Think Yourself Lucky (13 page)

"Good fucking riddance to you and all," the manager shouts after them and is stomping back to the bar when the fellow who strewed the tablecloth with bones says "We'll have our bill too, please."

"Happy to oblige." Though he doesn't look it, he tries to improve his demeanour as he brings the bill. "Have you had a good evening with us?" he apparently believes he's entitled to ask.

"We appreciated the food. You might want to learn how to treat the public."

"I treat them how they ask for and I'll carry on. You could learn a few manners yourself."

Bonedropper's mouth sprawls open almost too loosely to speak. "What do you mean by that?"

"Dumping your crap on my table like you did. You're lucky I don't send you the laundry bill."

"No, I'm Lucky and someone's going to know."

Even if they weren't confronting each other I don't suppose they'd hear me. Once Bonedropper and his wife have marched out, the remaining diners call for their bills, and nobody else has much to say despite being challenged by the manager. Soon he's alone in the dining area, or at least he thinks so. As he locks the door he shouts "That's all the rubbish chucked out. No tips for anyone tonight."

The chef is silent long enough to be having several thoughts before she calls "Shall we try and make sure there are some tomorrow?"

"Wait now, here's a tip. I'll give you one." When she comes to the kitchen entrance he says "You stick to what you're good at and let me fucking do the same."

She doesn't move except for looking sad. "I'm sorry if you think I made things worse. Maybe it's time I—"

"For fuck's sake don't stand there like the wife. I've had her doing that too often lately, like she can't bear to be near. Sit down and have a drink."

"I'd like to finish in the kitchen and head off if you don't mind."

"Well, I do. It's enough going to bed at night with one woman in a mood. If you've got something to say, spit it out but sit down first."

She leaves the kitchen none too eagerly and pulls out a chair from a table that wasn't occupied tonight. I didn't expect her to comply, but it shows that everyone deserves what comes to them. Maybe she thinks she's safest by the window, though the back street isn't much better than deserted. "What's your pleasure?" says Prick.

"I won't have anything to drink, thanks. I'm best keeping a clear head."

"Your head's just fine," he says and tramps like a sulky schoolboy to the bar, where he pours himself a vintage whisky and throws the glassful back. When he's refilled the glass to the brim he slurps it on the way to joining Chefanny. "Here's to us," he says, elevating the glass as he lands on the chair nearest hers.

The chef lifts a loosely cupped hand that I'd say was expressing its emptiness. "Why did you think Bartek might be getting his own back?"

"We had words about his pay and he wasn't over chuffed. He'll have to take a bit less or his family back home will."

"Just Bartek?"

"Not just fucking Bartek. Even me, I may have to take a cut. The ould woman's going to be moaning when she can't afford her sparklies." He peers over the glass he downs and says "I don't know about your money yet. We'll have to see how we get on."

"By getting on you mean ..."

"Don't give me that crap. You're not stupid and I'm not. I reckon you're not satisfied any more than I am."

"We're talking about the restaurant."

"Now you're teasing, right? I don't mind a bit of that to start with." He gropes for her hand, but she moves it out of reach and plants it on her knee. "You need a bit more in your life like me," Prick insists. "That feller of yours can't be giving you enough. Seemed like he wanted to hide behind his mam and dad the night his lot was here."

"I don't know where you could have got that idea. Now if you'll excuse me—"

"Struck me he let them do all the talking for him. Maybe he wants somebody to do other stuff for him as well."

Chefanny stands up, keeping the table between them. "He's all I want, so could I ask you to remember that? Now I'd appreciate it if you'd let me finish what you pay me for."

"Don't talk to me like that, love. You know you're not saying what you're thinking." Prick staggers to his feet and makes a grab for her, colliding with his table and clattering the whisky glass. "Can't leave you alone," he calls after her in a kind of sly dogged triumph. "Tables still need clearing."

