A Dream of her Own (18 page)
They went down one flight further to find Patrick McCormack, the head waiter, hovering just outside the wide-arched entrance to the main dining room. He was a tall, black-haired, handsome man whose ramrod gait and clipped moustache made him look more of a gentleman than many of the restaurant’s customers.
‘Ah, Mr Alvini, I apologize for disturbing you, but ...’ The man’s blue eyes were clouded with anxiety.
‘That’s all right, Patrick. I know you wouldn’t do so if it weren’t necessary. My mother is happy to trust your judgement.’
McCormack inclined his head slightly. We’re lucky to have him, Frank thought. God knows what we’ll do when he finally saves up enough money to open a restaurant of his own.
‘Now,’ Frank sighed, ‘where is he?’
The head waiter dismissed Jimmy, who hurried towards the staff entrance to the kitchen at the end of the landing. When the boy had gone, he moved into the shadow of the looped back velvet drapes of the dining room. ‘Look,’ he breathed, ‘over there.’
Frank could see Valentino sitting at a table on the far side of the restaurant. He recognized the three men who were with him.
‘I’ll follow you across there, Patrick,’ he said to the head waiter, ‘as if I were a customer and you were taking me to a table. Let’s not make this too obvious. My mother would never forgive us if we caused my brother any embarrassment. You understand?’
‘Of course.’
Patrick McCormack led the way as confidently and as convincingly as the actor he had once been. Frank was happy to fall in behind his broad black-clad shoulders. Patrick was the only member of staff to wear a jacket. The other waiters wore black waistcoats over their white shirts, the sleeves of which were kept back neatly with metal armbands. As Frank strode across the room they moved efficiently from table to table, taking and delivering orders.
Elaborate gasoliers illuminated the large room from above and, in the centre of each table, there was an ornate brass oil-lamp combined with a container of fresh flowers. Ivy leaves and ferns trailed artistically across the white damask table-cloths. More than half the tables were taken and the noise level of laughter and animated conversation was already rising.
Frank looked around at the gentlemen in evening clothes and the ladies - there were fewer of these - in low-necked, tight-waisted gowns. The women’s hair was piled on the top of their heads with the front puffed and padded out in the current fashion. Some wore flowers in their hair, at their wrists or pinned to their bodices; some had jewels glittering at their throats and their ears; all were beautiful.
And it was their beauty that revealed the true nature of the restaurant’s clientele. The men were exactly the sort of prosperous citizens that Frank’s father, Alfredo Alvini, had set out to attract, but they did not bring their wives here, and especially not to the private dining rooms on the upper floor.
One or two of the customers, both male and female, acknowledged Frank with a smile or a wave. The women had respectability of a kind: none of them walked the streets and some devoted their attentions to only one admirer. Frank did not despise them, but he understood why his mother preferred never to make an appearance in the restaurant, although she worked ceaselessly behind the scenes.
Suddenly the head waiter stopped and drew Frank aside. ‘See, Mr Carmichael and his friends have been trying to persuade your brother to drink more than is good for him.’
Frank noticed that Patrick had not referred to Valentino as ‘the master’ although he would have done if he had been speaking to Madame Alvini. Valentino had not seen them approaching. When at last he looked up and saw them, he smiled with delight. ‘Franco! Are you joining us?’
Behind him, Patrick McCormack coughed discreetly and Frank half turned to face him. ‘Do you want me to stay?’ the head waiter asked.
‘No, it’s all right, Patrick. I’ve kept you from your duties long enough.’ Frank turned back to face his brother. Valentino’s handsome features were still wreathed in smiles. His companions at the table were also looking at Frank but their gaze was not so welcoming.
He knew them all. Warren Carmichael and Leonard Russell, both the sons of prosperous local families, were regular customers. So was Gerald Sowerby; but he also knew Gerald as a fellow student at the Medical School.
‘I don’t think your brother wants to join us.’ Leonard Russell, who was sitting next to Valentino, leaned back in his chair and gazed at Frank through half-closed, insolent eyes. His sallow features arranged themselves into a sardonic challenge. ‘And besides, there isn’t room, is there?’
‘No room?’ Valentino frowned for a moment and then the smile returned. ‘Oh, I see - we need another chair. I’ll get one.’
He stood up suddenly, knocking the table as he did so. Warren Carmichael grabbed his glass just as it was about to tip its contents into his lap. He laughed. ‘Steady on there, Alvini. You’re like a young carthorse!’
Gerald, who had also had to grab his glass, scowled. ‘Don’t bother to get another chair. Russell’s right. Your brother doesn’t want to join us. He’s come to spoil your fun.’
‘Spoil my fun?’
‘He’s come to take you home. He doesn’t like you making friends with us. Isn’t that right?’ Gerald stared up at Frank insolently.
Valentino looked at his brother and scowled. It was the scowl of a small child who had been crossed, Frank thought, but the trouble was that Valentino had the body of a man, a very big man, and, although he very rarely lost his temper, it was better not to risk provoking him.
‘I don’t want to go home yet. I’m enjoying myself.’
‘For goodness’ sake sit down again, then.’ Warren Carmichael, his podgy face flushed with drink and shallow good humour, grinned up at Valentino. ‘Tell your little brother to go away and stop pestering you.’
