Luncheon Analysis

The Luncheon Jeffrey Archer She waved at me across a crowded room at the St. Regis Hotel in refreshing York. I waved back, realizing I k untested the face and if unable to place it. She squeezed past keep backers and customers and had reached me before I had the chance to ask any ace who she was. I racked that section of my brain that is meant to store people, but it transmitted no reply. I realized I would assume to compensate to the old federal agencyy trick of bursterfully worded questions until her answers jogged my memory. How are you, darling? she cried, and threw her accouterments or so me, an opening that didnt garter, since we were at a Literary auberge cocktail party, and any angiotensin converting enzyme will throw their arms some you on such occasions, correct the directors of the Book-of-the-Month Club. From her accent she was clearly American, and she looked to be approaching forty but thank to the genius of modern make-up may even redeem overtaken it. S he wore a long clean-living cocktail dress and her blonde hair was d single up in one of those buns that looks standardised a brioche. The overall onus do her appear somewhat like a chess queen.Not that the bungalow loaf helped, because she world power allow had dark hair flowing to her shoulders when we coating met. I do wish women would realize that when they change their hairstyle they often earn exactly what they set out to do look all unalike to any unsuspecting male. Im well, thank you, I verbalize to the white queen. And you? I inquired as my opening gambit. Im retributory fine, darling, she replied, taking a glass of champagne from a passing host. And hows the family, I asked, non sure if she even had one. Theyre all well, she replied.No help there. And how is Louise? she inquired. Blooming, I said. So she knew my married wo worldly concern. But then, not necessarily, I thought. Most American women are experts at remembering mens wives. They have to be, when on the New York circuit they change so often it becomes a gr ingester challenge than the Times crossword. Have you been to London lately? I roared above the babble. A brave question, as she may never have been to Europe. sightly once since we had lunch together. She looked at me quizzi inspecty. You dont remember who I am, do you? she asked as she devoured a cocktail sausage. I smiled. Dont be silly, Susan, I said. How could I ever forget? She smiled. I testify that I remembered the white queens invoke in the nick of time. Although I still only had vague recollections of the lady, I certainly would never forget the lunch. I had just had my first book published, and the critics on both places of the Atlantic had been complimentary, even if the checks from my publishers were less so. My agent had told me on several occasions that I shouldnt write if I wanted to make money.This created a dilemma, because I couldnt see how to make money if I didnt write. It was around this t ime that the lady who was presently facing me and chattering on, oblivious to my silence, telephoned from New York to heap lavish praise on my novel. There is no writer who does enjoy receiving such calls, although I confess to having been less captivated by an eleven-year-old girl who called me collect from California to say she had embed a spell mistake on page 47 and warned that she would call over again if she found another(prenominal).However, this particular lady might have ended her transatlantic congratulations with nothing more than good-bye if she had not dropped her own name. It was one of those call that can, on the spur of the moment, al manners book a table at a chic restaurant or a seat at the opera, which sheer mortals like myself would have found impossible to attain granted a months notice. To be fair, it was her husbands name that had achieved the reputation, as one of the worlds most rarified film producers. When Im next in London you must have lunch wit h me, came crackle bring cut back the phone. No, said I gallantly, you must have lunch with me. How dead charming you English always are, she said. I have often wondered how such(prenominal) American women get extraneous with when they say those few lecture to an Englishman. Nevertheless, the wife of an Oscar-winning producer does not phone one everyday. I promise to call you when Im next in London, she said. And indeed she did, for almost sixer months to the day she telephoned again, this time from the Connaught Hotel, to declare how much she was looking forward to our meeting. Where would you like to have lunch? I said, realizing a second too late, when she replied with the name of one of the most exclusive restaurants in town, that I should have made sure it was I who chose the venue. I was glad she couldnt see my hopeless face as she added airly, Monday, one oclock. Leave the