She reappears at speed from the kitchen with a tray and clears one. She's hardly vanished with the tray before she comes back to load it again. The manager slumps on his chair and fumbles for his glass, watching her as if she's a show he's determined to enjoy. She removes the tablecloths and returns with fresh ones, which she flaps not unlike a bullfighter challenging a bull. She still has to set out utensils and glasses, and by now the manager looks almost as bored as I am. When she eventually stays in the kitchen he begins to nod as if he's agreeing with his own dull thoughts, but when she ventures forth in her overcoat he lurches to meet her. "Let's not leave it like this," he mumbles as he stumbles. "Sorry if you thought I showed you up in front of anyone. Give us a hug at least if I'm forgiven."

Is she hearing how he must plead with his wife? "We'll sort it out tomorrow," she says, but perhaps she would feel undignified if not worse for dodging around him and making a dash for the street. She suffers a profuse sloppy hug and even pats his back, but when a hand wanders to her breast she lifts it by the cuff between finger and thumb and lets it drop to his crotch as she steps well away. "That really is enough," she says. "Try and sleep it off."

While she doesn't quite run to the door, she doesn't hide her eagerness to go. The lock must be stiff, because she adds her other hand to the one that's trying to twist the latch. "I'll do it for you," the manager slurs—his words are as indistinct as his intentions—and moves towards her in a crouch that looks like the start of a tackle. Then the door swings wide and the chef darts onto the street, turning to say firmly "I'll see you tomorrow."

"There'll be other fucking nights," Prick vows to his reflection in the door he's locked behind her. "You'll come round. You'd better," he says with a grin that's pretending he's satisfied as he blunders across the restaurant to stare at the crowd of photographs on the walls—pictures of football teams, each of them including less of him than there is now. A couple of photographs are strewn with signatures that wish him well. He executes a little clumsy footwork that I imagine he'd call dribbling and then wags his thumbs at the teams. "Still got it," he mutters. "They can't take the ball off me."

He desists once he starts panting and holds the back of a chair while he wipes his forehead. He rubs the hand with the less sweaty one and peers around the restaurant for anything still to be done. His gaze drifts across the kitchen entrance and then veers unsteadily back to it. At first he can't be sure he's seeing me, even when he takes a heavy step towards me. He narrows his eyes, which tugs his brows lower and seems to shrink the rest of his face. "Who the fuck are you?" he gasps and tries to sound more threatening. "What do you think you're doing there?"

"Just call me Lucky. And I've been watching you live up to your name, Mr Prick."

He jerks his lowered head forward as if it's meeting a football. "I asked you what you're doing in my place."

"Let's say I'm here on somebody's behalf. I'm the man who sorts things out for them."

"Who're you doing that for?" he says while his lips grope for a sneer. "Doesn't sound like much of a man, and you don't look like much of one either."

"I'd be happy tor you to find out how much I am."

"I won't be wasting my time." His mouth has settled on a disgusted grimace. As he makes for the phone behind the bar he says "You can tell it to the law."

"I wouldn't call them till you've seen the state of the place. Maybe it's against one of those laws you don't like."

"I'll tell you what's against a lot of laws, chum. You are." His gaze wanders around the restaurant before he blusters "What's wrong with it? Nothing except you."

"The kitchen. You don't go in there too often, do you? I think you'll find somebody's left something on."

"She's been getting her own back and all, has she?" the manager snarls and swerves towards the kitchen. "Fuck her, and you bet I will."

"Don't blame your chef. She left everything in order. Well, you won't be telling anybody otherwise."

If he hears me he doesn't take time to understand. He staggers through the doorway and glares down the room, where the grill has been on for quite a while—long enough for the metal network to turn red with the halo of gas jets. "Waste my fucking money, will she?" he cries and tramps rather less than straight to the grill.

He slips on the olive oil that I've spilled on the floor. He barely misses clutching at the grill, catching hold of the metal edge on either side instead. "What's she trying to do," he nearly screams, "trash the place?"

"I've told you once it wasn't her. How often do you need to hear?" As he makes to swing around, having realised how close I am behind him, I say "Lucky Newless at your service. Take a closer look."