‘That’s right,’ Gerald Sowerby added. ‘I mean, who’s the master here, you or Frank?’
Valentino frowned. ‘Master?’
Frank could see Patrick McCormack glancing at them across the crowded tables. Patrick raised his eyebrows questioningly. Some of the diners seated at nearby tables were looking up at Valentino’s massive form. They had heard him raise his voice and they could sense trouble.
Frank smiled a small tight smile and shook his head at the head waiter almost imperceptibly, then he turned his attention once more to his older brother and his companions. He knew that it amused them to make fun of Valentino, but he didn’t want his brother to know that.
‘Valentino is the master here. We all know that. In fact, that is why I have come for him. We need his advice on a matter of business.’
‘You need Valentino’s advice?’ Warren Carmichael looked incredulous.
Leonard Russell’s thin lips curved into a sneer and Gerald sniggered. Thankfully, Valentino didn’t hear him and his expression became solemn as he focused on Frank.
‘Business?’ he asked. ‘You need me on a matter of business?’
‘Yes, we need to consult you. You’ll have to come with me. I’ll show you the papers.’
‘Ah, the papers.’ His older brother’s expression cleared and he smiled as if he now understood everything. ‘I’ll come at once.’
More heads had turned. Valentino had drawn himself up to his full height and Frank had to admit that he looked impressive. The elder brother had his father’s powerful physique combined with his mother’s beauty. Frank knew that women found him heartbreakingly handsome. The tragedy was that his difficult passage into the world had done something to the brains confined within that noble-looking skull.
Valentino looked down at the other men graciously. ‘I have to go. You will forgive me?’
The three of them looked openly scornful and, before any one of them could say anything, Frank said, ‘Thank you for inviting my brother to your table. However there was no need for you to be quite so generous with the wine—’
‘That’s right,’ Valentino interrupted, ‘very generous - I shouldn’t have allowed it. Patrick,’ he called, and the head waiter came hurrying over.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘These gentlemen are my guests tonight. They may order anything they please; there will be no charge.’
‘Very well, sir.’
Frank could see that it took all Patrick McCormack’s acting skills to hide his displeasure and he cursed himself for not foreseeing what Valentino might do. But how could he have done? Usually his brother was quiet, good-natured and biddable, it was only when the drink lubricated his poor wits and loosened his tongue that he could take you by surprise.
As he led Valentino back through the crowded dining room Frank could see heads turning to watch their progress. One or two faces registered derision, but most of the regular customers were prepared to be compassionate. Here and there a woman’s face showed open admiration for his brother’s good looks.
I wonder if they know, Frank thought, and if they do know, whether they care? He knew that his mother often worried that some scheming woman would trap her elder son into marriage. Valentino was outwardly prosperous and handsome, and the fact that he was slow-witted might be an added attraction to a woman who was not altogether scrupulous. Once married to him she might treat him cruelly.
On the next landing Frank saw Jimmy Nelson coming out of a private dining room, looking worried. He was so preoccupied that when he looked up and saw Frank and Valentino he jumped and dropped the empty tray.
‘I didn’t hear you coming. What a fright!’ He stopped to pick up the tray.
‘Is something the matter, Jimmy?’
‘Matter? Why should there be?’
‘I thought you looked worried.’
‘Did I?’ Jimmy couldn’t meet his eyes.
‘You’re not having trouble with the customers, are you?’
‘What kind of trouble?’ The lad’s response worried Frank even more.
‘They’re not giving you a difficult time - you know, being unpleasant, being mean?’
‘No, nothing like that.’ Jimmy’s composure was returning and Frank began to think that he had imagined that the lad had been upset. ‘Not mean, definitely not mean. Generous to a fault, in fact. The meal isn’t over yet and they’ve already tipped me well over the top.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘Said that I had to bring them a bottle of the best champagne. Said they knew what went on in restaurants - labels being soaked off and cat’s piss being foisted on ignorant customers. Said I was to make sure that they got the genuine article. Hence the tip.’
By the end of his little speech Frank got the impression that Jimmy had convinced himself that all was well.
‘I see. Are you to bring the champagne now?’
‘Yes. Got to make sure I bring it back myself.’
‘Well, take your time, then.’
‘Why? What do you mean?’
‘Don’t hurry or they’ll think you’ve brought them any old cat’s piss. Make them think you’ve searched the cellar, outwitted the wine waiter. Get it?’
‘Got it!’ Jimmy’s young face cracked into a grin and he hurried downstairs.
Valentino had been waiting patiently, completely uninterested in anything that had been said. He followed Frank up to the family’s private apartment without protest. He’s tired, Frank thought, and the wine has made him sleepy. With any luck he’ll go straight to bed.
But their mother was waiting with the chocolate cake and, at the sight of it, Valentino’s eyes lit up like those of a greedy child. He allowed Maria Alvini to lead him over to the table, drape a napkin around his neck and present him with a large slice of cake.
When Frank murmured to his mother that he wanted to go back downstairs for a moment, she barely acknowledged him. But before Frank could close the door behind him, he heard Valentino say, ‘But where are the papers?’
‘Frank?’ His mother called out helplessly.
‘The papers, Mother,’ he said. ‘Remember you wanted Valentino to look at the papers? Wait, I’ll get them.’
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