George, an actor more often out of work than in, arrived next. He rarely missed the weekly gathering, except during the pantomime season when he was to be found at the seaside being Prince Charming. Having made his entrance, he invariably chose to sit with his back to the wall, which was lined with theatre bills and signed pictures of celebrity clientele. From there he could see and be seen. Johnny’s, a legendary basement restaurant selling extremely upmarket junk food alongside a range of rather more grown-up dishes, remained a haunt of the famous and feted, but rarely on a Sunday afternoon or evening when it more usually became the territory of weekend fathers spoiling the children they no longer saw enough of.
Tiny, Billy and George had got to know each other dog walking at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, the biggest patch of green in the Covent Garden area, and the largest square in London, dating back to the seventeenth century. Tiny and Billy had a little chihuahua, Daisy, and George a Maltese terrier called Chump.
They had just ordered drinks — red wine for George, cosmopolitans for Tiny and Billy — when Michelle, a five-foot-nothing police constable, turned up. She’d met George at Shannon’s gym, and they’d become work-out buddies. Actually Michelle, a pretty twenty-nine-year-old blonde with a winsome smile, had at first rather hoped for more than that, and had certainly thought George might ask her out on a date. He hadn’t. Well, not exactly. But he had asked her if she’d like to join the group at Johnny’s.
The proprietor, Johnny himself, a small man with a big heart and a very determined all-year suntan, was, as usual, at the piano by the door. Marlena, who had been coming to the restaurant longer than any of the others, had once remarked that she thought Johnny probably lived in his piano, stretching out on the black and white keys and pulling the cover over himself before going to sleep at night. Certainly he played the old upright most evenings, and had done for as long as anyone could remember. He stood up to give Michelle a hug and she hugged him back. Johnny greeted many of the regulars at his restaurant more as friends than clients, but it was clear he had a special soft spot for the young policewoman.
Michelle eased herself into the chair opposite George and added her name to the red wine order.
‘No Carla then?’ she remarked to George. ‘Are we ever going to meet this paragon?’
Carla was the new girlfriend George had told them all about. Though his friends had listened to endless stories about how wonderful she was, how gorgeous, how adorable, they had yet to enjoy the pleasure of her company.
‘She wants nothing to do with you rabble,’ said George, grinning. His dark hair flopped Hugh Grant style over one side of his handsome forehead. His black silk shirt opened at the neck just enough to reveal a V of perfect tan. ‘Anyway, I’ve told you, Sunday is her family day.’
‘If you ask me, he’s ashamed of her,’ teased Billy.
‘Oh yes,’ responded George, pulling out his wallet and extracting the photograph they had all seen countless times: a stunning young woman with stylishly cropped peroxide white hair smiling for the camera. ‘Is she gorgeous or what?’ He returned the picture to his wallet with a shake of his head. ‘It’s you lot I’m bloody ashamed of.’
Greg and Karen, married thirty-somethings with two children, arrived next. They too were dog owners, and it was Karen, the principal dog walker, who had first met George, Tiny and Billy while exercising the family’s pair of Westies at Lincoln’s Inn. Nobody could remember who’d been first to suggest meeting at Johnny’s, but it had been between these four that Sunday Club had been conceived a few years previously. The early evening outings suited Greg and Karen well. Karen’s mum took the kids on Sunday afternoons to give the couple some time alone, and after leaving Johnny’s they could still pick them up in time to pack them off to bed not too late for next day’s school.
Johnny broke into a spirited rendition of ‘I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles’ as Greg, a dedicated West Ham supporter bustled in. Greg beamed.
‘Don’t you worry mate, the ’Ammers will ’ammer ’em,’ he said.
The next day would see a derby game with Spurs. It was somehow typical of Johnny, no way a football fan, to be aware of that. Greg wasn’t much taller than Johnny but had a big personality and walked with a swagger. He was a wheeler-dealer, a white van man who bought and sold, but his precise occupation was never entirely clear.
Karen, an inch or so taller, wore flat shoes and had a very slight stoop, no doubt caused by trying to ensure her husband didn’t look shorter than her. She always gave the impression that she was keeping a bit of an eye on Greg.
Hoping her husband wouldn’t pick up on her slightly wary tone, Karen greeted George. Earlier in the week there had been an incident between them which she hoped was now forgotten. Certainly George seemed the same as ever, smiling back at her with no hint of awkwardness in his response. Karen felt relieved.
‘No Carla then?’ remarked Greg.
‘For God’s sake,’ said George.
The others all seemed to arrive at once. There was olive-skinned Alfonso, with his hooded Mediterranean eyes and shiny black goatee beard, who could only be of Italian descent even though he’d been born and raised in Essex. Alfonso was a senior waiter at the Vine, arguably the most fashionable restaurant in London, and had been invited along to Sunday Club by Vine regulars Billy and Tiny.
Bob, in his fifties and the second oldest of the group, made a living as an inner-city gardener, watering and looking after other people’s terraces, balconies and window boxes. He had, rather to his surprise, found himself invited to join Sunday Club when he became chummy with Tiny and Billy after they’d called him in to plant out their roof terrace and put in an irrigation system.
Ari, at twenty-six the youngest and the richest of the friends, was the son of a wealthy Asian entrepreneur and his English wife. Billy had run into him at a few work-related events and found the ponytailed young man not only strikingly attractive but also highly entertaining, and in spite of loving Tiny to bits, had rather wished Ari were gay. Which he most certainly was not. Nonetheless it was Billy who’d suggested Ari may like to come along to Sunday Club.
Finally there was the Covent Garden legend known only as Marlena, a name the others suspected she had adopted in tribute to her heroine Marlene Dietrich, although she always maintained it was her given name. Marlena, probably in her late sixties but perhaps older, was never seen without stage makeup and a spectacular blonde wig. She invariably dressed entirely in black, enlivened occasionally by a mink wrap or a mock leopard-skin throw, and adorned to excess with an elaborate display of bling. Her exact age was a closely guarded secret, and everything about her exuded a certain air of mystery. She was another Vine regular, and had originally been invited to join the group by Alfonso, whom she’d always regarded more as a friend than a waiter.
More drinks were ordered as everyone bustled to sit. Bob, like George, manoeuvred to acquire a place that allowed him to have his back to the wall, but because he had a deaf ear rather than a burning desire to see and be seen. Alfonso fussed over Marlena, whom he worshipped. Ari, always in a hurry to do everything and anything, only narrowly avoided knocking over Tiny’s cosmo as he threw himself at a chair. There was Prosecco for Marlena, Hendricks with olives on the side for Ari, and a couple more carafes of red wine for the rest.
‘Marlena darling, you’ll never guess who we had in the restaurant yesterday,’ said Alfonso, when he’d eventually sat down.
‘Hey, Fonz, you sound like a bleeding cabbie,’ remarked Greg.