Hidden Man by Charles Cumming

was beginning to feel like a young boy on a day out from school. He spent thirty or forty seconds staring at the stiff cream card without registering a single one of the dishes on offer. Pumpkin Bisque with Ricotta PS7.50. Sole Veronique PS18.00. Pan-Fried Sea-Bass with Confit Fennel and Chorizo PS23.00. Breast of Chicken with Celeriac Fondant and Wild Mushroom Ravioli PS24.00. Trying to imagine what each of the dishes would entail was simply impossible: they were just words on a page, a blur of text. Calf’s Liver on Sweet Onion Tart Tatin with Sage Beignet PS18.50. Cannon of Lamb with Ratatouille and Basil Cream PS23.50. Even by London standards, Ben was astonished by how high the prices were.
    Keen closed his menu with what was almost a snap.
    ‘Have you decided?’
    ‘There’s such a lot to choose from.’ It was another remark which Ben regretted instantly: his voice sounded childish and flustered. He looked back at the menu and simply went for the first dish that his eyes settled on. ‘I’ll have the Tournedos of Beef.’
    ‘But nothing to start with?’
    ‘Vichyssoise,’ Ben replied, vaguely recalling its presence on the menu. The words were out of his mouth when he remembered that Vichyssoise was chilled. He hated cold soup.
    ‘I believe it’s very good here.’
    Keen ordered - he would have the pumpkin bisque and the cannon of lamb - adding petit pois and roast parsnips as vegetables for both of them. He then turned his attention to the wine list.
    ‘Do you prefer red or white?’ he asked.
    Ben knew enough by now to express a preference and said ‘Red’ very firmly. So Keen passed the list across the table.
    ‘Have a look,’ he said.
    ‘Oh, I’m no expert,’ Ben told him, scanning the selection. The list must have run to ten or twelve pages, bound in a cumbersome leather case so heavy he had to rest it in his lap. ‘What about the Beaune Clos des Marconnets?’
    He had simply skipped the cheapest four bottles and opted for the first red Burgundy on the page.
    ‘Very good,’ Keen said. ‘Very good.’ He adjusted his tie and nodded. ‘What year is it?’
    Ben had to look again.
    ‘Nineteen ninety-five.’
    ‘Perfect. A bottle of Clos des Marconnets it is.’
    ‘And then I should head off and maybe wash my hands. Where would I find the gents?’
    The act of splashing cold water on his face felt oddly self-conscious. Ben stared at his reflection in the mirror and exhaled heavily. He was alone in a gleaming bathroom with only an ageing attendant for company. The man, as old as the Savoy itself, came forward to offer a small white towel.
    ‘Is everything all right, sir?’ he asked.
    ‘Oh, everything’s fine,’ Ben replied, drying water on the back of his neck. He pummelled his face with the towel as if it would somehow rub the anxiety out from under his skin. ‘Just a bit tried.’
    This is what it feels like to be drunk , he thought. Just can’t seem to get it together at all .
    The attendant proffered a small bottle of cologne which Ben declined. At waist level he caught sight of a small copper plate scattered with pound coins and reached into his pocket for a tip.
    ‘You work here all night?’ he asked, palming the man a clutch of twenty-pence pieces.
    ‘Oh no, sir.’ The attendant sounded surprised, as if no guest had bothered to talkto him in over forty years. ‘Just a few hours at a time.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘And are you dining with us this evening, sir?’
    ‘I am, yes,’ Ben said, moving towards the door.
    ‘Well do enjoy yourself, won’t you?’ he said, wiping a towel across the sinks. The man moved with an arthritic slowness, the skin on his hands mottled by age.
    ‘Deference’ was the word in Ben’s head as he headed back across the lobby. He was beginning to realize why Keen had wanted to meet in such a place. The hot, formal atmosphere of the Savoy, the buzz and fuss of waiters, the businessmen whispering confidences at nearby tables; there was little chance of