The Woman Who Knew What She Wanted by William Coles

‘There’s really no need,’ I said. ‘I’ll look after you just fine, even without the tip.’
    â€˜No, take the money.’ Again, he thrust the notes at me.
    â€˜Give it to the boss, if you like,’ I said.
    â€˜It’s for you.’
    â€˜It’s fine, honestly.’
    I was aware that we were going through a little power play. I did not want to immediately put myself in the position of being one of McKenny’s lackeys.
    He took back the notes and stuffed them into his pocket. ‘Do you know who I am?’
    â€˜I do, Mr McKenny.’
    â€˜Call me Ed, then.’
    â€˜I’ll call you Ed, then. Can I get you anything to drink?’
    â€˜I want a bottle of vintage Krug, if you’ve got it.’
    â€˜We certainly had it,’ I said. ‘We may have had a run on the vintage Krug tonight. If we don’t have any, I’ll see what I can rustle up.’
    McKenny took off his odd little glasses and looked at me. Sizing me up.
    â€˜See what you can rustle up.’
    The other staff, particularly the waitresses, were agog to know what Mr McKenny had said to me. ‘He’s so gorgeous,’ Janeen said.
    â€˜I wish I was waiting on his table,’ Tracy said.
    â€˜You wouldn’t like him up close,’ I said. ‘Horribly lined. And he’s wearing yellow sunglasses.’
    â€˜That’s because he’s a rock star,’ Tracy said, moony-eyed as she gazed over into the corner. ‘Rock stars can get away with any colour sunglasses they like.’
    â€˜Even at night.’
    â€˜I think he’s got sensitive eyes,’ Tracy said. ‘I used to have his poster up on my bedroom wall. They’re lovely hazel eyes. I used to kiss him on the lips before I went to sleep.’
    â€˜I don’t want to spoil your fantasy, Tracy,’ I said. ‘But I’m not sure Ed has aged that well.’
    â€˜He’s so sexy,’ Michelle said.
    Unlike the waitresses, the waiters were more circumspect. McKenny had what the rest of them all wanted: fame and glory and millions of pounds in the bank, as well as a sultry, brooding beauty of a girlfriend.
    I’d found McKenny his bottle of vintage Krug and poured it without mishap. The next time we chatted was when I was clearing away their main courses. Like Oliver, I had decided to take away two plates at a time, rather than go through the messiness of stacking at the table. McKenny had hardly touched his fish; I don’t think he’d even had a mouthful.
    â€˜Was everything all right?’ I asked.
    McKenny flicked his hand dismissively.
    â€˜What sort of music do you listen to?’ he asked.
    I stood there by the table with a plate in each hand. It was an unusual way to be holding a conversation. ‘I like Beethoven. I like Mozart. But most of all, I like Bach.’
    â€˜Good old Johann Sebastian,’ he said.
    â€˜Do you listen to much classical music?’
    The reaction of the three other diners was interesting. McKenny’s children were intrigued at how their dad was having a perfectly normal conversation with, of all things, a waiter. His lover looked at me for the first time – she really was extraordinarily beautiful –
before staring out of the window. Her hands were exquisitely manicured and she wore a ring with a ruby that was the size of a hazelnut. How bored she seemed. What a waste: all that beauty, but no energy and not a spark of life to be seen. I wondered what they did for fun outside the bedroom.
    â€˜I do listen to classical music,’ McKenny said.
    I smiled. ‘Wasn’t one of your tunes based on a Beethoven sonata?’
    â€˜That’s right.’ He laughed. ‘Didn’t have to pay the bugger a penny in royalties!’
    â€˜Must be the way forward,’ I said. ‘If the tunes still hold up after two hundred years, then they’re bound to be pretty catchy.’
    McKenny poured himself