The Collected Short Stories Read online

  “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 …”

  Author’s Note

  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. À point

  RARE

  “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 favorably with a production she had seen at the Haymarket some years before.

  When we reached the Strand I pointed to a large gray 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 sidewalk I pushed one of the gray 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 theaters, 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.”

  “Me 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 realizing 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 night 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 flu, and I’ve just had to sack the barman in the third for fiddling the books. Barmen always fiddle 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.”

  “In 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.

  “Except what?” she said.

  “Do you want to hear the truth?” I asked as I poured the remains of the wine into my own glass.

  “I’ll try that for starters,” she said.

  I placed the empty bottle on the side of the table, and hesitated, but only for a moment. “I was driving to one of my restaurants earlier this evening, when I spotted you going into the theater. I stared at you for so long that I nearly crashed into the back of the car in front of me. Then I swerved across the road into the nearest parking space, and the car behind almost crashed into me. I leapt out, ran all the way to the theater, and searched everywhere until I saw you standing in the queue for the box office. I joined the line and watched you hand over your spare ticket. Once you were safely out of sight, I told the box office manager that you hadn’t expected me to make it in time, and that you might have put my ticket up for resale. After I’d described you, which I was able to do in great detail, he handed it over without so much as a murmur.”

  Anna put down her glass of wine and stared across at me with a look of incredulity. “I’m glad he fell for your story,” she said. “But should I?”

  “Yes, you should. Because then I put two ten-pound notes into a theater envelope and took the place next to you. The rest you already know.” I waited to see how she would react.

  She didn’t speak for some time. “I’m flattered,” she eventually said, and touched my hand. “I didn’t realize there were any old-fashioned romantics left in the world.” She squeezed