Mr. Moretti guided the gentleman and his wife to a corner table usually reserved for regulars or important customers.
Mr. and Mrs. Quilter were not regulars. They fell into the category of anniversaries and special occasions. However, Mr. Moretti had instructed his staff to treat them as VIPs.
He handed them both a menu. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked Mr. Quilter.
“Just a glass of water for now. I’ll choose a bottle of wine once we’ve decided what we?
??re going to eat.”
“Of course, sir,” said Moretti. He left them to study their menus and went through to the kitchen. “They’ve arrived. I’ve put them on table eleven,” he announced.
The chef nodded. He rarely spoke unless it was to bawl out one of his sous-chefs, although, he had to admit, life had become a lot easier since the arrival of their latest recruit. Mrs. Karpenko also rarely spoke as she went about preparing each dish with skill and pride. It had taken less than a week for the normally skeptical chef to admit that a rare talent had appeared at Moretti’s, and he warned the boss that he feared it wouldn’t be long before she wanted to move on and run her own kitchen.
Mr. Moretti returned to the dining room and whispered to the head-waiter, “I’ll be taking the order for table eleven, Gino.” When he saw the special guest close his menu, he quickly moved across to their table. “Have you decided what you’d like, madam?” he asked Mrs. Quilter, removing a small pad and pen from his jacket pocket.
“Yes, thank you. I’ll start with the avocado salad, and as it’s a special occasion, I’ll have the Dover sole.”
“An excellent choice, madam. And for you, sir?”
“Parma ham and melon, and I’ll also have the Dover sole. And perhaps you could recommend a wine that would complement the fish?”
“Perhaps the Pouilly-Fuissé?” said Moretti, pointing to the third wine on a long list.
“That looks fine,” said Quilter after checking the price.
Moretti hurried away and told his sommelier that table eleven would have the Pouilly-Fuissé. “Premier Cru,” he added.
“Premier Cru?” the waiter repeated, only to receive a curt nod.
Moretti retreated to a corner and watched the sommelier uncork a bottle and pour out some wine for the customer to taste. Mr. Quilter sipped it.
“Magnificent,” he said, looking a little puzzled. “I think you’ll enjoy this, my dear,” he added as the sommelier filled his wife’s glass.
Although the restaurant was full that night, Mr. Moretti’s eyes rarely left the customers on table eleven, and as soon as the main courses had been cleared away he returned to ask if they would like a dessert.
The smile that appeared on Mr. Quilter’s lips after he tasted the first mouthful of Elena’s crème brûlée could have left no one in any doubt how much he enjoyed it. “Worthy of Trinity,” he mumbled when their empty dishes were whisked away, leaving Moretti none the wiser.
Mr. Moretti remained in a corner of the restaurant until the special guest asked a passing waiter for the bill, at which point he made his way back to table eleven.
“What a wonderful meal,” Mr. Quilter said as he ran a finger down the bill. He took out his checkbook, filled in the figures, and added a generous tip. He handed the check to Mr. Moretti, who tore it in half.
Mr. and Mrs. Quilter were unable to hide their surprise. “I don’t understand,” Mr. Quilter eventually managed.
“I need a favor, sir,” said Moretti.
* * *
Elena straightened Sasha’s tie, and stood back to take a careful look at her son. He was dressed in his Sunday best, a recent purchase from a local church jumble sale. The suit may have been a little on the large size, but nothing a needle and thread hadn’t taken care of.
Mr. Moretti had given Elena the morning off, although he was just as nervous about the outcome as she was. A red double-decker bus transported mother and son to the next borough, and they got off outside a vast set of wrought-iron gates. They walked through into a courtyard, where Elena asked one of the boys for directions to the headmaster’s office.
“How nice to meet you both,” said Mr. Quilter, when his secretary ushered them into his study. “Now, I know Mr. Sutton is expecting us, so let’s not keep him waiting.”
Elena and Sasha obediently followed Mr. Quilter out of the room and into a crowded corridor, full of smartly dressed, exuberant young boys, who immediately stood aside when they saw the headmaster heading toward them. Elena admired their smart blue monogrammed uniforms with dismay.
The headmaster stopped outside a classroom with the words MR. SUTTON MA (OXON) painted on the pebbled glass. He knocked, opened the door, and led the candidate in.
A man wearing a long black academic gown over his suit rose from his desk as they entered his classroom.