David Nobbs - It Had to Be You

‘… savings in the UK. Otherwise, Taiwan it is. In which case we could …’

He chewed on his next morsel of dough ball as if he couldn’t bear the pleasure to end.

‘… close the London office and you could all join us here in Birming-ham.’

Dwight Schenkman pronounced England’s second city as if it was a type of meat.

James’s heart sank. Even the arrival of his pizza capricciosa couldn’t lift it.

She was more than three-quarters of an hour late now. He was in turmoil. He stared wildly at the door, willing her to hurry in. But he knew in his heart that she wouldn’t.

He had ruled out the possibility that she had had second thoughts. Apart from the fact that there was no reason why she should – they had talked about it and talked about it and she had committed herself and told him how much she loved him and told him of James’s lack of real passion in recent years – there was also his knowledge of her character. She was a woman of courage, of spirit, of compassion, of style. If she had had second thoughts, she would have phoned to tell him.

He began to think about the possibility of an accident. He could barely allow himself to believe that she would have had a bad accident. His happiness, his utterly unexpected happiness, was not to be taken away so cruelly. But a minor accident, that would be what it was.

If it was a very minor accident, though, she would have been able to phone.

So why didn’t he phone her? Not in the restaurant, though. It was too quiet. Too many people were eating in whispers, in that strange, overawed English way.

He strolled out into the garden, slowly, trying to look casual.

He had chosen this remote spot so well that there was no network coverage.

He returned to his table, smiled at the lunchers and sat down, trying to look as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Round and round went his mind.

He told himself that he had lived without her reasonably happily for fifty-one years. Surely he could manage another thirty or so?

He knew that this was nonsense.

He caught the eye of the plump, plain woman. She had a stern, stiff look on her face, and traces of tiramisu on both her chins. He had a sudden fear that he knew her, and that, therefore, she knew him. He smiled at her, trying to make the smile look casual and relaxed. She gave a defensive half-smile in response, as if she wasn’t sure whether she knew him.

What did it matter, anyway? Deborah hadn’t come. Nothing had happened.

A waitress lumbered over towards him, English, local, with inelegant legs and not a shred of style.

‘Would you like to order, sir?’ she asked. ‘Only the chef’s got the hospital at two forty-five, with his boils.’

‘Well, he could hardly go there without them, could he?’

‘Sorry, sir?’

‘I’ll have the chicken liver pâté and then the loin of God.’

‘Good?’

‘Fine, Dwight. It was fine.’

‘You’re an unusual eater. I was watching you.’

Too right. Like a hawk. Disconcerting. Very.

‘I make sure that I don’t run out of the things I particularly like, which in this case were the egg, the anchovy, the capers,’ explained James. ‘There must be a bit of those left at the end. Not too much, though. That would be childish.’

‘I see,’ said Dwight, not seeing at all. ‘Right. So there we are, James. A simple task. Not too frightening, is it?’

It’s terrifying.

‘Not at all.’

‘I could have just phoned you, James, but we go back a long way. I wanted to establish the continuation of a relationship that is a substantial part of the bedrock that has helped to cement the British sphere of the Globpack operation over the years, not to say the decades.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Coffee? No. Back to work. Quite right, James. Time is money.’ He summoned a waiter and asked for the bill. It came instantly.

‘Thank you very much for lunch,’ said James.

‘My pleasure. We must do it properly soon. The four of us. Not on the company, though. Those days are over, never to return.’ The waiter moved off and Dwight leant forward. ‘One other matter, James. Sack your PA. Immediately. She’s incompetent. She’s a liability to the company image.’

‘I know, but …’

‘You’re not having…?’

‘Of course I’m not.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s just …’

It’s just that she’s so useless she’ll never get another job. And I like her. I’m comfortable with her.

Can’t say any of that.

‘Immediately. Absolutely.’

Oh, God.

‘How would Deborah feel if one day your whole operation did move to Birmingham?’

She’d go ape-shit.

‘I don’t say she’d be thrilled, Dwight, she’s a London lady through and through, despite her farming background, but she’d accept it without complaint if it was necessary.’

Dwight stood up. James rose with him as if they were tied together.

They got a taxi back to Globpack. The two men stood outside the main entrance for a moment, in the stifling sunshine.

‘My very best to the marvellous Deborah,’ said Dwight Schenkman the Third, shaking James’s hand ferociously.

‘Thank you. And my very best to …’ Oh, God. What was it? Ah! Cake. That was the clue. And ending in an e. Got it. ‘… Madeleine.’

‘Madeleine?’

Oh, shit. That was Proust.

He could feel the eyes of Dwight Schenkman the Third, those piercing yet strangely unseeing eyes, boring into his back as he strode towards the car park.

The man in the white linen suit cancelled his room.

‘We not charge. You not use,’ said the Hungarian receptionist.

‘Thank you.’

‘I hoping you finding your wife very all right, Mr Rivers.’

‘Thank you.’

As he walked slowly, sadly, exhaustedly to his car through a wall of heat, the man who had called himself Mr Rivers realised that he had indeed been hoping that this lunch would be the first stage in the long process of finding a wife, and that Deborah as his wife would indeed be very all right, although the whole thing was so very all wrong.

What on earth had happened to her? He found it almost intolerable that he had no idea.

‘That was a twenty-three-stroke rally. I wonder when there was last a twenty-three-stroke rally at Wimbledon on the twenty-third of June,’ said the commentator.

‘Do you really? How sad is that?’ called out James.

‘Interestingly enough—’

James pressed the button. He smiled internally at the thought that he would never know whether the commentator’s remark would have been interesting enough. He was already far away, on Radio 2, listening to Steve Wright in the Afternoon.

His phone rang almost immediately. Sadly, Steve Wright spent only twelve seconds in James’s afternoon.

It was Marcia, his PA. At the sound of her posh Benenden voice his heart sank. Dwight wanted him to sack her tomorrow. He wasn’t sure if he had the power to sack her any more. Didn’t he have to give her a warning, maybe several warnings? He didn’t want to sack her, but he didn’t want not to have the power to sack her if he wanted to. It was odd being a boss these days.

‘Hello. It’s me.’ So bright and warm and innocent and naive. She hadn’t been to Benenden. She’d been to an obscure private school, now defunct, where they taught you to talk as if you had been to Benenden. James sometimes thought that it was the only thing they had taught her.

‘Hello, Marcia.’

‘How did it go? Do I still have you as my boss?’

Marcia, that really is a little bit forward.

‘Sorry. Am I being a bit cheeky?’

‘No. Not at all. It went well. You still have me as your boss.’ Not for long, though. Poor girl. ‘No, we just have to make savings. Fifteen per cent across the board.’