"How mad and awful?" Deirdre asked.
"Just desperately curious and inquisitive, really. They ask all kinds of intimate questions without realising it. They might offer to dance, but we can close them down on that."
"No, we might need it if it's all a bit sticky. Ella says they"re great value. Of course they can come and I get two puddings as well." Deirdre sounded well pleased.
"What's the worst Maud and Simon could say to this rich American guy, do you think?" Cathy asked Tom.
"They're very into mating conversations just now. They could ask him about his sexual habits, I suppose," Tom suggested.
"Oh, yes, they'll definitely want to know about who he mates with. I was wondering if they want parts in the film or anything, you know how much they like to belong," said Cathy.
"I'm sure he'll be able to deal with them." Tom hoped he sounded more certain than he felt. Ella called in to Firefly Films. They weren't expecting her. They hadn't their response ready.
"It's all so unfair, Ella," Sandy began.
"People put too much pressure on him," said Nick, who used to say that there was no pit of hell deep enough for Don Richardson.
"Yes, when Derry King's gone back to New York, I'll cry on your shoulder, believe me I will, but now we have to work out how to make the best of his sudden decision to come here. I'm meeting him tonight to go over our notes."
She saw their faces lighten. This was exactly what they had hoped for, but they didn't want to appear crass by not acknowledging that the love of her life had first left her and then killed himself. They sat down to plan the campaign.
Nick and Sandy looked at her with admiration as she pushed the hair out of her eyes. She took out an armful of files, some with coloured stickers on them. "There are so many different ways we could go. In a way it will depend on who talks best. But come on, let's have a look at the stories anyway."
Derek Barry was entertaining a couple of wealthy clients to lunch. He didn't actually know them. But Bob O'Neill, his partner, had been most insistent.
They put plenty of work through the books of Barry and O'Neill Accountants, and they were threatening to move elsewhere.
All they needed was some stroking and patting and reassurance. Bob had intended to take them himself, but his plane was delayed in London and he couldn't get back. Derek must hold the fort.
There had been hardly any time to check them out. All he knew was their bank balance. That and the fact that Bob O'Neill, the senior partner in the firm, said that it was a Must Do.
So, Derek sighed and booked a table in Quentins.
That was one advantage of being the father of the restaurant's owner. He always got a table there. He arrived early.
"Where can I put you, Mr. Barry?" Brenda Brennan was always outwardly polite, but he felt she didn't like him.
"It doesn't really matter, Brenda. I'm meeting a pair of clients, Bob's, not mine, loads of money, dot-corn millionaires or something. Complete nobodies." He shook his head disapprovingly.
"Well, I hope they'll enjoy their lunch, Mr. Barry."
She was too cool. He didn't like it. She was, after all, an employee of his son Quentin, and so was her husband, that fancy chef Patrick. Derek Barry, small and self-important, sat down at his table, bristling with a sense that he wasn't being treated with enough respect.
The couple were shown to his table. In their late thirties, he decided, big, both of them, far from elegant, cheap, ill-fitting clothes. The woman carried a shabby handbag, the man wore a loud jacket. They looked out of place in this quiet, smart restaurant, decorated for Christmas, but not garishly so. Little Christmas trees with small white lights dotted around.
Still, Bob O'Neill had been adamant. These two were to get the treatment. They paid big fees for the firm's services. Derek Barry was to make sure that they were happy and continued to be so.
"Mr. and Mrs. Costello, what a pleasure," he said, standing up. I'm Mr. Barry."
"Bob O'Neill's not coming to the dinner?" the woman said, surprised that the table was set only for three.
"Er ... no. Mr. O'Neill sends his best regards but you know the pressure of business ... he was delayed in London. And as one of the senior partners myself, I thought it was time for us to get to know each other." Derek hated her calling lunch "dinner", and in a place like this.
"Well, I'm Jimmy and my wife is Cath," the man said.
"Ah," Derek said.
"What's your first name?" Cath asked.
It "was ignorant rather than impolite, Derek thought, just a woman with no social graces. He wished he had made the time to find out exactly what kind of business they were in.
He told them his name.
"So you drew the short straw, Derek," said Jimmy, settling in and looking at the menu.
Flinching at the way his first name was being used so easily, Derek asked nervously what that meant.
"Well, I suppose it means that Bob O'Neill sent you to this dinner to do his dirty work," Jimmy explained cheerfully.
"Like, so that you'll be blamed when we take our business away from you," Cath added. "Do they serve draught beer here? I'd really love a pint."
Derek Barry felt dizzy. Things were moving out of control. People calling lunch "dinner" and wanting pints in Quentins. These two people talking casually about moving their business away from the firm.
"Well, well, whatever we must be, we must not be hasty," he said. "No haste at all, Derek," Jimmy said good-naturedly. "We'll just come back to the office with you after our dinner and collect the papers."
Derek Barry felt a slow anger begin to burn inside him. Had Bob O'Neill realised how serious the situation with these people was? Probably not. Jimmy and Cath Costello were not the kind of people Bob would have known socially. But he would have known that something was wrong. That was why he had made Derek the fall guy.
Cath was deep in the menu. "Are we all going to have starters?" she asked, almost childlike in her enthusiasm.
"I don't know what any of them are," Jimmy said, examining the list.
They were about to lose wealthy clients, and this woman with her tight perm and her nylon scarf twisted around her neck was proving to be far too confident in a restaurant of this standing.
The waitress said her name was Monica, Mon for short, and she was delighted to help. This one was quails" eggs, tiny little things, in a bed of pastry with a gorgeous sauce served on the side. This one was kidneys with a mustard sauce on toasted scone.
I never had a quail's egg," said Jimmy. "But I'd love kidneys in mustard sauce. I'm in a lather of indecision."
"I'm the same way myself, Jimmy. We'll have two starters, that's what we'll have."
I don't really think ..." Derek began. But he stopped. There was something about Cath's expression that he didn't like. It was as if she could see right through him, could read his embarrassment and snobbish feelings about her earthy way of going on.
"Are you going to have starters and mains?" she asked Derek with interest.
He tried not to shudder and show how little he liked every phrase she uttered. These vulgar people were important to his company. Bob had said only this morning that they couldn't afford to lose their business. So Derek knew he must turn on his charm.
"Before I decide what to eat, why don't you let me get some drinks in, Cath and ... er ... Jimmy, and then you'll tell me what it is you actually do."
"But you know what we do," Cath said simply. "You are our accountants. You must know what we do."
"Well, you see, as you said, it's really Bob O'Neill who deals with you ... very big firm, lots of clients nowadays, many different aspects, the whole problem of expanding .. ." He looked at them helplessly.
"Then why did you ask us to dinner?" Jimmy asked, tearing his bread roll apart as if it were a killer fish which he had to demolish first.