about yet, and wouldn’t it be interesting to start collecting them before everyone wants one.”

Just then an elegantly dressed middle-aged woman with a chignon flounced up to them – clearly she’d given herself airs – and presented her cheek to their uninvited companion as if she were some Hollywood actress from the 1940s. She cut him off in mid-flow and then proceeded to inform them how boring her husband was, barely pausing for breath as she ordered a martini and waited for him to light her cigarette. Shelley and Chris stood in mute astonishment as she continued to systematically all but castrate her poor spouse in front of them. They were not invited to introduce themselves, nor did she show that she was in anyway interested in anything they might have to say. When, in answer to one of her fleeting, disinterested questions, they mentioned that they weren’t married and had come for a weekend break, she acted as if this was something just a little bit risqué and ever so slightly naughty. Shelley had to bite her lip just to stop herself from laughing. Just as Chris and Shelley were beginning to try and think up excuses to leave, the haughty lady beckoned to the restaurant manager and insisted he lead her to her table. Her poor hen-pecked husband picked up her martini and stood up to follow, shrugging apologetically as he bid goodbye.

Chris and Shelley breathed a sigh of relief, simultaneously attempting to suppress the fits of giggles that were threatening to consume them. Shelley kicked her shoe off, and with stocking toes, ran her foot against Chris’s leg. Chris turned to the barman.

“On second thoughts, do you think you could go and find out about those strawberries? We hear the prawn cocktail is not to be recommended.”

~ IV ~

Anthony hoped he’d find a minute to slip away. He hadn’t imagined it. That dark haired gentleman with the dark eyes had definitely given him the eye as he’d rushed past with his tray.

“Did you hear what he said?” he asked Trevor, the barman. “Did you hear him invite me to his room? He even touched me on the arm.”

“I think table four is trying to get your attention,” Trevor replied as he wiped up a spill on the bar.

“Yes, but did you see the way he looked at me. He was so cute!”

“Anthony, table four…”

“What did he order?” Anthony asked, leaning his chin on his hands as he pictured himself in the stranger’s arms.

“Just a whiskey. Table four want their drinks.”

“Oh, how sophisticated! A whiskey! Did you catch his name?”

Trevor gave Anthony a stern look, and then checked his tabs. “Edward, I think.”

Anthony almost jumped for joy. “Ooh, Edward, Eddie! I’m going up there as soon as I’ve served this table. Can you cover for me for twenty minutes, please Trev?”

“You’ll get yourself in trouble,” said Trevor, sensibly. “But first go and serve that nice couple over there. They’ve been waiting for their prawn cocktails for ten minutes!”

Anthony practically skipped over to the table, his thoughts on other things.