Jeffrey Archer - Twelve Red Herrings

“Congratulations,” Christabel said.

I turned to face her.

“Your novel,” she said. “Number one on the New York Times bestseller list, isn’t it?”

“Yes, congratulations,” said Duncan. “I haven’t got round to reading it yet, so don’t tell me anything about it. It wasn’t on sale in Bosnia,” he added with a laugh.

I handed him my little gift.

“Thank you,” he said, and placed it on the hall table. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“I’ve read it,” said Christabel.

Duncan bit his lip. “Let’s go,” he said, and was about to turn and say goodbye to Christabel when she asked me, “Would you mind if I joined you? I’m starving, and as Duncan said, there’s absolutely nothing in the icebox.”

I could see that Duncan was about to protest, but by then Christabel had passed him, and was already in the corridor and heading for the elevator.

“We can walk to the restaurant,” Duncan said as we trundled down to the ground floor. “It’s only Californians who need a car to take them one block.” As we strolled west on 72nd Street Duncan told me that he had chosen a fancy new French restaurant to take me to.

I began to protest, not just because I’ve never really cared for ornate French food, but I was also aware of Duncan’s unpredictable pecuniary circumstances. Sometimes he was flush with money, at other times stony broke. I just hoped that he’d had an advance on the novel.

“No, like you, I normally wouldn’t bother,” he said. “But it’s only just opened, and the New York Times gave it a rave review. In any case, whenever I’m in London, you always entertain me ‘right royally’,” he added, in what he imagined was an English accent.

It was one of those cool evenings that make walking in New York so pleasant, and I enjoyed the stroll, as Duncan began to tell me about his recent trip to Bosnia.

“You were lucky to catch me in New York,” he was saying. “I’ve only just got back after being holed up in the damned place for three months.”

“Yes, I know. I read your article in Newsweek on the plane coming over,” I said, and went on to tell him how fascinated I had been by his evidence that a group of UN soldiers had set up their own underground network, and felt no scruples about operating an illegal black market in whatever country they were stationed.

“Yes, that’s caused quite a stir at the UN,” said Duncan. “The New York Times and the Washington Post have both followed the story up with features on the main culprits — but without bothering to give me any credit for the original research, of course.”

I turned round to see if Christabel was still with us. She seemed to be deep in thought, and was lagging a few paces behind. I smiled a smile that I hoped said I think Duncan’s a fool and you’re fantastic, but I received no response.

After a few more yards I spotted a red and gold awning flapping in the breeze outside something called “Le Manoir”. My heart sank. I’ve always preferred simple food, and have long considered pretentious French cuisine to be one of the major cons of the eighties, and one that should have been passed, if not part of culinary history, by the nineties.

Duncan led us down a short crazy-paving path through a heavy oak door and into a brightly lit restaurant. One look around the large, over-decorated room and my worst fears were confirmed. The maître d’ stepped forward and said, “Good evening, monsieur.”

“Good evening,” replied Duncan. “I have a table reserved in the name of McPherson.”

The maître d’ checked down a long list of bookings. “Ah, yes, a table for two.” Christabel pouted, but looked no less beautiful.

“Can we make it three?” my host asked rather half-heartedly.

“Of course, sir. Allow me to show you to your table.”

We were guided through a crowded room to a little alcove in the corner which had only been set for two.

One look at the tablecloth, the massive flowered plates with “Le Manoir” painted in crimson all over them, and the arrangement of lilies on the centre of the table, made me feel even more guilty about what I had let Duncan in for. A waiter dressed in a white open-neck shirt, black trousers and black waistcoat with “Le Manoir” sewn in red on the breast pocket hurriedly supplied Christabel with a chair, while another deftly laid a place for her.

A third waiter appeared at Duncan’s side and enquired if we would care for an aperitif. Christabel smiled sweetly and asked if she might have a glass of champagne. I requested some Evian water, and Duncan nodded that he would have the same.

For the next few minutes, while we waited for the menus to appear, we continued to discuss Duncan’s trip to Bosnia, and the contrast between scraping one’s food out of a billycan in a cold dugout accompanied by the sound of bullets, and dining off china plates in a warm restaurant, with a string quartet playing Schubert in the background.

Another waiter appeared at Duncan’s side and handed us three pink menus the size of small posters. As I glanced down the list of dishes, Christabel whispered something to the waiter, who nodded and slipped quietly away.

I began to study the menu more carefully, unhappy to discover that this was one of those restaurants which allows only the host to have the bill of fare with the prices attached. I was trying to work out which would be the cheapest dishes, when another glass of champagne was placed at Christabel’s side.

I decided that the clear soup was likely to be the least expensive starter, and that it would also help my feeble efforts to lose weight. The main courses had me more perplexed, and with my limited knowledge of French I finally settled on duck, as I couldn’t find any sign of “poulet”.

When the waiter returned moments later, he immediately spotted Christabel’s empty glass, and asked, “Would you care for another glass of champagne, madame?”

“Yes, please,” she replied sweetly, as the maître d’ arrived to take our order. But first we had to suffer an ordeal that nowadays can be expected at every French restaurant in the world.

“Today our specialities are,” he began, in an accent that would not have impressed central casting, “for hors d’oeuvres Gelée de saumon sauvage et caviar impérial en aigre doux , which is wild salmon slivers and imperial caviar in a delicate jelly with sour cream and courgettes soused in dill vinegar. Also we have Cuisses de grenouilles à la purée d’herbes à soupe, fricassée de chanterelles et racines de persil , which are pan-fried frogs’ legs in a parsley purée, fricassee of chanterelles and parsley roots. For the main course we have Escalope de turbot , which is a poached fillet of turbot on a watercress purée, lemon sabayon and a Gewürztraminer sauce. And, of course, everything that is on the menu can be recommended.”

I felt full even before he had finished the descriptions.

Christabel appeared to be studying the menu with due diligence. She pointed to one of the dishes, and the maître d’ smiled approvingly.

Duncan leaned across and asked if I had selected anything yet.

“Consommé and the duck will suit me just fine,” I said without hesitation.

“Thank you, sir,” said the maître d’. “How would you like the duck? Crispy, or perhaps a little underdone?”

“Crispy,” I replied, to his evident disapproval.

“And monsieur?” he asked, turning to Duncan.

“Caesar salad and a rare steak.”

The maître d’ retrieved the menus and was turning to go as Duncan said, “Now, let me tell you all about my idea for a novel.”

“Would you care to order some wine, sir?” asked another waiter, who was carrying a large red leather book with golden grapes embossed on its cover.