After Hours: Black Lace Classics (30 page)

‘Well, I think it’s a very good likeness of me,’ said Micky, laughing. ‘Particularly the cock.’

Venny glanced over at the sculpture. The male figure had a massive erection. God! Why hadn’t she noticed that earlier?

Because I was in shock, thought Venny, that’s why.

‘Jamie’s up on the stage now,’ Micky pointed out, looking over with interest. ‘I don’t want to be alarmist, but he appears to have a blowtorch in his hand. It’s probably my blowtorch, come to think of it.’

Other people at the table – and at the other tables too – were looking up at the stage, wondering what a man in a kilt was doing up there on the stage wielding a blowtorch.

A kilt? thought Venny. She’d never once seen Jamie in a kilt, so why was he wearing one now, as the Scots did on those ceremonial occasions like Hogmanay and Burns Night?

But maybe that was it. Ceremonial. Maybe Jamie was about to do something he saw as deeply significant to his Scots honour.

‘Someone ought to get him down from there,’ said Venny, glancing around in the hope of catching the eye of some of the bouncers who had earlier been on the door, admitting ticket-holders only. And of course they’d have let Jamie in. Jamie would have a ticket. Dani would have got him one some time ago. Before she had discovered what an all-round mad bastard he was.

Micky too was looking around, searching the room with his eyes for bouncers. There were two standing by
the door. One of them was looking over to the stage, where Jamie was now strumming the microphone beside his sculpture.

‘Testing, one, two, three,’ he said in his deep Glasgow burr.

The waiting staff were glancing up at him too, but clearly Dani was ordering them about their duties, telling them to ignore him, to just carry on with serving the first course. The bouncers were just starting to move across the room.

‘Dani,’
boomed out over the speaker system.

Dani, at the far side of the room, looked around as if she’d been goosed.

‘This is for you, Dani,’ Jamie shouted, and set the naked flame from a cigarette lighter to the roaring throat of the blowtorch. A long tongue of yellow flame shot from the end of it. He adjusted the setting. Then the colour dimmed to blue.

‘He isn’t,’ said Venny in a horrified whisper.

‘He bloody well is,’ said Micky.

And he was. He was melting the sculpture with the blowtorch. As soon as the blue flame touched the female figure, water started to cascade down and drip onto the stage.

Dani looked up in disbelief, and several of the waiting staff, bustling about with fully laden trays, glanced over at her anxiously, wondering if they should continue, or stop what they were doing.

‘Get on with it,’ hissed Dani at them, making urgent shooing motions with her hands.

The waiting staff carried on, skirting the stage. Unfortunately the water from the fast-melting sculpture was now dripping over the edge of the stage and onto the highly-polished floor beneath. One of the waiters slipped, and chilled lobster bisque went shooting up into the air and fell in a huge pink cascade, landing on several of the diners, who leapt up with squeals and shouts of protest.

‘He’s better entertainment value than a circus, that boy,’ laughed Micky.

The bouncers were struggling to cross the huge room against the sudden chaos of people leaving their seats and making for the doors. One collapsed in a flailing heap as he neared the stage, taking three of the diners with him. One of the women who had fallen was so irate she started belabouring the bouncer with a sequinned handbag.

Venny stared, fascinated, as the sculpture quickly lost its shape. Dani was gone now; there was only Micky left, and Jamie was busy attacking the ice-Micky’s erection with the blowtorch.

‘Ouch,’ said Micky, watching.

One of the bouncers reached the stage, and from the wings a uniformed security guard came charging out. The guard went skidding past Jamie to land with a thump on the other side of the stage, but the bouncer grabbed Jamie. The blowtorch fell to the floor and the security guard crawled to his feet, dripping and slithering about, and grabbed Jamie’s ankles. Jamie’s feet flew from under him, and all three of the men went
down in a churning mass of flying fists, arms and legs.

‘It’s true then,’ said Venny.

‘What’s true?’ Micky asked her, grinning with enjoyment as he refilled their glasses. Everyone else on the table was gone, thundering towards the doors like wildebeest during summer migration.

‘That the Scots don’t wear anything under their kilts,’ said Venny, and started to laugh.

