Sex, Lies & Crazy People. John Hickman

always eat the best parts of their meal before sending their plates back with their complaints. That Coup de Grace ensures their entire meal is replaced,” I whined.

      Chef Peter sighed. “Aye, they’re acting the maggot for sure. Summat tells me they’re running us like Prince Butter Bean in the three thirty at Ascot.”

      Suddenly forty feet of chauffeured gleaming, black metal pulled-up at our entrance. I panicked like Chicken Little. “It’s them!”

      In they swept. Straight to their window alcove, no greeting, no thank you, no nothing.

      There they hovered, impatient to be seated, as each required individual attention.

      I knew it was about to begin as their monocles studied our special of the day.

      One of my favourites; mini racks of sweet Suffolk lamb with homemade mint sauce.

      Grand Duchess raised an eyebrow. She had eyelashes on her like the teeth of a Venus flytrap.

      When you’re not thinking about sex you’re not concentrating, right? But none of this trio looked shag-able. And if they were who would do the deed?

      Beau’s comment to Gramps came to mind, “If she dies, she dies.”

      Let him loose and he could kill them all.

      I switched off mentally. Imagined Grand Duchess’s sudden sense of urgency with Beau. Her discarded furs, hat, shoes, blouse, top bodice, under-bodice, corset complete with whalebones, bra, skirt, under skirt, full length petticoat, suspenders, garter belt, stockings, knickers and gloves in a crumpled pile on the floor. Phew!

      Followed by creaking sounds from her groin region as Duchess kicked into gear.

      Clearing the table with one sweep of her wizened arm she had the set determination of a politician, anxious to seize a vote.

      They perused the menu as if they were in a Pullman Diner, not at a no star hotel.

      Grand Duchess broke the silence. Slowly and deliberately, as if addressing a person of limited intelligence, she asked. “Waiter! I suppose—you—wouldn’t—know—the—age—and—breeding— origin—of—the—lamb?”

      Why? You’re going to eat it, not shag it.

      “Ma’am, our meat is supplied fresh by Harry, our High Street butcher.”

      As I spoke I crossed my fingers behind my back. Likely Chef Peter had defrosted the lamb cuts from New Zealand.

      “I’m sure ma’am those lambs were gambolling only yesterday in some Suffolk field. Undoubtedly, the flavour of an animal that has enjoyed a good life.”

      Duchess was cheerful and smiling but her eyes said, Fuck-you, you little shit!

      I hoped she didn’t ask where the veggies had spent their formative years.

      Another with a mind like a steel trap revved up her intensity batteries and chipped in, “But—can— you—assure—us—young—man—the—ingredients—of—your—mint—sauce—are— home—grown—and—fresh?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      I’d bet my left testicle these women were a fucking riot where they lived.

      It was almost a victory for hope over expectation until they had the audacity to send their meals back in disgust.

      For me the room spun.

      What could possibly have gone wrong this time?

      Was the lamb so undercooked it could have followed Mary to school, or so rubbery

      Pirelli Tyres would want the recipe?

      “Those plates were stone cold when served, young man,” Grand Duchess said, with a solid brow and familiar smile by-pass.

      Not bloody likely but I was almost relieved.

      I shook my head. “I’m very sorry, ma’am.”

      When I told Chef Peter about their complaint he over reacted a tad as chefs, drunk or sober, are prone to do. Bitterly he surveyed their plates. “Aye, they’ve eaten nowt but the succulent portions from the tender loins and left rest of their soddin’ meal, again.”

      Chef started crashing things about. Never a good sign.

      “You’re right, Chef,” I said, eager to defuse his anger. “Their servings of vegetables remain as undisturbed as a Constable oil. While their chops look like Jackson Pollock has been splatter painting.”

      “Chef Peter’s lamb’s so good if those wretched old bitches had balls they’d tingle for sure,” Gramps ruled. “I’d bet my left agate even Lucifer would kick them out.”

      Chef was not amused. Angrily he took me aside, he lowered his voice. “Look, this is getting soddin’ daft. Does this bain-marie cupboard, aye, where their plates came from, look hot to you?”

      “It’s got steam coming off it, Chef.”

      “Aye, that’s because it’s soddin’ hot! Ye wouldn’t want to dip yer cock in summat like that, would ya?’

      I grinned. “Not unless you’re one string short of a full marionette.”

      Chef responded with an impish smile. ‘Aye, it’s soddin’ time. If it’s hot plates she wants, we’ll give them soddin’ hot plates they’ll not forget.”

      Chapter 21

      Revenge, a dish best served...

      As surely as salmon swim upstream, I knew I should replace their meals with an abject

      apology. Not tip their meals over their heads hot enough to melt their faces like in the film The House Of Wax.

      I calmed down.

      Unlike Hitler I wasn’t about to bite a cyanide capsule or eat my gun. Where the fuck was Dad for this crapola? Nice and cosy holed up in his office, fussing with paperwork and gobbing off to lesser mortals like me.

      When Chef Peter finished baking those plates under the new turbo gas grill we were surprised they hadn’t cracked or shattered.

      “Well, that’s a good start,” I muttered, drawing deeply on my cigarette as though it were a lifesaver.

      “A backhanded compliment to plates Made in Taiwan, if you ask me,” Gran said.

      “But how do we carry them without looking like we’re juggling hot coals from

      Krakatoa?” Justin asked in a hushed tone.

      The solution came in a flash from Gramp’s darker side. “Hide the kitchen mitt under sheafs of serving cloths.”

      I was in awe. “So obvious, so simple.”

      “Aye, it’s a grand idea. Who’ll be taking them?”

      “Justin’s the logical choice,” Gramps suggested, “he’s the waiter.”

      “Aye, but slowly, lad. Not like a greyhound leaving starting gate at White City

      Stadium tha’s just seen the rabbit. Remember to look like man serving at table,” Chef Peter grinned. “Not hell bent on getting away and slurping down alcohol by 3:00 pm.”

      “That’s early,” Gramps kept a straight face. “But I suppose if he doesn’t start drinking by then, he could be up all night.”

      “And don’t get so excited you start humming,” I added.

      The plates concealed within a collection of cloths draped across his hand, he headed off, twisting and turning like a flamenco dancer, his thin cheeks flushed. I brought up the rear.

      Justin placed the plates carefully in front of each diner while I served.