Studs and Stilettos

Lesson 30 - all's well that ends well.

'Have you a rrrreserrrvation signoreeena?'

The waiter has black oily hair painted onto his scalp and a thin moustache like a liquorice bootlace drooping over an acne pocked chin.

'No – but I'm expected....apparently.'

'And the name signoreeeena?'

'Camilla.'

'There eez no Cameeellla heeerrrre.'

'No, that's my name. Try um, Best.'

'Umbessst.'

'Just Best.'

'Jussbeeessst.'

'No no no no. Best. The name is Best.'

'Nobest.'

Now I know why English people speak very slowly and shout the words at foreigners. I can feel my volume increasing in line with my blood pressure and temperature.

'The....name....is...Best...' I mouth loudly.

'No Best. No...Best... here... in book.' the waiter is mouthing even more loudly back at me. What a cheek! Like I don't speak English. 'No Best. Maybe another name.'

'Gotcha. No!,' I hold up my hand. 'That's not a name either. Is there a reservation in the name of Hartburn or Huxley or Huxley Hartburn?'

The waiter is flicking through a list and keeping an eye on the punters to make sure no-one escapes without paying or giving a substantial tip. He's like the boys at school, pretending to pay me attention while his mind is a gazillion miles away.

'No!' He snaps the book shut. 'No reservation. We have table for one – over there.'

I don't want a table for one – or table for two if it's the wrong person but I glance over my mammoth bouquet in the direction he is pointing, towards the back of the restaurant, to a dark little niche under an artificial period feature (aka plastic beam) hung with strings of garlic and onions and Italian flags.

'What the.....!'

I march over to the figure hunched in the corner at a table for two, avidly studying the menu.

'You!' I shout, my bouquet bristling with rage. 'What's your game? Eh? Did you think I could possibly be interested in you? And these flowers – they must have cost a fortune? Did you think you could have your wicked way with me by buying me off with,' I shake the bouquet into his face, 'a bunch of weeds? Who do you think I am ...? A loose woman?'

'Ralphie?'

A tiny voice drifts into my ear from somewhere behind my head and I spin smacking the blooms into the face of a short rotund lady who's over painted red lips are quivering on the edge of tears.

'Who are you?'

The little face is starting to come out in red whealy blotches, presumably due to some sort of allergy from the full on assault with a bunch of toxic spring flowers.

Ralph Dobbs stands up, his face agog at this assault.

'She's my wife!' He delivers the sentence with enough saliva to keep the flowers going for a week. 'What do you think you're playing at Miss Niccuth!'

Mrs Dobbs has removed a large lace covered hankie from her handbag and is blowing her swelling nose while blotches like buboes are popping out over her skin like the surface of a bubbling cauldron.

'So that's why you wanted to bring me here Ralph Dobbs. To break the news. To introduce me to your new...new floozie! I knew there was something fishy going on when you were packing that suitcase last night. Pretending it was another rugby tour. You...you...!'