Somehow within the next half an hour the hotel management swung into action and managed to restore order. Jamie was removed to the kitchens – but not before he’d mooned comprehensively at the diners. The sad-looking mound of ice that had been his glorious sculpture was cleared away, and the stage and the surrounding area were mopped up. Angry and offended and downright frightened diners who had been unlucky enough to be seated near the stage were escorted back to their relaid tables, and Dani got the waiting staff in order and got the main course served. There were mutterings about compensation and charges being brought, but on the whole things settled down quite quickly and a sumptuous main course was followed by pudding, then cheese and biscuits, fruit and mints and coffee and brandy, and everyone’s tempers started to improve. The diners became quite mellow, so that by the time the awards were to be given people were leaning back in their seats, cigars were being puffed upon, and smiles were again the order of the day.

The television celebrity turned out to be a perky
Irish BBC weather girl, escorted onto the now pristine stage by the hotel manager. She was blonde and had improbably perfect large breasts which seemed about to burst from the confines of her black bugle-beaded gown. She handled the gold envelopes containing the Blue Ribbon awards results with reverence. Canned music boomed out from behind the stage, and as synthetic drums rolled she made a very pretty speech during which her audience, sated with food and fine wines, hardly fidgeted at all.

Venny smiled across at Micky; he winked back. And then, over his shoulder, she noticed someone who looked familiar. A thick body, dark curls, a choleric face. It was Bill Thompson. Catching her eye, he cheekily raised his glass to her. Venny quickly averted her gaze. He had grown a goatee beard, which added an edge of sophistication to his image, she thought. But he was still a bastard.

‘So here we go,’ the weather girl was saying with the effusive warmth she usually reserved for isobars and wind chill factors. The drum roll grew progressively louder. ‘The Blue Ribbon awards, the most prestigious restaurant awards for excellence, for efficiency, for ambience, for the very best food.’

‘Come on, get on with it,’ urged Micky.

‘The standard of entry has never been higher, and the panel of judges were faced with a terribly difficult decision when they saw how exceptional each of the contestants were.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ sighed Micky.

‘Hush,’ Venny urged him.

The weather girl was opening the envelope, taking her time over it, building up the bated-breath atmosphere in the big room.

‘And so in third place we have Le Petit Noir,’ shouted the weather girl with a broad grin. ‘Proprietor, Philippe Noir.’

‘Who?’ asked Venny, peering around heads as a spotlight caught and held the Frenchman who now rose and started down towards the stage.

‘He’s very good,’ admitted Micky, clapping along with everyone else.

‘I’ve never heard of him.’

‘You must have.’

‘I haven’t.’

Up on the stage, Philippe Noir was embracing the weather girl and kissing her with exuberant Gallic charm on both cheeks. He gave her a friendly pat on the ass too, something no Englishman would get away with. The weather girl smiled, and blushed.

‘Think he’s in there,’ said Micky.

‘Shush! She’s going to announce second place.’

Philippe Noir was returning to his seat clutching his prize. The weather girl steadied herself, patting her hair. ‘And now for second place. Of course here the competition became very intense.’

‘Oh, cut to the chase, can’t you?’ muttered Venny.

‘So intense in fact that the judges were very divided as to who should have the honour of being runner-up this year.’ The weather girl paused for dramatic effect.
Venny’s fingers were digging into Micky’s forearm. ‘So it was decided that two restaurants should share that honour. In second place for the Blue Ribbon award, ladies and gentlemen,’ she flourished another envelope and consulted its contents, ‘I give you Beurre Blanc, proprietor Mr Micky Quinn.’

Micky rose to his feet with a grin as the spotlight zoomed in on him and the room erupted in a wave of clapping.

‘And Box of Delights, proprietor Ms Venetia Halliday!’

Venny stood up dazedly. If they had come second, then who the hell had come first? Still, was second really so bad? And they had tied for second place, so there would be no hurt feelings or bruised egos on either side. Actually, for her and Micky, it was a pretty good result.

She went up onto the stage with Micky, and they collected their blue ribbons set in perspex. Their names and the names of their restaurants were engraved on the silver base of each prize. Flashes fired. The press were in, and what with Jamie’s behaviour earlier in the evening and this surprising result, there were sure to be plenty of write-ups in the papers tomorrow, and lots of good publicity.

They kissed the weather girl (Micky seemed particularly enthusiastic about kissing the weather girl, thought Venny ironically) and went back to their seats clutching their prizes.

But who had won? Venny wondered.

Who could have beaten both Micky and herself, when she had been so sure that they had it all in the bag?

‘And now,’ said the weather girl portentously, ‘the moment we have all been waiting for. The moment when we bestow the first prize in these prestigious Blue Ribbon awards. Ladies and gentlemen,’ the weather girl opened the envelope, looked at it, paused, and then screeched: ‘First prize goes to Fantoni’s, proprietor Pietro Fantoni!’

