Ian Sansom - The Bad Book Affair

“‘Give a girl a break,’” he repeated.

“Yeah. Go on.”

“You!” shouted Ted. “In! Now!”

Israel hesitated. Fatally.

“Ted. I’ll be fine,” he said.

“You’ll be flippin’ eaten alive, ye eejit! Now!”

“Come on, then. I’ll buy you lunch,” said Veronica.

He certainly did need a friend.

“Come on, I think I can help you,” said Veronica. Her voice had always had a slightly breathless quality. And her wide blue eyes-enhanced by colored contact lenses?-and her open, trusting face, and the determined jut of the chin.

“Nice raincoat,” said Israel.

“You auld flatterer!” she said. “Now, are you going to let me buy you lunch, or not?”

“All right,” said Israel, his defenses having been quickly broken down.

“Come on, let’s go,” she said. And she took Israel by the hand and started walking briskly and triumphantly away from Ted’s cab.

“Hey!” said Ted, emerging from the cab. “What are ye doin’?”

“I’m just going to get some lunch here, Ted. OK?” said Israel, shouting back. “I’ll see you later.”

Ted shook his head.

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he bellowed.

Veronica glanced behind her and smiled.

“Bye-bye now!” she called. “Don’t wait up!”

“Where are we going then?” said Israel.

“There’s a little bistro I know.”

“A bistro?” said Israel.

“Yes.”

“In Rathkeltair?”

“Yes.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No. Why? Do you have a problem with bistros?”

“No, I have no problem with bistros whatsoever.”

“Good.”

The bistro was just off Main Street, so it was called, naturally, Off Main Street, in case you forgot. Rathkeltair, as a town, was just a cut above Tumdrum, and so the Main Street in Rathkeltair was not merely different in degree to the Main Street of Tumdrum, it was different in kind. And Off Main Street was correspondingly a cut above anything off Main Street in Tumdrum: the menus, for example, weren’t laminated. Israel couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a nonlaminate menu. It was like holding the Torah scrolls. Off Main Street was decorated in a kind of cheap Ikea fantasy of a cosmopolitan loft apartment. There was a lot of exposed brick-work and abstract art. Huge wineglasses. Café-style chairs. Dim lighting. Slightly noirish film score-type music just a little too loud, as though you were in Berlin or The Bourne Ultimatum.

With Gloria, back home in London, Israel used to eat out at least once a week, in cheap Italians or Indians or Chinese restaurants round by where they lived, or Israel would go up and meet Gloria in town and they’d find somewhere different and new and exciting. There was this vegetarian restaurant they liked up round by Old Street, where they served saffron lasagna with pistachio and ginger, and it was all scrubbed wooden tables and body-pierced Australian waitresses. That was a great restaurant. He’d never really enjoyed eating out since he’d been living in Tumdrum: a meal out in Tumdrum invariably came with a side order of chips or champ, and the local chefs and restaurateurs seemed long ago to have abandoned any idea of flavor or texture or indeed portion control, and gone flat-out for bulk. In comparison to eating out in Tumdrum, dining out in Rathkeltair was like walking into a 3-D Michelin restaurant guide. This lunchtime there were half a dozen people already seated, men in suits mostly, and middle-aged women in makeup. Civil servants, probably. On flextime. But they might as well have been Cary Grant and Lauren Bacall as far as Israel was concerned.

He sat there, mesmerized by the nonlaminate menu, which promised crostini, and beet and goat cheese salad, and moules du jour, and red snapper fillet, and ginger-yogurt cheesecake. He ran his fingers over the paper as though checking the weave.

“Wow,” he said. And then, looking at the prices, “Wow,” he said again.

“It’s my treat,” said Veronica.

“On expenses, then?” said Israel.

“Still my treat,” she said, smiling.

He remembered the very first meal out he and Gloria had ever had. He could see it now, in his mind’s eye, as clear as-if not clearer than-he could see Veronica before him now, placing a finger on her lips and gazing at the menu. It was a Greek restaurant, somewhere around Palmers Green. There was ornamental trelliswork and a big amateur sky-blue mural, and the cutlery glistening, the plates white. They ate vegetable kebabs and drank retsina poured from big copper jugs and pulled faces at the taste, and they held hands. And all to the accompaniment of the theme tune to Zorba the Greek.

“What do you think?” said Veronica.

“It’s OK,” said Israel. “Did you ever see Zorba the Greek?”

“Is that a film?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

He and Veronica had never had that much in common.

“This used to be a wine bar,” Veronica was saying. “Back in the nineties.”

“Right.”

“But they’ve really transformed it, haven’t they. I like all these little accents.”

“Accents?” said Israel.

“The little Chinese-lacquer-red bowls and everything.”

“Right,” said Israel. “Yes. Nice.”

“The chef’s from here, but his wife’s Polish,” said Veronica.

“Really?”

“Cosmopolitan, you see. International. I like it because it reminds me of London.”

“Yeah,” said Israel. “Kind of.”

A waiter stood beside them. He was wearing a black silk shirt-always a bad sign in a waiter.

“Would you like some wine with your meal?”

“Why not?” said Israel.

“Red or white?” said Veronica.

“White,” said Israel.

“I thought you drank red?”

“It stains.”

“You’re meant to drink it, Israel, not spill it.”

“We’ll take a bottle of house white,” said Veronica, without consulting further.

“What is the house white?” said Israel.

“It’s a quirky New World wine,” said the waiter.

“What?”

“It’s a Riesling.”

“Hmm. A quirky New World Riesling?”

“Yes.”

“Really? OK. And what have you got that’s French?” asked Israel.

“Since when did you take an interest in wine?” said Veronica.

“I…just…You know. I find there’s a lack of character and vibrancy in a lot of the New Worlds, for my liking. I prefer something with more freshness.”

“OK,” said Veronica. “You’re going to be telling me you can cook and clean next, are you?”

“I like to think I can look after myself,” said Israel. Which was a lie.

“You want to snap him up before someone else does,” said the waiter.

“We’ll see,” said Veronica. “I need to road test him first.”

Israel blushed.

“So?” said the waiter.

Israel was still scanning the wine list.

“Actually, why don’t we go for a Riesling from its spiritual home?” he said.

“Right,” said Veronica. “Sounds fine.”

“We’ll go for the Markus Molitor, then, please.”

“At twenty-nine pounds ninety-five a bottle?” said Veronica, seizing a menu.

“I’m buying the wine,” said Israel.

“Oh, well, in that case.”

“Very good, sir. Madam,” said the waiter, smiling, unconvincingly-“Madam,” spoken with a Northern Irish accent sounding suspiciously like an insult-and walking away.

“I am impressed,” said Veronica. “So, what have you been doing in that coop of yours? Sitting around reading wine encyclopedias?”

“Not exactly. Pearce taught me, actually.”

“Pearce Pyper?”

“Yeah.”

“You have heard, have you?”

“Yes,” said Israel sadly. “I have.”