The Shelf - Part Two

'Here he is!' Rupert announced as the waiter returned with three obese glasses on a silver tray, each swirling with amber liquid. With an unsteady hand he leaned in between the diners and placed the drinks one by one onto the table, then he put down a plate with three diminutive mince pies, no larger than two pound coins. Christian made a point of thanking him, eyeing his face until contact was made.

'What the hell are they?' said Ollie, 'Looks as if they've been painted gold.'

The waiter hovered nervously. 'They're our goldplated mince pies,' he said without humour.

Rupert poked one gently. 'Oh - can you actually eat metal?' he said, sliding his finger along its surface. 'I mean - it won't kill us will it?'

'It's not mercury!' Christian laughed, 'Gold is inert, that's why it's so bloody useless. It'll just go straight through you.'

'Gold plated shit,' said Rupert grinning, 'I always knew I could push out of those, when the time was right.'

Christian held one of the tiny pies up and studied it closely. 'They're absolutely perfect, just look at the craftmanship that's gone into-'

'Oh they're savoury!' said Ollie stuffing a whole one into his huge mouth, spitting slightly he continued, 'These are the traditional, historically authentic mince pies, full of offal. Now let's down these drinks in one, throat-burning hit!'

'You may do that Ollie but I am a gentleman and I'm going to drink like one.' Rupert whirled the brandy around inside the glass, took a restrained gulp then raised his podgy fist to mask a small benign belch. 'That's the stuff,' he huffed, 'just like medicine.'

Christian took a sip reluctantly then pushed the glass away grimmacing. 'Urrgh! They've cut that with something,' he said, wiping his mouth.

Ollie held aloft his empty glass, exhaled loudly then laughed, his pale blue eyes narrowed and shone, his broad bony shoulders shook up and down. 'Well I'll bloody well have your's Christian,' he said in a casual, jovial tone which somehow penetrated deeper then it should have done.

Ollie had been blessed with an unfair amount of effortless charm. He was tall, naturally athletic with a lively, masculine face, chiselled to perfection and by no means undermined by the smattering of freckles or indeed the sandy red hair which flopped around on top of his man-sized head. And there was an ease about him. He regularly charismatised his way out of poor situations and into the things which matter in life. Even his voice had special qualities; it was audible without effort, dominating without aggression. In the past it had puzzled Christian and made him feel extremely inadequate and jealous. He'd tried hard to force his own voice to do the same but it simply refused, cracking as he attempted to go louder and annoying people when he tried to sound firm. Eventually Christian had given up on trying to be like his friend, concluding that it was simply the vast amount of space at the handsome end of ginger which allowed Ollie's voice to echo so far and his limbs to grow indefinitely.

'May I suggest,' said Rupert, who was looking decidedly squiffy now, 'a few more lunches with me Christian, to promote your palate, not here, somewhere good, somewhere - established. I know a place, in fact I've recently become a fully-fledged member. It's not far from here and very well-connected.'

'No thanks. My vision of the future never involved joining a - club.'

'Vision of the future? Bloody hell Christian! Well I'll join, I don't bother with the future.'

'I was thinking just of Christian for now Ollie, but I'll see about it, ask my father when he's in town.'

Christian shook his head. 'It's getting late now,' he said glancing over at the window. 'Look it's pitch black out there.'

'Bastard British weather,' said Rupert, 'Thank God for New Year in Mustique. It's so friendly out there. Do you know Geoffrey Archer once lent us some limes in an emergency.'

'Limes Rupert? What sort of an emergency warrants limes?'

'Oh Mother has to have her cocktail at eleven o' clock everyday, otherwise, well otherwise she goes a bit, you know - how women are sometimes. Apparently she developed the habit shortly after she had me.'

Christian and Ollie glanced at each other. 'Is that so,' said Christian.

Rupert removed a certain brand of black credit card from his wallet, held it up above his head and twisted it between his fingers. 'It was the first time she'd ever been to a hospital, having me, but she's been in and out ever since, mostly with her head.'

A tall, attractive waitress in heels snatched the card from his fingers and went off to process the bill payment.

'She's wellmade,' Ollie remarked.

Rupert was rather shy about women. He stayed quiet for a few seconds but felt enormous pressure rising within him to comment. 'She's got nice - legs,' he spluttered.

'You didn't look at her legs,' said Ollie.

The waitress returned with the card on a small white plate which she placed silently onto the table then went about collecting the empty brandy glasses. Rubert blew on his credit card before returning it to his wallet with a highly affected, possibly rehearsed motion of the hand. Meanwhile Ollie ogled the waitress through coppery eyebrows which occasionally quivered. He had a tendency to get familiar after a few drinks and as she turned away from the table he suddenly grabbed her wrist firmly. She stopped and glared at him in alarm.

'Excuse my hand,' he said very calmly, 'but I've a question for you.'

'Yes, what is it?'

Ollie eyed her all over. 'Are you ovulating?' he said quietly.

'Excuse me?'

'It's just, you have a certain - allure. I was wondering,' Ollie gave out a small blurt of laughter, 'if you were releasing an egg.'

'An egg? I don't understand.'

'Down there,' said Ollie, extending his long index finger and giving her a light poke in her abdomen.

In an instant the waitress developed crimson horseshoes on her cheeks, she hissed like a snake as she yanked his arm from his grip, shooting him down with a look of total contempt. Christian died inside, Rupert held his breath and cringed but Ollie was bulletproof. 'Eastern Europeans, ' he said watching her march off towards the bar, 'hot-bloodied, can't take a joke. Come on let's go, I'm dying for a fag now.'

'I don't think you should have said that Oliver. It's bloody out of order, too much.'

'Oh come on Rupert. Christian knows, he knows me, it's just a bit of fun, women love that sort of thing. And yes, she IS ovulating, I can tell. Believe me, there's not much I don't know about women,' Ollie said proudly, flicking some rogue hair off his forehead. 'If I wasn't in the fiscal game I'd be a fertility consultant - set myself up on Harley Street, make a fortune!'

'It takes years of medical training Ollie, you'd get bored, drop out.'

'Wouldn't need any training Christian. I've lived it, text books couldn't teach me anything, in fact I should be writing them.'

The three men gathered up their jackets and stripy scarves and made their way towards the exit in untidy, single-file. The tables were arranged awkwardly and the place was dotted with grotesque black chandeliers which hung down low enough to cause an obstruction. As Christian's hand connected with the door handle he became aware of a high-pitched voice shouting something at them.

'Excuse me! Hey!'

'What?' said Ollie rather confrontationally.

A small square man in tails stood in front of them breathing heavily. 'I am the Maitre de of this establishment, ' he said.

'Maitre de? God this place has a serious identity problem!' Rupert muttered.

'Well I am afraid you're not welcome here next time,' said the man fervently, shaking his finger and his large head in unison.

'What?' Ollie pointed at the waitress who was still seething from the safety of behind the bar. 'SHE approached ME, asked for my number. She wanted my advice about her-'

'Alright well just be on your way now please.' The Maitre de was calm but forceful, he herded the men out of the door using a menu in the same way a farmer would use a cattle prod.

'Okay, let's just get out of here, ' said Christian.

'One of my whelks was bad!' Ollie shouted as the door shut behind them.

'Well I think we'll give that place a miss next time,' said Rupert, 'Damnable cheek if you ask me! I would have thought we were just the sort of customers they would want to keep. Foreign waitresses are ten a penny but guys like us could - our presence could elevate their reputation.'