A Place Of Safety(88)

Cully poured him a glass of Veuve Clicquot and smiled at her mother. ‘Dad thought I’d got the shampoo commercial.’

‘Did he?’ said Joyce and caught her husband’s eye. Not that she had needed to.

‘I speet on shampoo commercials!’ cried Nico and started laughing again, draining his wine, throwing the glass into the air.

‘Do you know what you’re going to play?’ asked Barnaby, having long since learned the correct responses to any news of a theatrical nature.

‘As cast. But that could mean anything, anything. They’re doing Pinter, Antony and Cleopatra, Peter Pan!’ cried Nico.

‘And a new Terry Johnson comedy all about Sid James,’ said Cully.

‘Carry on Camping up the Cottesloe.’

‘It’s not called that surely,’ said Joyce.

‘You could play Barbara Windsor, darling.’ Cully blew her beloved a kiss.

‘Yes! I’d look brilliant in drag.’

‘One way to get the notices,’ said Joyce, dry as a bone. She knew the immodesty was merely a front; even so, Nico could be somewhat trying at times. ‘Have some more wine, darling.’ She reached out for her husband’s glass and he took her hand instead.

‘I’d rather have a sandwich.’

‘A sandwich?’ Nicolas treated them to his Lady Bracknell, sounding more like Tim Brooke-Taylor than Edith Evans while remaining better looking than both. But then, who wasn’t?

‘I speet on your sandwich! We’re going out to celebrate.’

‘Where?’

‘The River Cafe.’

‘What!’

‘Cool it, Dad.’

‘If you think—’ Barnaby stopped right there. If Cully had been pregnant they could have moved into the River Cafe bag and baggage and had breakfast, lunch and dinner there for a month. ‘Anyway, I’ve heard about that place. You can’t just turn up—’

‘Nico got a cancellation.’

‘It’s our treat,’ said Nicolas, sounding slightly truculent. ‘I sold my old banger yesterday.’

‘We decided it was stupid having two cars. Especially in London.’

‘So, what better way to blow three hundred pounds?’

‘Now, Tom,’ said Joyce, observing her husband’s reaction, ‘calm down.’

‘Out of the question. Anyway, I’m on the cabbage soup diet.’

‘He hasn’t heard,’ said Nicolas, winking at his wife.

‘Heard what?’ said Barnaby.

‘They’re famous for it,’ said Cully, passing to her mother.

‘It’s true, Tom,’ said Joyce. ‘I read only the other day. The River Cafe make the best cabbage soup in the world.’





Chapter Ten

It was the following morning and Barnaby was at his desk attempting to sort out his day and compose what few notes there were for the eight thirty briefing. He was finding it extremely hard to concentrate. This time yesterday, if someone had told him he would spend the best part of two hours that very evening giving his current case load barely a single consideration he would have thought they were mad. Yet such had been the case.

They had been given a table by the window overlooking a smooth stretch of grass edged by paving slabs bordered by a low wall rising directly above the Thames. The surface of the water was burnished by the setting sun and lamps gleamed along the paved walkway.

Even on an autumn evening the River Cafe was incredibly light and airy and packed with happy customers. Talking, laughing, eating, drinking. At one point a woman broke into song (‘Vissi d’Arte’) and no one seemed to take it amiss.

The service was perfection. Friendly without being unctuous, visible the minute you needed it, absent when you did not. Suggestions tactfully made and no offence taken if they were ignored. No one endlessly re-filled your glass as if you were a toddler in a high chair. Nothing was off and what was on was utter heaven.

The cooking went on behind a long steel counter where a great many thin people in long white aprons produced the sort of food that leads a great many fat people to the brink of despair.

Barnaby ate tagliatelle fragrant with asparagus and herbs and Parmesan. This was followed by turbot, the flakes of which melted off his fork. Green salad with a bit of rocket. Some beautiful potatoes. And not a cabbage in sight. Everyone tasted everyone else’s food and, when this was noticed, extra forks appeared from nowhere. For pudding Barnaby had Chocolate Nemesis which very nearly proved to be his own. They drank Torre del Falco from Sicily. Nico bought Cully the recipe book, grandly inscribed, and also one for Joyce. Barnaby was apprehensive.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Cully to her dad as they walked, some little way behind the others, towards the taxi. ‘Mum’ll be fine. Nobody can burn pasta.’