Jeffrey Archer - Twelve Red Herrings

Anna grabbed my hand, but quickly released it and apologised.

“Not at all,” I whispered. “I only just stopped myself from doing the same thing.” In the darkened theatre, I couldn’t tell how she responded.

A moment later the phone on the stage rang. Everyone in the audience knew it must be the detective on the other end of the line, even if they couldn’t be sure what he was going to say. That final scene had the whole house gripped.

After the lights dimmed for the last time, the cast returned to the stage and deservedly received a long ovation, taking several curtain calls.

When the curtain was finally lowered, Anna turned to me and said, “What a remarkable production. I’m so glad I didn’t miss it. And I’m even more pleased that I didn’t have to see it alone.”

“Me too,” I told her, ignoring the fact that I’d never planned to spend the evening at the theatre in the first place.

We made our way up the aisle together as the audience flowed out of the theatre like a slow-moving river. I wasted those few precious moments discussing the merits of the cast, the power of the director’s interpretation, the originality of the macabre set and even the Edwardian costumes, before we reached the double doors that led back out into the real world.

“Goodbye, Michael,” Anna said. “Thank you for adding to my enjoyment of the evening.” She shook me by the hand.

“Goodbye,” I said, gazing once again into those hazel eyes.

She turned to go, and I wondered if I would ever see her again.

“Anna,” I said.

She glanced back in my direction.

“If you’re not doing anything in particular, would you care to join me for dinner …”

At this point in the story, the reader is offered the choice of four different endings.

You might decide to read all four of them, or simply select one, and consider that your own particular ending. If you do choose to read all four, they should be taken in the order in which they have been written:

1. RARE

2. BURNT

3. OVERDONE

4. Á POINT

“Thank you, Michael. I’d like that.”

I smiled, unable to mask my delight. “Good. I know a little restaurant just down the road that I think you might enjoy.”

“That sounds fun,” Anna said, linking her arm in mine. I guided her through the departing throng.

As we strolled together down the Aldwych, Anna continued to chat about the play, comparing it favourably with a production she had seen at the Haymarket some years before.

When we reached the Strand I pointed to a large grey double door on the other side of the road. “That’s it,” I said. We took advantage of a red light to weave our way through the temporarily stationary traffic, and after we’d reached the far pavement I pushed one of the grey doors open to allow Anna through. It began to rain just as we stepped inside. I led her down a flight of stairs into a basement restaurant buzzing with the talk of people who had just come out of theatres, and waiters dashing, plates in both hands, from table to table.

“I’ll be impressed if you can get a table here,” Anna said, eyeing a group of would-be customers who were clustered round the bar, impatiently waiting for someone to leave.

I strolled across to the reservations desk. The head waiter, who until that moment had been taking a customer’s order, rushed over. “Good evening, Mr Whitaker,” he said. “How many are you?”

“Just the two of us.”

“Follow me, please, sir,” Mario said, leading us to my usual table in the far corner of the room.

“Another dry martini?” I asked her as we sat down.

“No, thank you,” she replied. “I think I’ll just have a glass of wine with the meal.”

I nodded my agreement, as Mario handed us our menus. Anna studied hers for a few moments before I asked if she had spotted anything she fancied.

“Yes,” she said, looking straight at me. “But for now I think I’ll settle for the fettucini, and a glass of red wine.”

“Good idea,” I said. “I’ll join you. But are you sure you won’t have a starter?”

“No, thank you, Michael. I’ve reached that age when I can no longer order everything I’m tempted by.”

“The too,” I confessed. “I have to play squash three times a week to keep in shape,” I told her as Mario reappeared.

“Two fettucini,” I began, “and a bottle of …”

“Half a bottle, please,” said Anna. “I’ll only have one glass. I’ve got an early start tomorrow morning, so I shouldn’t overdo things.”

I nodded, and Mario scurried away.

I looked across the table and into Anna’s eyes. “I’ve always wondered about women doctors,” I said, immediately realising that the line was a bit feeble.

“You mean, you wondered if we’re normal?”

“Something like that, I suppose.”

“Yes, we’re normal enough, except every day we have to see a lot of men in the nude. I can assure you, Michael, most of them are overweight and fairly unattractive.”

I suddenly wished I were half a stone lighter. “But are there many men who are brave enough to consider a woman doctor in the first place?”

“Quite a few,” said Anna, “though most of my patients are female. But there are just about enough intelligent, sensible, uninhibited males around who can accept that a woman doctor might be just as likely to cure them as a man.”

I smiled as two bowls of fettucini were placed in front of us. Mario then showed me the label on the half-bottle he had selected. I nodded my approval. He had chosen a vintage to match Anna’s pedigree.

“And what about you?” asked Anna. “What does being ‘in the restaurant business’ actually mean?”

“I’m on the management side,” I said, before sampling the wine. I nodded again, and Mario poured a glass for Anna and then topped up mine.

“Or at least, that’s what I do nowadays. I started life as a waiter,” I said, as Anna began to sip her wine.

“What a magnificent wine,” she remarked. “It’s so good I may end up having a second glass.”

“I’m glad you like it,” I said. “It’s a Barolo.”

“You were saying, Michael? You started life as a waiter…”

“Yes, then I moved into the kitchens for about five years, and finally ended up on the management side. How’s the fettucini?”

“It’s delicious. Almost melts in your mouth.” She took another sip of her wine. “So, if you’re not cooking, and no longer a waiter, what do you do now?”

“Well, at the moment I’m running three restaurants in the West End, which means I never stop dashing from one to the other, depending on which is facing the biggest crisis on that particular day.”

“Sounds a bit like ward duty to me,” said Anna. “So who turned out to have the biggest crisis today?”

“Today, thank heaven, was not typical,” I told her with feeling.

“That bad?” said Anna.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. We lost a chef this morning who cut off the top of his finger, and won’t be back at work for at least a fortnight. My head waiter in our second restaurant is off, claiming he has the flu, and I’ve just had to sack the barman in the third for fiddling with the books. Barmen always fiddle with the books, of course, but in this case even the customers began to notice what he was up to.” I paused. “But I still wouldn’t want to be in any other business.”

“Under the circumstances, I’m amazed you were able to take the evening off.”

“I shouldn’t have, really, and I wouldn’t have, except …” I trailed off as I leaned over and topped up Anna’s glass.