Beauties and the Beast by Eric Scott Page A

Billy as he could get. He then went back to the servery to pick up a just warm wholemeal role and a large soup spoon. Then he sat, eyes glistening as he slurped and chewed and swallowed his way through the food. He had a hunger he felt he could never appease and table manners they would never contemplate at Maxim’s.
    But Billy didn’t notice the noisy slurping. The chicken bones were stripped of flesh and lay scattered on the table. He wiped his fingers on his jeans and made for the cold cuts. Something told him there was pate de foie gras. Bugger with the geese, their livers made the greatest pate, mouth-watering, delicious; rare and expensive. His eyes gleamed when he saw the bowl; the pate was there, virgin. The thin layer of cold butter protected the smell, the taste of brandy, and the subtle hint of garlic and spices. He grabbed a spoon and broke open the crust. The smell that came out told him this was the best. It came direct from France and was so fresh. France? Was he in France? His mind stirred and he saw Thornton hunched over his bowl of jambalaya.
    The aroma of pate hung in his nostrils and he dug deep into the bowl. He laid a huge spoonful of the delicately pink-tinged mixture into a gold-rimmed plate. The water biscuits, guaranteed to take nothing from the taste of the food and yet add that special texture, were sitting, white with golden flecks, by the pate.
    He scooped up a handful and laid them on the plate. Then he picked up the silver knife and hurried back to his bone-strewn table.
    He was just spreading the pate, less reverently than he should, onto a biscuit when Mickey Finnegan walked into the room. The podgy comic had a glazed look in his eye, but neither of the other men noticed. They were too intent on cramming food into their stomachs.
    Mickey’s brain was buzzing and tired. What he needed more than anything else was a hot cup of sweet, milk-laden tea, something to boost his sugar level. He dragged his eyes from the men and focused instantly on a large stainless steel urn. There were delicate china teacups with Royal Albert designs and one-person brown china teapots standing in a row, lids off, spoon inset. He picked one up and sniffed. Earl Grey, leaf, not bags. The sight and smell of it helped to heal his frayed nerve ends.
    He lifted a pot and filled it from the urn. He waited patiently for the leaves to fuse into tea and then he poured into a cup. Fragrance lifted in the steam. He heaped a spoon with sugar and let it into the fusion. He stirred gently and then added milk. The result did more for him that the best Napoleon brandy. It began to soothe away the hurt the women had inflicted on him; began to heal the sores they had opened and left bleeding. He shuddered at the memory. And yet it hadn’t started so painfully... Then he remembered the message. He put down his tea and spoke loudly. “Mr Thornton,” he said.
    Thornton jerked his head away from the bowl of soup. The liquid spilled down his chin and onto his black silk polo-necked shirt. The stain spread slowly, but Thornton didn’t move. “What?” he muttered.
    â€œThey want to see you.”
    Thornton dropped his spoon. It splashed into the soup. Then there was more splatter on his shirt. He pushed his chair back. “Me?”
    Mickey nodded. “And I’d be quick about it if I were you.”
    Thornton pushed back his chair so violently that it rocked over. Then he hurried from the room carried on wings of an unknown but gnawing fear.
    Mickey gave a grimace. He had some idea of what the man was in for. After all, he’d just gone through it.

Chapter Ten
    It was Diana who opened up Mickey’s can of worms. She worked the mouse and pulled up a file on screen. She studied it while Mickey sat, apprehensively clutching his ukulele. She clicked the ‘print’ icon and the printer whirred into life again. Two sheets of paper spewed out. She picked them up and studied them while Angela