Three Men On Tour: 34

Dinner wasn’t until 7. I had plenty of time to get the muck out of my hair and the regret out of my eyes. By the time I came downstairs, I was in a clean pressed shirt and ready to put the events of the day behind me. I was the first down. Our waitress from the morning was on duty – still looking bored but switching instantly to a Stepford smile as she brought the menu over. I glanced over it and began thinking about wine. Harry was next down. He stepped into the dining hall in a candy striped lime shirt which said ‘screw the day – I’m here to party’. I called him over. Harry took one glance over at me. Then he sat at a separate table. The waitress looked from one to the other of us in confusion. Clearly figuring it was none of her business, the smile snapped back in place and she trotted over to Harry with menu in hand. I took a deep breath, and decided to ignore Harry. He ignored me right back.

The dining room filled slowly – mostly conference delegates I assumed from their polite encounters in the doorway. When George came down, the dining room was half full. He walked in and scanned the room. It took him a moment to spot Harry and me, seated apart as we were. When he did, he looked from one to the other then appeared to come to a decision. He selected an entirely separate table and sat at that. For a moment, I considered going over. Then the moment passed, and I continued with my meal while the strange triangle of animosity grew.

The meal was good by hotel standards – a rather pleasant cut of beef in red wine sauce with noisette potatoes, mangetout and blanched asparagus lightly drizzled with a lemon hollandaise. It was almost enough to distract me from my lack of dining companions. Occasionally, I would resolve to walk over to one table, or another, and demand an end to all this silliness. But then I would pause to decide which table to approach first, and my resolve would waver, I would tell myself I never started this nonsense in the first place, and I would return to my wine and ponder the dessert menu.

It was inevitable that it would be Harry who broke the silence. His voice rang out across the dining hall.

“No sticky toffee pudding? What do you mean there’s no sticky toffee pudding?“

“I’m sorry sir,“ said the girl, her smile replaced with her serious expression for indicating to difficult customers how important they were. “We just served the last one.“

I looked at the brown remnants on my plate, warm and glistening against the remaining yellow streaks of custard. It had been delicious.

“May I recommend the lemon parfait?“ suggested the waitress brightly. Harry nearly exploded.

“If I’d wanted lemon parfait, I’d have asked for lemon parfait. I want sticky toffee pudding.“ He surveyed the dining room with narrowing eyes.

“Was it him?“

The innocent diner drew back, wide eyed, as Harry thrust an accusing finger across the intervening table space.

“It was him, wasn’t it? Did he eat my sticky toffee pudding? He looks like the type.“

“Sir…“ began the waitress.

“Um, sorry…“ started the customer, the sentences colliding in mid-air. Harry jumped on the hesitation like a tiger on an antelope.

“I knew it,“ he declared. “You’re a sticky toffee pudding thief.“

“Um, I mean, sorry,“ continued the customer, “but I had the cheese board. I don’t like sticky toffee pudding.“

Harry looked deflated for a moment, but then rallied. “A liar as well,“ he shouted, appealing to the room for witnesses. “No-one doesn’t like sticky toffee pudding.“

“Shut up, Harry.“

At first, I thought it was me speaking, so accurately did it reflect my feelings. The voice, however, had come from the far side of the room. George had stood up. He was shaking, although I couldn’t tell if from rage or fear.

“Firstly,“ he began, “not everybody likes sticky toffee pudding. You like sticky pudding. You, however, despite your own deep convictions to the contrary, are not everybody. You are you. At the moment, I feel that to be more than sufficient. Secondly, no-one is amused by this. You think you’re a card, a character. Something to add colour to a dull evening meal. Well look around you. Do we look amused? You’re not the amusing incident we hope will brighten up our evening, you’re the embarrassing drunk that we hope will go away. In fact, nothing can sum this whole incident up more than embarrassment. Embarrassment that we are here, embarrassment that this is happening and embarrassment that we are in any way associated with you.“

George stopped and only then seemed to realise that everyone was looking at him. He flushed the colour of a sunburnt flamingo and started to sit down abruptly. Then he stopped, took a deep breath and stood up again.

“Oh,“ he said, “and you used a double negative.“ Then he sat down.