I began to pray that the man in front of me wasn’t looking for a single.
‘Do you have one ticket for tonight’s performance?’ he asked hopefully, as the three-minute bell sounded. The man in the booth smiled.
I scowled. Should I knife him in the back, kick him in the groin, or simply scream abuse at him?
‘Where would you prefer to sit, sir? The dress circle or the stalls?’
‘Don’t say stalls,’ I willed. ‘Say Circle … Circle … Circle…’
‘Stalls,’ he said.
‘I have one on the aisle in row H,’ said the man in the box, checking the computer screen in front of him. I uttered a silent cheer as I realized that the theatre would be trying to sell off its remaining tickets before it bothered with returns handed in by members of the public. But then, I thought, how would I get around that problem?
By the time the man in front of me had bought the ticket on the end of row H, I had my lines well rehearsed, and just hoped I wouldn’t need a prompt.
‘Thank goodness. I thought I wasn’t going to make it,’ I began, trying to sound out of breath. The man in the ticket booth looked up at me, but didn’t seem all that impressed by my opening line. ‘It was the traffic. And then I couldn’t find a parking space. My girlfriend may have given up on me. Did she by any chance hand in my ticket for resale?’
He looked unconvinced. My dialogue obviously wasn’t gripping him. ‘Can you describe her?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Short-cropped fair hair, hazel eyes, wearing a red silk dress that…’
‘Ah, yes. I remember her,’ he said, almost sighing. He picked up the ticket by his side and handed it to me.
‘Thank you,’ I said, trying not to show my relief that he had come in so neatly on cue with the closing line from my first scene. As I hurried off in the direction of the stalls, I grabbed an envelope from a pile on the ledge beside the booth.
I checked the price of the ticket: twenty pounds. I extracted two ten-pound notes from my wallet, put them in the envelope, licked the flap and stuck it down.
The girl at the entrance to the stalls checked my ticket. ‘F-11. Six rows from the front, on the right-hand side.’
I walked slowly down the aisle until I spotted her. She was sitting next to an empty place in the middle of the row. As I made my way over the feet of those who were already seated, she turned and smiled, obviously pleased to see that someone had purchased her spare ticket.
I returned the smile, handed over the envelope containing my twenty pounds, and sat down beside her. ‘The man in the box office asked me to give you this.’
‘Thank you.’ She slipped the envelope into her evening bag. I was about to try the first line of my second scene on her, when the house lights faded and the curtain rose for Act One of the real performance. I suddenly realized that I had no idea what play I was about to see. I glanced across at the programme on her lap and read the words ‘An Inspector Calls, by J. B. Priestley’.
I remembered that the critics had been full of praise for the production when it had originally opened at the National Theatre, and had particularly singled out the performance of Kenneth Cranham. I tried to concentrate on what was taking place on stage.
The eponymous inspector was staring into a house in which an Edwardian family were preparing for a dinner to celebrate their daughter’s engagement. ‘I was thinking of getting a new car,’ the father was saying to his prospective son-in-law as he puffed away on his cigar.
At the mention of the word ‘car’, I suddenly remembered that I had abandoned mine outside the theatre. Was it on a double yellow line? Or worse? To hell with it. They could have it in part-exchange for the model sitting next to me. The audience laughed, so I joined in, if only to give the impression that I was following the plot. But what about my original plansfor the evening? By now everyone would be wondering why I hadn’t turned up. I realized that I wouldn’t be able to leave the theatre during the interval, either to check on my car or to make a phone call to explain my absence, as that would be my one chance of developing my own plot.
The play had the rest of the audience enthralled, but I had already begun rehearsing the lines from my own script, which would have to be performed during the interval between Acts One and Two. I was painfully aware that I would be restricted to fifteen minutes, and that there would be no second night.
By the time the curtain came down at the end of the first act, I was confident of my draft text. I waited for the applause to die down before I turned towards her.
‘What an original production,’ I began. ‘Quite modernistic.’ I vaguely remembered that one of the critics had followed that line. ‘I was lucky to get a seat at the last moment.’
‘I was just as lucky,’ she replied. I felt encouraged. ‘I mean, to find someone who was looking for a single ticket at such short notice.’
I nodded. ‘My name’s Michael Whitaker.’
‘Anna Townsend,’ she said, giving me a warm smile.
‘Would you like a drink?’ I asked.
‘Thank you,’ she replied, ‘that would be nice.’ I stood up and led her through the packed scrum that was heading towards the stalls bar, occasionally glancing back to make sure she was still following me. I was somehow expecting her no longer to be there, but each time I turned to look she greeted me with the same radiant smile.
‘What would you like?’ I asked, once I could make out the bar through the crowd.
‘A dry martini, please.’
‘Stay here, and I’ll be back in a moment,’ I promised, wondering just how many precious minutes would be wasted while I had to wait at the bar. I took out a five-pound note and held it up conspicuously, in the hope that the prospect of a large tip might influence the barman’s sense of direction. He spotted the money, but I still had to wait for another four customers to be served before I managed to secure the dry martini and a Scotch on the rocks for myself. The barman didn’t deserve the tip I left him, but I hadn’t any more time to waste waiting for the change.
