From Brenda's face it looked as if she were going to agree.
After all, there was a very solid team already in place. Mon was a great sunny waitress. Nothing could go wrong with her tables.
Yan the handsome Breton boy was charm itself.
Even Harry the newcomer was showing signs of being a reliable lad. He had the huge advantage of realising that he didn't know everything and the ability to ask when in doubt.
But even though she was tempted, Brenda said that Patrick would never get better if he thought there was nobody minding the shop. So she waited until the dinner was well under way before she got her coat and left them to return to Patrick. "Save your strength for the real horrors ahead on Wednesday," she said as she left.
"What real horrors?" Cathy asked Tom when Brenda had gone to the hospital.
"Oh, you know, just the usual Wednesday people," poor Tom stammered.
"Tom. You are the worst liar in the world. Tell me what's happening on Wednesday or else I shall take out both of your eyes with the melon bailer."
He told her about the shellfish banquet for this hated public relations company.
"A seafood buffet?" she asked.
"No, specifically shellfish, the guy said. Not salmon, not smoked salmon, not trout. Unless the thing lives in its shell it doesn't get on our table." Tom tried to make light of it.
"We can't do it," Cathy said, grimly.
"What do you mean? We have to."
"Listen, Tom, I've been doing the fish-buying for the last couple of weeks. The catch is very small. There were practically no prawns, the lobster cost a fortune, and the oysters had all gone to France."
"But they'd have contacts ... I mean, this is Quentins. They wouldn't be Mickey Mouse like us ... they must spend a fortune on fish, for God's sake ..."
"Well, let's pray they do," Cathy said.
"We've a lot of stuff frozen back at the premises. We could give them that."
"We can't. We thawed the lot today for the Demon Graduation Party."
"Oh, God, please, please, nice God, won't you be very good to us and let us lay our hands on some shellfish?" Tom prayed.
"Tell me more about this job on Wednesday," Cathy asked Brenda when Quentins had closed. They sat in the kitchen rubbing their ankles and drinking great mugs of tea.
"Something we should never have taken on. He's the most disgusting man. He fights every bill, upsets the staff ... It has been a bit slow recently, so I thought it would be worthwhile. But I fear we have a few problems."
"Like?" Cathy said, although she knew the problem only too well.
"Like a grave shortage of shellfish. No joy from the usual sources, I'm afraid. I've been on to them all."
"He'll have to take salmon like everyone else. We'll tell him, Brenda, he can't expect someone to do a quick miracle these days. Those times are long gone." Cathy spoke firmly as if to encourage her own flagging spirits.
Brenda looked up. Her face was white and drawn. "I wish you hadn't said that. I was sort of relying on the thought that there might be a few miracles still hovering around." The Tuesday seemed to be ninety hours long for everybody. For Patrick, in hospital, the time crawled. He forced himself not to look at his watch again. They would have to come for him sometime soon.
Back at Scarlet Feather's premises, Tom, busy dressing the lobster for the Graduation Lunch, feared catching sight of the clock in case he would panic at how behind they were. They really needed Cathy today, but she was down at Quentins.
Cathy was purple in the face trying to rescue cream sauce that had unaccountably curdled. Brenda showed the guests to their tables with her usual polite, welcoming smile. Inside she was churning. It was lunchtime - surely the doctors must have seen Patrick by now. And if they had, why hadn't she heard? Her friend among the nurses promised to call as soon as the test results came through. Please, please, may it not be bad news.
Tom phoned when the pressure in Quentins Restaurant was at its height. Sorry, sorry, he knew this was the worst time, but the Graduation Party had hit another low. Could someone, anyone, come over with a big bowl of tomato salad? The Graduate's mother was now losing what remained of her senses and was weeping over something that had never been ordered. Was there a chance? If they only knew what it was like here!
"If you knew what it's like here!" Cathy said. She had the phone clamped against her ear while she mixed more sauce and issued directions to the waiters. Brenda's strained face moved in and out of the dining-room. She didn't need another crisis.
Til send Blouse," Cathy said. "Give him the address, will you, and get off the phone quickly in case the hospital rings." At half-past two, Patrick was told he had the all clear. Could he get back to the restaurant? he asked. Apparently not, still a few formalities to go through. And rest. He must rest. But he could leave tomorrow.
Three minutes later, he was on the phone to Brenda. Cathy handed her a paper towel to wipe the tears from her immaculately made-up face. The staff looked away so as not to catch Mrs. Brennan with her guard down.
"Where's Blouse?" she wanted to know.
"Don't ask," Cathy pleaded. But she wondered where on earth he actually was. It was an hour and a half since he'd left in a taxi. Please may there not have been yet another disaster to drive them mad. Had he found the right house? When she next had two seconds, she would call Tom.
But Tom called first. "Can you talk?"
"Sure. Great news. Patrick's okay. And he'll be back tomorrow."
"Good news here, too . .." Tom began.
"Listen, I'm sorry for interrupting you, but have you any idea where Blouse is?"
"He's here, saving our lives."
"The tomato salad?" she asked, bewildered.
"No, nobody's eating that, like I told them."
"So what's he doing, then?" Nothing would surprise Cathy by this stage.
"There are about fourteen horrific children, monsters all of them. Anyway, they were annoying everyone, breaking things, sulking. Blouse has them all down at the bottom of the garden. He's running a herb competition."
"What?"
"You wouldn't believe it. He has them captivated. They all have little yoghurt pots or cream cartons. And he's talking about lovage and verbena."
"What about the Graduate's mum?"
"Mrs. Dracula is fine. She's my new best friend, as it happens."
"Oh, tell me about it. You turned on the charm. Maybe you could charm some shells out of the rocks for us for tomorrow here?"
"That not sorted yet?"
"No, but we're on the case." From his hospital bed, Patrick Brennan was also on the case. And the news was very bad. Not a prawn or lobster to be found. Patrick rang the PR man.
"Why does it have to be shellfish . .. please, just tell me?"
"It's an image, a concept - the whole idea of sticking fast. We"ve used it in our literature just to attract this client's account. You"re not telling me you're going to go back on the agreed menu . .."
"I'm not telling you anything. What are you advertising?"
"It's no business of yours ..."
"What is meant to be sticking to what? What's the concept about? Can't you tell me? We're doing the bloody presentation for you," Patrick roared.
"All you were asked to do was to provide a shellfish buffet."
"It's in your interest to tell me," Patrick lowered his voice impressively.
The PR man eventually gave in and told him it was a new insurance company that stuck with you through thick and thin.
"In that case you don't need shellfish, you eejit. You need molluscs."
"I need what?"
"Prawns and lobsters don't stick to things, you clown. They walk all over the ocean floor. Your clients would drop you as soon as look at you. What you want is molluscs. Why didn't you tell me before?"
He hung up and called the restaurant. I need Blouse urgently," Patrick begged. He was told he would have to wait in line. "We have to find him quickly, Cathy. Tomorrow we're doing molluscs."