I don't mean at me. I take one myself by springing up, using his head for leverage. My view isn't as close as his, since I've planted his face on the grill. When I weary of watching his hands drum without much rhythm on the metal that flanks it—that's while they aren't flailing the air—I step back. His muffled cries don't sound like a man at all. They grow louder and shriller as he rears up, waving his hands on either side of his face as if he thinks they can cool it down. It puts me in mind of a pie decorated with a pastry lattice, not least because the grill has crossed both his eyes out. That must be why he flounders straight towards me, unless his condition has somehow deluded him into fancying I'll help.

This time he does lose his footing on the oil. Before he hits the floor like a side of beef flung on a slab he encounters the knife I've been poising for him to find. It penetrates his neck, and his fall drives it deeper, then sends it skittering across the linoleum. His hands continue jerking for a while—I'm amused to see one close convulsively around the handle of the knife and then the blade—as his shrieks peter out and the oil on the floor is invaded by red as if someone's mixing a dressing or a marinade. At last his hands give up their feeble antics and he's just one more piece of meat in his restaurant. "Now you know what goes on in the kitchen," I say and leave him.

"I've got something for us all to think about," Andrea said. "A new slogan for the shop."

David wondered if his colleagues shared his thought that since she was including everyone, nobody was scheduled to be fired. He'd begun to relax when she said more sharply "Who wants to start while we've no customers?"

He stared at his computer screen as if this might help him concentrate on the task, only to be troubled by a sense of the blog lurking somewhere behind the travel details on the screen. He hadn't looked at it since he'd read about the man on the mobility scooter, and he managed to put it out of his mind as he heard Helen say "See more by sea."

"That's too much like telling people not to fly. We don't want to put the public off anything we sell."

"We could have one about flying as well." Having tilted her head to indicate she was thinking, Helen added "Don't fight for a flight."

"If it needs explaining that means it doesn't work."

Helen tipped her head the other way, and Emily relieved the silence by saying "Trust our travel."

"That's more like it," Andrea said without conveying how much, and Emily's cheeks grew pinker. "What have the men got for us?"

Bill prefaced his suggestion with a laugh. "Broaden yourself abroad."

"There's a time and place for jokes, and we don't need too many here."

"I didn't think it was just a joke." His smile turned wistful as he said "I meant you should broaden your mind."

"I think it's perfectly adequate, thank you." Before Bill could tell her he wasn't referring to hers Andrea said "Well, David?"

For a distracted moment he thought she was seeking his opinion of her mind, and then Emily said "Go on, David. Show us all how."

He felt cornered, just as he had at All Write. No less desperately than he'd produced the title at the writers' group he said "Fly fast and far."

"That's good, isn't it, Andrea?" Emily said. "I'd go for that."

"I think it's the best we've had," Helen seemed pleased to establish.

"It's got my vote as well," Bill said.

"I wasn't asking for one," Andrea told him. "Would anybody like to hear mine?"

"Of course we would," David said.

Perhaps she thought his encouragement was inappropriate, unless her silence was designed to build anticipation. "Let yourself go," she said.

"That's good too," Emily wanted her to know.

"Better than mine," David tried saying.

The general murmur might have been expressing consideration or disagreement, and Andrea contributed a shrill cough. "I'll submit them all if it keeps everyone happy," she said. "Speaking of head office, David, I've had their verdict."

Not just the word made him feel accused. "What did they say?"

"They'll be obtaining a permit to give us free use of the streets." She paused as if she expected him to rejoice before she added "On balance they're supporting you, since the council won't be taking any action."

"You mean he was right to keep on handing out our offers," Bill said.

"I said exactly what I meant." Andrea emphasised it with another piercing cough. "And while we're on the subject of promotions, let's see a few of everyone's holiday photos on the wall. The sunnier the better, and make sure you're in them."

She hadn't finished speaking when David heard another voice related to the business.
I go Fru-go-go, I go Fru-go-go...
The chant was in his pocket—the official ringtone Andrea had convinced the staff it was advisable to download. He gave her an apologetic grimace as he took out the phone. "It's Stephanie," he said. "She wouldn't call if it wasn't important. She knows I'm at work."