The Complete Man and Boy Trilogy: Man and Boy, Man and Wife, Men From the Boys. Tony Parsons
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off. She stuck out her bottom lip and blew some air through her fringe. ‘Excuse me,’ she said.
She was tall and thin with a dancer’s legs and wide-set brown eyes. Good-looking, but not a kid. Maybe a couple of years older than me. Most of the people working in this restaurant that looked like a gym were cool young things who clearly thought they were on their way to somewhere better. She wasn’t like that at all.
She looked at Marty and massaged the base of her spine as though it had been aching for a long time.
‘Do you know how important I am?’ Marty asked.
‘Do you know how busy I am?’ she replied.
‘We might not be on the list,’ Marty said very slowly, as though he were talking to someone who had just had part of their brain removed, ‘but one of my people called Paul – the manager? You do know Paul?’
‘Sure,’ she said evenly. ‘I know Paul.’
‘Paul said it would be okay. It’s always okay.’
‘I’m real glad that you and Paul have got such an understanding relationship. But if I don’t have a spare table, I can’t give you one, can I? Sorry again.’
This time she left us.
‘This is fucking stupid,’ Marty said.
But Paul had spotted us and quickly crossed the crowded restaurant to greet his celebrity client.
‘Mr Mann,’ he said, ‘so good to see you. Is there a problem?’
‘Apparently there’s no table.’
‘Ah, we always have a table for you, Mr Mann.’ Paul’s Mediterranean smile flashed in his tanned face. He had a good smile too. But it was a completely different smile to the one she had. ‘This way, please.’
We walked into the restaurant and got the usual stares and murmurs and goofy grins that Marty’s entrance always provoked. Paul snapped his fingers and a table was brought from the kitchen. It was quickly covered with a tablecloth, cutlery, a wedge of rough-hewn peasant bread and a silver bowl of olive oil. A waitress appeared by our side. It was her.
‘Hello again,’ she said.
‘Tell me this,’ said Marty. ‘Whatever happened to the good old stereotype of the American waitress? The one who serves you with a smile?’
‘It’s her day off,’ the waitress said. ‘I’ll get you the menu.’
‘I don’t need the menu,’ Marty said. ‘Because I already know what I want.’
‘I’ll get it anyway. For your friend here. We have some interesting specials today.’
‘Shall we have this conversation again once you’ve turned on your hearing aid?’ Marty asked. ‘Read my lips – we eat here all the time. We don’t need the menu.’
‘Give her a break, Marty,’ I said.
‘Yeah.’ She looked at me for the first time. ‘Give me a break, Marty.’
‘I’ll have the twirly sort of pasta with the red stuff on top and he’ll have the same,’ Marty said.
‘Twirly pasta.’ She wrote it down on her little pad. ‘Red stuff. Got it.’
‘And bring us a bottle of champagne,’ Marty said, patting the waitress on her bum. ‘There’s a good girl.’
‘Get your sweaty hand off my butt before I break your arm,’ she said. ‘There’s a good boy.’
‘Just bring us a drink, will you?’ Marty said, quickly removing his hand.
The waitress left us.
‘Christ, we should have ordered a takeaway,’ Marty said. ‘Or got here a bit earlier.’
‘Sorry about the delay,’ I said. ‘The traffic –’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said, raising a hand.
‘I’m glad you agreed to the fifteen-minute delay system,’ I told him. ‘I promise you that it’s not going to harm the show.’
‘Well, that’s just one of the changes we’re making,’ Marty said. ‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you.’
I waited, at last registering that Marty was nervous. He had a set of breathing exercises which were meant to disguise him having the shakes, but they weren’t working now. And we weren’t celebrating after all.
‘I also want Siobhan more involved with the booking of guests,’ Marty said. ‘And I want her up in the gallery every week. And I want her to keep the station off my back.’
I let it sink in for a moment. The waitress brought our champagne. She poured two glasses. Marty took a long slug and stared at his glass, his lips parting as he released an inaudible little belch. ‘Pardon me,’ he said.
I let my glass stand on the table.
‘But all those things – that’s the producer’s job.’ I tried on a smile. ‘That’s my job.’
‘Well, those are the changes I want to make.’
‘Wait a minute. I’m not getting a new contract?’
Marty spread his hands as if to say – what can I do? It’s a crazy world!
‘Listen, Harry. You don’t want me to move you sideways into some little nothing job that you could do with your eyes closed. That would look terrible, wouldn’t it?’
‘Marty,’ I said. ‘Marty. Hold on. Hold on just a minute. I really need this job. Now more than ever. There’s the thing with Gina – I’ve got Pat living with me – and I don’t know what’s going to happen. You know all that. And I can’t lose my job. Not now.’
‘I’m sorry, Harry. We need to make some changes.’
‘What is this? Punishment for not being available twenty-four hours a day when my marriage is breaking up? I’m sorry I wasn’t in the office this morning, okay? I can’t leave my son alone. I had to –’
‘Harry, there’s no need to raise your voice. We can do this in a civilised fashion.’
‘Come on, Marty. You’re Mister fucking Controversy. You’re not worried about a little scene, are you?’
‘I’m sorry, Harry. Siobhan’s in. You’re out. And you’ll thank me for it one day. This could be the best thing that’s ever happened to you. No hard feelings?’
The little shit actually held out his hand. I ignored it, getting up as quickly as I could and smacking my thighs against the side of the table.
He shook his head, all disappointed in me.
I began to walk out of the restaurant, my legs aching and my cheeks burning, only turning back when I heard Marty shriek with pain.
Somehow the waitress had spilled an entire plate of pasta in his lap.
‘Boy, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Would you like a little parmesan on that?’
My parents drove Pat home. My mother went around turning on all the lights while my father asked me how work was going. I told him that it was going great.
They stayed with Pat while I did our shopping at the local supermarket. It was only a five-minute drive away, but I was gone for quite a while because I was secretly watching all the women I took to be single mothers. I had never even thought about them before, but now I saw that these women were heroes. Real heroes.
They were doing it all by themselves. Shopping, cooking, entertaining, everything. They were bringing up their children alone.
And I couldn’t even wash Pat’s hair.
‘His hair’s filthy,’ my mum said as my