Maeve Binchy - Quentins

There had been hardly any time to check them out. All he knew was their bank balance. That and the fact that Bob O'Neill, the senior partner in the firm, said that it was a Must Do.

So, Derek sighed and booked a table in Quentins.

That was one advantage of being the father of the restaurant's owner. He always got a table there. He arrived early.

"Where can I put you, Mr. Barry?" Brenda Brennan was always outwardly polite, but he felt she didn't like him.

"It doesn't really matter, Brenda. I'm meeting a pair of clients, Bob's, not mine, loads of money, dot-corn millionaires or something. Complete nobodies." He shook his head disapprovingly.

"Well, I hope they'll enjoy their lunch, Mr. Barry."

She was too cool. He didn't like it. She was, after all, an employee of his son Quentin, and so was her husband, that fancy chef Patrick. Derek Barry, small and self-important, sat down at his table, bristling with a sense that he wasn't being treated with enough respect.

The couple were shown to his table. In their late thirties, he decided, big, both of them, far from elegant, cheap, ill-fitting clothes. The woman carried a shabby handbag, the man wore a loud jacket. They looked out of place in this quiet, smart restaurant, decorated for Christmas, but not garishly so. Little Christmas trees with small white lights dotted around.

Still, Bob O'Neill had been adamant. These two were to get the treatment. They paid big fees for the firm's services. Derek Barry was to make sure that they were happy and continued to be so.

"Mr. and Mrs. Costello, what a pleasure," he said, standing up. I'm Mr. Barry."

"Bob O'Neill's not coming to the dinner?" the woman said, surprised that the table was set only for three.

"Er ... no. Mr. O'Neill sends his best regards but you know the pressure of business ... he was delayed in London. And as one of the senior partners myself, I thought it was time for us to get to know each other." Derek hated her calling lunch "dinner", and in a place like this.

"Well, I'm Jimmy and my wife is Cath," the man said.

"Ah," Derek said.

"What's your first name?" Cath asked.

It "was ignorant rather than impolite, Derek thought, just a woman with no social graces. He wished he had made the time to find out exactly what kind of business they were in.

He told them his name.

"So you drew the short straw, Derek," said Jimmy, settling in and looking at the menu.

Flinching at the way his first name was being used so easily, Derek asked nervously what that meant.

"Well, I suppose it means that Bob O'Neill sent you to this dinner to do his dirty work," Jimmy explained cheerfully.

"Like, so that you'll be blamed when we take our business away from you," Cath added. "Do they serve draught beer here? I'd really love a pint."

Derek Barry felt dizzy. Things were moving out of control. People calling lunch "dinner" and wanting pints in Quentins. These two people talking casually about moving their business away from the firm.

"Well, well, whatever we must be, we must not be hasty," he said. "No haste at all, Derek," Jimmy said good-naturedly. "We'll just come back to the office with you after our dinner and collect the papers."

Derek Barry felt a slow anger begin to burn inside him. Had Bob O'Neill realised how serious the situation with these people was? Probably not. Jimmy and Cath Costello were not the kind of people Bob would have known socially. But he would have known that something was wrong. That was why he had made Derek the fall guy.

Cath was deep in the menu. "Are we all going to have starters?" she asked, almost childlike in her enthusiasm.

"I don't know what any of them are," Jimmy said, examining the list.

They were about to lose wealthy clients, and this woman with her tight perm and her nylon scarf twisted around her neck was proving to be far too confident in a restaurant of this standing.

The waitress said her name was Monica, Mon for short, and she was delighted to help. This one was quails" eggs, tiny little things, in a bed of pastry with a gorgeous sauce served on the side. This one was kidneys with a mustard sauce on toasted scone.

I never had a quail's egg," said Jimmy. "But I'd love kidneys in mustard sauce. I'm in a lather of indecision."

"I'm the same way myself, Jimmy. We'll have two starters, that's what we'll have."

I don't really think ..." Derek began. But he stopped. There was something about Cath's expression that he didn't like. It was as if she could see right through him, could read his embarrassment and snobbish feelings about her earthy way of going on.

"Are you going to have starters and mains?" she asked Derek with interest.

He tried not to shudder and show how little he liked every phrase she uttered. These vulgar people were important to his company. Bob had said only this morning that they couldn't afford to lose their business. So Derek knew he must turn on his charm.

"Before I decide what to eat, why don't you let me get some drinks in, Cath and ... er ... Jimmy, and then you'll tell me what it is you actually do."

"But you know what we do," Cath said simply. "You are our accountants. You must know what we do."

"Well, you see, as you said, it's really Bob O'Neill who deals with you ... very big firm, lots of clients nowadays, many different aspects, the whole problem of expanding .. ." He looked at them helplessly.

"Then why did you ask us to dinner?" Jimmy asked, tearing his bread roll apart as if it were a killer fish which he had to demolish first.

"Bob couldn't make it himself this once. So he asked me to stand in at the last moment

"And you never looked us up?" Jimmy said. "Lord, I wouldn't last one day if I didn't know about the people I was meeting."

Derek looked miserable. Tm sorry, Mr. Costello - I'm sorry, Jimmy. You're right. It was a courtesy and I did not have time. I didn't make time. I apologise. Can you tell me about yourselves? Now?"

"What do you want to know, Derek?" Jimmy asked.

Derek wondered what to ask them. "Do you have children?" he heard himself ask. He wondered why he had said it. Normally he never asked about people's families.

"Do you?" Cath asked in a level voice.

"Yes, just one son. He didn't follow me into the business, as I had hoped he would. I even had a room ready for him, but I'm afraid he didn't take to the accountancy business."

"Imagine!" Cath said. "And did he do all right on his own?"

"Very well. This is his restaurant, as it happens."

"Well, you must be delighted with him," Cath said, her eyes far away.

"And your children?" Derek asked. "Did they go into your business with you?" Again he didn't know why he wanted to know. He was not one for the personal question.

"No, we went into it for them, really," Jimmy said.

There was a silence. Derek knew that he must smile and be charming. Tomorrow he could rail at Bob O'Neill for landing him in all this so very ill-prepared. Today, he had to get these people on his side.

"So? Your actual day-to-day work?" he said, his face nearly splitting with a smile.

"Takes up about sixteen or seventeen hours of the twenty-four," Cath said, in a matter-of-fact way.

"Starting at six in the morning and ending at ten or eleven with a pint before closing time," Jimmy explained.

"But surely you don't need to work that hard?" he said, appalled.

"Oh, we do," Cath said.

"But Bob O'Neill told me that you were very financially secure." Derek was bewildered. "Why do you work so hard?"

"To forget," Cath said simply. "To take our minds off the children."

"The children?" He looked from one to the other.

"Bob didn't tell you?" They couldn't believe it.

"No, he told me nothing." Derek was ashamed.

"We had three children who died in a fire ten years ago. We nearly went mad, but someone told us that if we worked and worked it would make it better."