As we head down the stairs, it does feel uncomfortably like we’re walking into a trap. You could block the steep iron stairwell with one medium-sized special constable. And although I’ve done my homework on the exits, it was on an old map. Hope they haven’t moved things around.
The place itself is not just chichi, it’s old-money posh. I’ve eaten in some nice places in my time – when you save so much money on rent, you do find yourself splashing out in other ways – but this place feelsgenerationallyexpensive. It’s not old-fashioned, though; it’s definitely had some discreet work done over the decades.
It’s also incredibly dark. You can hardly see the clientele, and the staff are moving between faint pools of light as if they’ve memorised all the routes. Even at the front, in the relative light from the stairwell, I can’t tell the sex of the person standing behind the mahogany lectern.
‘Good afternoon, sir, madam,’ says a fruity Mitteleuropean baritone voice. ‘Welcome to St Francis. Your reservation?’
I can see him a little clearer now. He must be nearly seventy, and what remains of his dark hair is slicked austerely back. There are deep grooves running from his nose to the corners of his mouth. He sounds Swiss, Austrian maybe, and it only takes one look to know he is a restaurant-industry lifer, the kind of pro from somewhere they take hospitality seriously. I would be willing to bet he’s been working here as long as I’ve been alive, scrambling up the truffle-oiled pole all the way from the potboy’s kennel to the maître d’s eyrie.
‘We’re joining an existing table,’ says Em. ‘Mr Harcourt’s party.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he says, unruffled. ‘You are honouring his appointment, I assume?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So sad,’ he murmurs. ‘Thirty years I have known Mr Harcourt.’
‘How awful,’ Em says. ‘Our condolences … Gustave.’ She leans forward and gently brushes her fingers over the brass name-plate on his desk.
He bows his head. ‘You are family?’
‘Business associates,’ she explains. ‘We are representing his interests today.’
Gustave nods. ‘Your dining companion is here already. I will have another place laid at table.’ And then he moves closer and murmurs something in Em’s ear, while I stand there, lemon-ish.
‘That’s fine,’ she replies. She takes one of the restaurant’s cards from the little stand on Gustave’s booth, and grabs the biro there too.
‘This way.’ He picks up two menus and glides into the gloom of the restaurant. Em begins to follow him.
‘What did he say to you?’
‘Tell you later.’ She loves to tease, Em.
Gustave pauses to let a waiter glide across his path, moving like a barracuda through the darkness. Then he leads us on to the third booth on the left, where a figure is sitting. The figure stands as we approach.
‘Sir. Madam,’ Gustave says, and withdraws.
The woman standing in the booth is a few years older than I am, maybe mid-thirties. She’s plainly dressed considering how fancy this place is, in a simple pearl shirt and high-waisted black trousers. Her hair is blonde and her expression illegible. She could be about to pull out a bazooka or tell us we’ve won the lottery, and I wouldn’t be surprised by either.
‘Have a seat.’
Normal voice. She’s not from London – she sounds a bit Scottish, but if so, she’s been down south a long time.
We sit. There’s room for all three of us on the round banquette. I let Em in first, partly from manners and partly because I might need easy access to the exit. Em, in turn, gives me a look to communicate that she’s well aware why I’m doing it.
There is a temporary pause while a young waiter – most austere, he could be Gustave’s son – arrives and lays a third place. There is a bit of a rigmarole with water glasses, wine glasses, the ceremonial folding of a new napkin. Everyone keeps quiet for this bit. Meanwhile, I’m looking around in the gloom, trying to see who else is here. I can’t see light reflecting off a shiny domed head, so I’m going to assume we haven’t kept an appointment with Mr Bowling Ball by mistake.
Eventually the waiter leaves, and the woman opposite us speaks.
‘My name’s Kate. Who are you?’
‘I’m Josephine,’ says Em, ‘and this is Al.’ So annoying. I know it’s not my real name, but I wish she’d make an effort.
‘Hello, Josephine and Al,’ says Kate. ‘Neither of you is David Harcourt.’
‘Sorry about that,’ says Em. ‘But we’re friends of his.’
‘I see. Do you want to explain what’s going on?’