booking to meIm cognise there. On the day in question I donned my one respectable suit, a n ew shirt I had been frugality for a special occasion since Christmas, and the only tie that looked as if it hadnt been previously used to hold up my trousers.I then strolled over to my wedge and asked for statement of my current account. The teller handed me a long instal of paper unworthy of its amount. I studied the protrude as one who has to make a major financial decision. The bottom stating in blacken lettering that I was in credit to the sum of thirty-seven pounds and lxiii pence. I wrote out a check for thirty-seven pounds. I flavor that the gentleman should always leave his account in credit, and I might add it was a belief my confide manager shared with me. I then walked up to Mayfair for my luncheon date.As I entered the restaurant I find too many hosts and plush seats for my liking. You cant eat either, but you can be charged for them. At a deferral table sat for two sat a woman who, although not young, was elegant. She wore a blouse of powder blue crepe-de-chin e, and her blond hair was rolled away from her face in style that reminded me of the war years and had once again become fashionable. It was clearly my transatlantic admirer, and she greeted me in the similar Ive known you all my life as she was to do at the Literary inn cocktail party years later.Although she had a drink in present of her, I didnt order an aperitif, explaining that I never drank before lunchand I would have liked to add, but as soon as your husband makes a film of my novel, I will. She launched immediately into the latest Hollywood gossip, not so much dropping names as reciting them, while I ate my way through the potato chips from the bowl in front of me. A few minutes later a waiter materialized by the table and presented us with two pear-shaped embossed leather menus, easily better bound than my novel.The place positively reeked of unnecessary expense. I subject the menu and studied the first chapter with horror it was eminently put-downable. I had no ide a that simple food obtained from Covent Garden could cost quite so much by merely being transported to Mayfair. I could have bought her the same dishes for a quarter of the price at my favorite bistro, a mere one hundred yards away, and to add to my discomfort I observed that it was one of those restaurants where the guest menu made no mention of the prices.I settled down to study the long list of French dishes, which only served to remind me that I hadnt eaten well for more than a month, a state of personal business that was about to be prolonged by a further day. I remembered my desire balance morosely reflected that I would probably have to wait until my agent sold the Icelandic rights of my novel before I could yield a square meal again. What would you like? I said gallantly. I always enjoy a light lunch, she volunteered. I sighed with premature relief, only to find that light did not necessarily mean inexpensive.She smiled sweetly up at the waiter, who looked as though he wo uldnt be enquire where his next meal might be coming from, and ordered just a sliver of have salmon, followed by two tiny loving lamb cutlets. Then she hesitated, but only for a moment, before adding and a side salad. I studied the menu with some caution, running my fingers breadth down the prices, not the dishes. I also eat light lunch, I said mendaciously. The chefs salad will be quite enough for me. The waiter was obviously affronted but left peaceably. She chatted of Coppola and Preminger, of Pacino and Redford, and of Garbo as if she saw her all the time.She was mixture enough to stop for a moment and ask what I was working on at present. I would have liked to have replied, On how Im personnel casualty to explain to my wife that I have only sixty-three pence left in the bank, but I in truth discussed my ideas for another novel. She seemed impressed but still made no case to her husband. Should I mention him? No. Mustnt sound pushy, or as though I needed the money. The food arrived, or that is to say her smoked salmon did, and I sat silently watching her eat my bank account while I nibbled on a roll. I looked up only to discover a wine waiter by my side. Would you veneration for some wine? said I, recklessly. No, I dont judge so, she said. I smiled a little too soon Well, perhaps a little something white and dry. The wine waiter handed down a second leather-bound book, this time with golden grapes embossed on the cover. I searched down the pages for half-bottles, explaining to my guest that I never drank at lunch. I chose the cheapest. The wine waiter appeared a moment later with a large silver put full of ice in which the half bottle looked drowned, and, like me, completely out of its depth.A junior waiter cleared away the empty scale of measurement while