The room was a solid wall of noise. The drum roll burst into a crescendo, then a fanfare sounded. The spotlight dipped and dived and spun around the packed room as a roar of approval and an explosion of clapping, catcalling and whistling went up from the crowd.

‘Who?’ yelled Venny at Micky.

‘Fantoni’s.’ Micky shrugged fatalistically. ‘I told you they’ve been getting good reviews.’

Over Micky’s shoulder Venny saw the spotlight settle upon Bill Thompson. She thought it was going to pass on, but it didn’t. Bill Thompson rose to his feet, waving and grinning.

‘But that’s Bill Thompson,’ she shouted across to Micky. ‘Is he going to collect the prize for this Fantoni chap?’

‘You’re joking,’ said a sour-faced girl sitting at their table. Her restaurant hadn’t even been in the top three. ‘That
is
Pietro Fantoni.’

‘No, that’s Bill Thompson,’ insisted Venny.

The girl shook her head vehemently. ‘Haven’t you
heard of PR?’ she said bitterly. ‘Bill Thompson changed his name to Pietro Fantoni. It’s easy enough and it sounds a hell of a lot more impressive, I think you’ll agree. I spoke to him just a couple of weeks ago, he’s even started using a dummy Italian accent to convince the punters he’s genuine. Then he got hold of one of the big PR consultancies in Mayfair, to launch the whole thing. I tell you, he’s fooled everyone, the judges included.’

‘But the food must have been good,’ remonstrated Venny. She could barely take all this in. She watched in a complete daze while Bill Thompson – or, rather, Pietro Fantoni – went up onto the stage and cheerfully groped the giggling weather girl.

‘Of course it was,’ scoffed the sour-faced girl. ‘It was good because he hired a top chef straight off the plane from Tuscany. I tell you, the whole thing was rigged.’

‘Pietro’ was coming back to his seat – thank God he wasn’t going to turn all their stomachs by making a speech, thought Venny.

She couldn’t believe it.

Plodding, useless Bill Thompson had fooled them all. He’d had the last laugh.

And stupidly, incredulously, Venny now found herself laughing too. Laughing at the sheer absurdity of the situation.

‘You’re not getting hysterical, are you?’ asked Micky with a concerned look. ‘I’m not going to have to slap you round the chops or anything drastic, am I?’

‘No,’ chuckled Venny. ‘Don’t worry. It’s just all so silly, that’s all.’

Micky gazed at her curiously. ‘When I first met you, these awards were all that mattered to you.’

‘I know. Ridiculous, isn’t it?’

‘You’re happy with joint second?’ asked Micky as the weather girl started another speech.

‘Perfectly,’ said Venny truthfully.

‘Almost like being in a partnership after all,’ quipped Micky.

‘Yeah. Almost,’ said Venny, and darted forwards to kiss him fleetingly on the lips.

‘What was that for?’ asked Micky, his blue eyes dancing with devilment as his hand slid up her inner thigh under the table. He kissed her back, lingering over the kiss, uncaring of the others at the table looking on with envy.

‘Nothing, really.’

‘So maybe you’d consider a partnership at some time in the future?’ Micky probed gently.

‘I might,’ admitted Venny, moving his hand further up her thigh and opening her legs a little so that he could get his hand just where he – and she – wanted it.

‘Pleasure, not business,’ said Micky, rubbing her furry mound lustfully.

‘Pleasure?’ Venny asked just a bit breathlessly.

‘Yeah. How about it?’

Venny smiled and leaned closer. ‘OK,’ she said happily. ‘But Micky, when are you going to pay me for the damage my car sustained in that shunt we had?’

‘I’ll pay you in kind,’ said Micky with an evil grin.

In the hotel kitchens an hour later, the staff were washing up, tidying away excess food, packing up for the evening. Jamie was sitting, head in hands, at the big aluminium prep table in the middle of the room while the others worked around him.

‘You’re a crazy son of a bitch,’ said an irate female voice from above him. He looked up. His grey eyes stared into Dani’s blue ones. She was holding a tea-towel and looked as if she was about to swipe him around the ear with it. He ran a hand through his tangle of blond hair and shrugged truculently. ‘You know, you’re really lucky the hotel management decided not to press charges,’ Dani raged on. ‘You’re lucky they didn’t just throw you out in the street and boot your sorry arse all the way back to Shepherd’s Bush. You’re lucky I was here to vouch for your good character.’