LATE LUNCH by Mandy Wheeler (3rd place, Prompt Sep22)

‘Excuse me madam, the gentleman you’re waiting for is in reception.’

‘Is he a tall man? Walks with a limp, carries a silver topped cane?’

‘He’s not. But he says he was due to meet a young lady for lunch an hour ago.’

‘It’s been an hour, has it? After thirty years, what’s another hour?’

~

‘Hello.’

‘Hello.’

‘You’ve been waiting a while?’

‘You could say that.’

‘I’m sorry, I had business to attend to.’

‘Business to attend to? You sound like a mafia boss.’

‘Really? How amusing. I believe our table is ready. Shall we go?’

‘Let’s.’

~

‘Red or white?’

‘Just water. It’s quiet in here.’

‘I thought you’d prefer it. You’re staring, by the way.’

‘Sorry. I had you as taller. Somehow I got the idea you walked with a limp and carried a silver topped cane.’

‘Goodness, what a dapper mafia boss. I suppose you’ve prepared questions.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘The soup is chilled pea, by the way. The chef is a friend. He knows what I like.’

‘And you didn’t think to—?’

‘Look, you fire away. Ask me anything. I owe you that. After keeping you waiting.’

‘Fine. So, are you going to apologise?’

‘I already did. I told you; I had business.’

‘No, I—’

‘Oh dear, have I upset your feminist sensitivities, ordering for you? I’ll get the waiter—’

‘I need to know why.’

‘Why what?’

‘Why did you leave your wife and daughter thirty years ago?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You heard.’

‘I don’t talk about that.’

‘Because?’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘How can you say that?’

‘Because, you wouldn’t understand, you weren’t there.’

‘That’s not fair, after all this—’

‘Time? After you’ve waited a whole hour?’

‘Do you think this is funny?’

‘No, I think it is futile.’

‘Well, I’m sorry but—’

‘You don’t believe me? Ok, let’s try a little thought experiment. In this story, you are going to be me. And you’re going to be madly in love—with your wife. Got it? Your wife, by the way, is a wonderful woman. Smart, witty, talented. And something else. She’s honest. Very honest. So honest that when she’s six months pregnant she can’t stand the deceit any longer—those are her very words—so she tells you she’s in love with your best friend. Has been ever since you introduced them, apparently. And your best friend returns the affection. Well, who wouldn’t, she’s a super woman. But there’s a problem—and you may be ahead of me here—your friend’s married! You were his best man. Because he’s great guy, an honest, decent person, just like her. With all that decency around you’d have thought they’d have told you sooner, wouldn’t you?’

‘Presumably they had their reasons.’

‘Presumably. Anyway, because your wife is fair as well as honest, she’s been sleeping with you both. She and your friend were particularly active while you were on a business trip six months ago – at it like rabbits, apparently. She doesn’t use that phrase, by the way.’

‘No.’

‘And that’s when the other shoe drops. She tells you that the child she’s carrying—a daughter—is likely, not certain, but very, very likely, to be your friend’s child, the daughter of a man called Brian.’

‘I see.’

‘No, you don’t. It eats away at you. When your daughter is born you love her so much. But you can’t take it. Can’t stand the deceit, can’t stand the fact that one day you’ll have to sit across a table from her and tell her the truth. And then she’ll leave you…for her “real” family.’

‘There are tests…’

‘There are—but here’s the thing, as our American friends say—a month after the baby arrives, your friend—well, he’s more of an ex-friend by now—dies in a car crash. You and you wife may be arguing the hell out of every night, but you’re agreed the last thing Brian’s grieving family needs is a woman and baby at the door asking for one of Brian’s toothbrushes for a DNA test.’

‘And that’s why you left?’

‘You tell me. You’re me in this story. I’d say you’ve certainly got the motivation.’

‘I’d have… I’d have… I don’t know.’

‘Not as easy as you thought, is it?’

‘No.’

‘That is, if the story is true. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we toss for it? Heads it’s true, tails it’s not. Or you could just choose the version you prefer.’

~

‘Hi. I’m PC Davidson. You’ll be pleased to know we’ve managed to talk him down and there won’t be any charges. Pea soup is not considered a dangerous weapon. Frankly I’m surprised the station took his call, but, you know, given who he is…’

‘No, I don’t know. Who is he?’

‘But you—’

‘I made a mistake.’

‘Well then, you have just thrown your lunch over this country’s “foremost writer of commercial fiction”. He’s a fabulous storyteller.’

‘Isn’t he just?’

‘Surely you remember? He was all over the gossip mags a while back.’

‘Not something I read.’

‘They discovered he’d walked out on his wife just after his daughter was born. Possibly to run off with his PA, but then she married someone else a couple of weeks later. He said he’d never speak to the press again. Until today, obviously. She just called, by the way. The real journalist—the one who was coming to interview him. Been stuck on the Bakerloo line for over an hour.’

‘Sounds uncomfortable.’

‘So that means you’re not her.’

‘No.’

‘So, we know who you’re not. But that’s as far as we’ve got.’

‘Yeah. Me too.’

~

‘I’m sorry Sir, perhaps your lunch guest thought you weren’t coming?’

‘She would have waited. I know she’d have waited.’

‘You’re upset sir, but please…’

‘I was on the Bakerloo Line—’

‘…don’t hit the counter.’

‘Please…’

‘The silver top…’

‘Please listen—’

‘…it’ll damage the finish.’

‘Please. I want to tell you why…I have to tell somebody why…’