Free Singled Out by Simon Brett Page B

Ungraciously he took the bottle from the waiter and looked at it. ‘God, this is some bloody Californian gnat’s piss. You shouldn’t let them take advantage of you like this, Laura. You should have waited till I got here to order.’
    â€˜This is what the lady asked for,’ the waiter said perkily.
    â€˜Well, the lady doesn’t know anything about wine, so take the bloody bottle away and get us something decent. Presumably you do do French wine?’
    â€˜Oh, certainly, sir,’ replied the waiter, imperturbably polite, and fanned a cardboard menu in front of Michael.
    â€˜That.’ He stabbed at the list. ‘And make it quick.’
    Laura wondered how she had ever convinced herself that this man would make a suitable husband. Within thirty seconds of any meeting he had the ability to make her instantly grateful for their separation.
    Again she thought back to the awfulness of her wedding night. In a way, though, it had been a blessing. That shock had begun the process of waking her from her long trauma. It had been a necessary part of her development.
    Michael looked derisively round the restaurant. ‘God, what a bloody gimmicky place. I suppose this is the kind of thing
television people
go for, is it? The new trendy place, eh?’
    â€˜It’s convenient, and the burgers are good,’ said Laura.
    â€˜Huh. Overpriced foreign rubbish. Just another symptom of what’s happening to London, a place like this. Bloody foreigners everywhere. Bond Street’ll soon end up looking like a Middle Eastern bazaar. You can’t walk two steps without bumping into a bloody Arab.’
    â€˜I’m surprised you complain. I thought it was the “bloody Arabs” who were buying all your expensive properties.’
    â€˜That’s true. And very grateful to them we are. Helping us over a potentially sticky patch. Not that it’ll go on like this. Market’ll soon pick up. You can never go wrong in the long term with bricks and mortar. Oh no, I don’t mind bloody Arabs buying the places, but I’m buggered if I actually want them living here.’
    The waiter arrived with another bottle of wine, which Michael again grabbed and inspected suspiciously. ‘Looks all right. I’ll want to taste it. Presumably you’re not used to customers asking to do that in a place like this?’
    â€˜We always pour wine to be tasted, sir,’ replied the waiter, unfailingly courteous. He drew the cork, wiped the bottle’s neck with a cloth and neatly decanted a little into Michael’s glass. Michael took a sip and grudgingly admitted that the wine was all right.
    â€˜Are you ready to order yet, madam? Sir?’
    â€˜I’ve only just bloody arrived, haven’t I?’ Michael picked up the large, colourful menu. ‘Give us five minutes.’
    â€˜Certainly, sir.’
    The waiter withdrew. Michael followed his departure with narrowed eyes, then looked down at the menu. ‘God, I hate being taken for a ride in places like this. You’re only paying for the gimmicks, you know.’
    â€˜As a matter of fact,’ said Laura evenly, ‘the prices here are very reasonable. And I’m paying, anyway, so it’s not your problem.’
    â€˜And no doubt if I did insist on paying, I’d be condemned yet again as a Male Chauvinist Pig, wouldn’t I?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Laura.
    â€˜Oh, God, what’s happening in this country? Everything’s bloody arse-about-tit. Men are no longer allowed to behave like men, women have completely lost their femininity, the place is being taken over by bloody Yanks and Arabs. And now we’ve even got the Arabs messing up our fuel supplies. Do you know, I had to queue for nearly an hour to get a full tank of petrol this morning?’
    â€˜Yes, we’ve done a few features for
Newsviews
on what’s going on at the pumps.’
    â€˜Really? Well, I’m sure