another wheeled a large trolley to the side of our table and served the lamb cutlets and the chefs salad. At the same time a third waiter made up an exquisite side salad for my guest that ended up bigger than my complete order. I didnt feeling I could ask her to swap. To be fair, the chefs salad was superbalthough I confess it was hard to appreciate such food fully while onerous to work out a plot that would be convincing if I found the bill to over thirty-seven pounds. How silly of me to ask for white wine with lamb, she said, having nearly washed-up the half bottle. I ordered a half bottle of the house red without calling for the wine list. She finished the white wine and then launched into the theater, music, and other authors. All those who were still quick she seemed to know, and those who were dead she hadnt read. I might have enjoyed the performance if it hadnt been for the fear of wondering if I would be able to afford it when the curtain came down.When the waiter cleared away the empty dishes he asked my guest if she would care for anything else. No, thank you, she saidI nearly applauded. Unless you have one of your famous apple surprises. I fear the last one may have gone, bird, but Ill go and see. Dont hurry, I wanted to say, but instead I just smiled as the rope tightened around my neck. A few minutes later the waiter strode back in triumph, weaving between the tables holding the apple surprise in the typewriter ribbon of his hand, high above his head.I prayed to Newton that the apple would obey his law. It didnt. The last one, madam Oh, what luck, she declared. Oh, what luck, I repeated, unable to face the menu and discover the price. I was now attempting some mental arithmetic as I realized it was going to be a close-run thing. Anything else, madam? the ingratiating waiter inquired. I took a deep breath. Just coffee, she said. And for you, sir? No, no, not for me. He left us. I couldnt think of an explanation for why I didnt drink coffee.Then she produced the large Gucci bag by her side and a copy of my novel, which I sign-language(a) with a flourish, hoping the head waiter would see, and feel I was the sort of man who should be allowed to sign the bill as well, but he resolutely remained at the far end of the room while I wrote the words An unforgettable meeting and appended my signature. While the dear lady was drinking her coffee I picked at another roll and called for the bill, not because I was in any particular hurry, but like a guilty defendant at the Old Bailey, I preferred to wait no longer than the judges sentence.A man in a smart jet-propelled plane uniform whom I had never seen before appeared carrying a silver tray with a folded piece of paper on it, looking not unlike my bank statement. I pushed back the edge of the bill slowly and read the figure thirty-six pounds and forty pence. I casually put my hand into my inner(a) pocket and with move my lifes possessions, then placed the crisp new notes on the silver tray. They were whisked away. The man in the green uniform appeared a few minutes later with my sixty pence change, which I pocketed, since it was the only way I was go ing to get a bus home.The waiter gave me a look that would have undoubtedly won him a character part in any film produced by the ladys distinguished husband. My guest rose and walked across the restaurant, waving at, and occasionally kissing, people I had previously seen only in glossy magazines. When she reached the door she stopped to win her coat, a mink. I helped her on with the fur, again failing to leave a tip. As we stood on the Curzon Street sidewalk, a dark blue Rolls-Royce drew up beside us and a liveried chauffeur leaped out and loose the door.She climbed in. Goodbye, darling, she said as the electric window slid down. Thank you for such a lovely lunch. Goodbye, I said and, summoning up my courage, added I do hope when you are next in town I shall have the opportunity of meeting your distinguished husband. Oh, darling, didnt you know? she said. Know what? We were disjoint ages ago. Divorced? said I. Oh, yes, she said gaily, I havent verbalise to him for years. I just stood there looking helpless. Oh, dont flummox yourself on my account, she said. Hes no loss.In any case, I recently married again another film producer, I prayedin fact, I quite expected to bump into my husband todayyou see, he owns the restaurant. Without another word the electric window purred up and the Rolls-Royce glided effortlessly out of sight, release me to walk to the nearest bus stop. As I stood surrounded by Literary Guild guests, staring at the white queen with the Brioche bun, I could still see her drifting away in that blue Rolls-Royce. I tried to concentrate on her words. I knew you wouldnt forget me, darling, she was saying. afterwards all, I did take you to lunch, didnt I?