33......

Continued.........

On the evening of her birthday, Marta and Jamie went to Andrew's restaurant for dinner.

Andrew was fond of Marta. Unlike her mother, she never made him feel as though he was on trial for crimes against the Michelin Guide. On more than one occasion, Dora had sent back a dish because the accompanying jus wasn't a jus, it was a reduction. Or the julienne carrots were actually jardinière.

(Sometimes, Andrew allowed himself to picture various ways of throwing Dora out of his restaurant; with a jug of custard over her head, a restraining order stapled to her bosom, and via an ejector seat. He imagined hiring a waiter who could out wasp the waspish Dora, and sometimes, in his most extreme fantasies, he even saw himself answering her back. But usually he just dreamt about taking up a less stressful profession - like bullfighting.)

Deciding to send champagne to Marta's table, Andrew asked Louise the waitress, to get a bottle from the cellar.

'If, like, it's for 'im wiv the dolly at table nine,' announced Louise folding her arms firmly across her chest, 'he don't deserve nuffin.'(Louise was an alumna of one of Edinburgh's best public schools, but for some reason, chose to speak like an east end gangster.) 'The moment she went to the loo, 'e asked me for my number,' she continued, 'and 'e's, like, a hundred years old, innit!'

Andrew was appalled. And not just at Louise's grammar. 'Shame you're not one of the Kray twins really,' he said to her, 'or we could have that young man seen to. You know,' he shook his head sadly, 'Dora told me he was trouble, and for the first time in my life, I can actually see what she was talking about.'

But Louise had stopped listening. She was mentally choreographing a little incident, where she would 'accidentally' stumble, decanting some hot soup/pasta/coffee into Jamie's lap. Normally, it was the customers who tipped, but on this occasion, Louise was definitely looking forward to doing a bit of tipping of her own.....