I carried the drinks back to the far corner of the foyer, where Anna stood studying her programme. She was silhouetted against a window, and in that stylish red silk dress, the light emphasized her slim, elegant figure.
I handed her the dry martini, aware that my limited time had almost run out.
‘Thank you,’ she said, giving me another disarming smile.
‘How did you come to have a spare ticket?’ I asked as she took a sip from her drink.
‘My partner was held up on an emergency case at the last minute,’ she explained. ‘Just one of the problems of being a doctor.’
‘Pity. They missed a quite remarkable production,’ I prompted, hoping to tease out of her whether her partner was male or female.
‘Yes,’ said Anna. ‘I tried to book seats when it was still at the National Theatre, but they were sold out for any performances I was able to make, so when a friend offered me two tickets at the last minute, I jumped at them. After all, it’s coming off in a few weeks.’ She took another sip from her martini. ‘What about you?’ she asked as the three-minute bell sounded.
There was no such line in my script.
‘Me?’
‘Yes, Michael,’ she said, a hint of teasing in her voice. ‘How did you come to be looking for a spare seat at the last moment?’
‘Sharon Stone was tied up for the evening, and at the last second Princess Diana told me that she would have loved to have come, but she was trying to keep a low profile.’ Anna laughed. ‘Actually, I read some of the crits, and I dropped in on the off-chance of picking up a spare ticket.’
‘And you picked up a spare woman as well,’ said Anna, as the two-minute bell went. I wouldn’t have dared to include such a bold line in her script – or was there a hint of mockery in those hazel eyes?
‘I certainly did,’ I replied lightly. ‘So, are you a doctor as well?’
‘As well as what?’ asked Anna.
‘As well as your partner,�
�� I said, not sure if she was still teasing.
‘Yes. I’m a GP in Fulham. There are three of us in the practice, but I was the only one who could escape tonight. And what do you do when you’re not chatting up Sharon Stone or escorting Princess Diana to the theatre?’
‘I’m in the restaurant business,’ I told her.
‘That must be one of the few jobs with worse hours and tougher working conditions than mine,’ Anna said as the one-minute bell sounded.
I looked into those hazel eyes and wanted to say – Anna, let’s forget the second act: I realize the play’s superb, but all I want to do is spend the rest of the evening alone with you, not jammed into a crowded auditorium with eight hundred other people.
‘Wouldn’t you agree?’
I tried to recall what she had just said. ‘I expect we get more customer complaints than you do,’ was the best I could manage.
‘I doubt it,’ Anna said, quite sharply. ‘If you’re a woman in the medical profession and you don’t cure your patients within a couple of days, they immediately want to know if you’re fully qualified.’
I laughed, and finished my drink as a voice boomed over the Tannoy, ‘Would the audience please take their seats for the second act. The curtain is about to rise.’
‘We ought to be getting back,’ Anna said, placing her empty glass on the nearest window ledge.
‘I suppose so,’ I said reluctantly, and led her in the opposite direction to the one in which I really wanted to take her.
‘Thanks for the drink,’ she said as we returned to our seats.
‘Small recompense,’ I replied. She glanced up at me questioningly. ‘For such a good ticket,’ I explained.
She smiled as we made our way along the row, stepping awkwardly over more toes. I was just about to risk a further remark when the house lights dimmed.
During the second act I turned to smile in Anna’s direction whenever there was laughter, and was occasionally rewarded with a warm response. But my supreme moment of triumph came towards the end of the act, when the detective showed the daughter a photograph of the dead woman. She gave a piercing scream, and the stage lights were suddenly switched off.
Anna grabbed my hand, but quickly released it and apologized.
‘Not at all,’ I whispered. ‘I only just stopped myself from doing the same thing.’ In the darkened theatre, I couldn’t tell how she responded.
A moment later the phone on the stage rang. Everyone in the audience knew it must be the detective on the other end of the line, even if they couldn’t be sure what he was going to say. That final scene had the whole house gripped.
After the lights dimmed for the last time, the cast returned to the stage and deservedly received a long ovation, taking several curtain calls.
When the curtain was finally lowered, Anna turned to me and said, ‘What a remarkable production. I’m so glad I didn’t miss it. And I’m even more pleased that I didn’t have to see it alone.’
‘Me too,’ I told her, ignoring the fact that I’d never planned to spend the evening at the theatre in the first place.
We made our way up the aisle together as the audience flowed out of the theatre like a slow-moving river. I wasted those few precious moments discussing the merits of the cast, the power of the director’s interpretation, the originality of the macabre set and even the Edwardian costumes, before we reached the double doors that led back out into the real world.
‘Goodbye, Michael,’ Anna said. ‘Thank you for adding to my enjoyment of the evening.’ She shook me by the hand.
‘Goodbye,’ I said, gazing once again into those hazel eyes.
She turned to go, and I wondered if I would ever see her again.
‘Anna,’ I said.
She glanced back in my direction.
‘If you’re not doing anything in particular, would you care to join me for dinner…’
Author’s Note
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. A 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.’
‘Me 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 realizing 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 m
ean?’
‘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 ‘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 business.’
‘In 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.
The Short, the Long and the Tall Page 25
