The Table in the Window

The Table in the Window

Ann Martin

Olive spotted the waiter the moment they walked into the reception room at the Grand. Her elbow jabbed Eric right where the middle button of his dinner jacket was threatening to throw in the towel.

“It’s him!” she hissed. “You know, Charlotte’s ex.” In moments of intensity, Olive had a habit of silently and exaggeratedly mouthing certain words, as though they were too potent to be uttered aloud. “You know, the one who’s in the MAF...EE..YAH!” She elbowed her husband again. “Pretend you haven’t seen him.”

Eric didn’t have to pretend. He hadn’t seen Mario; not yet. But he’d always got on all right with his daughter’s boyfriend before she’d split up with him and he certainly didn’t share Olive’s view that the young bloke was a member of the underworld. While Olive stared at a potted palm as though it was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen, Eric looked around for Mario.

He didn’t have to look very far.

“Olivia! Erico!” Mario hadn’t changed at all in the six months since they’d last seen him. His long legs and narrow hips nimbly navigated the sea of tables and chairs as he made his way towards them, unruly black hair still sliding over his forehead, dark eyes cheerful as ever and white teeth shining in a broad smile.

“Geez, it’s good to see you!” Mario hugged them in turn, planting an exuberant kiss on both their cheeks. Olive’s eyes remained distant, perhaps still pondering the potted palm. Her tightly closed lips spread sideways into what might have been a polite smile.

Mario had hold of Olive’s arm and was steering her towards a table for two in the window. “I saw your names on the guest list and set this table aside for you.” He pulled out the left hand chair. “There you go, Olivia. Best seat in the house”

Then he looked at Eric and winked in what could only be described as a knowing way. But Eric had no idea what it was he was supposed to know, Still avoiding eye contact, Olive gave a regal nod of her head, which could have meant that she was either thanking Mario or dismissing him.

In any event, he gave a small bow, flashed his 200 watt smile again and said, “Duty calls. Take your time and I’ll be back to get your order soon as you’ve decided.”

Eric picked up the gilt-edged menu. “Good bloke, Mario.” He pulled his spectacles out of his breast pocket. “So, what d’you want for starters, Ol?

“It’s ontray, Eric, ontray. And I’m not sure I could eat anything after what’s just happened to me.” Olive fanned her face elegantly with her fingertips.

“You’d better eat plenty!” said Eric. “At two hundred dollars a double for tonight, we work our way right through the menu ...twice, ok? So whatever’s stopping you, get over it.”

‘It’s him," quivered Olive. “What’s he doing here anyway?”

‘Working,” said Eric. “He’s with that big catering company, remember?”

“A waiter!” hissed Olive. “But we both know that’s just a front, don’t we? We know what he really does, don’t we?”

“Ol, he’s not in the Mafia. Just because his family’s Italian.... I’m not even sure we have the Mafia round here. Just exactly what’s it supposed to mean; anyway? And if it does exist, there’s nothing to say Mario’s in it.”

They’re all in it” Olive leaned across the table and hissed her considered opinion.

She pulled her wrap closer around her shoulders, as though her blood ran cold. “And why’s he sucking up to us like that? Why’s he stuck us here by ourselves on a table for two?”

“You said you wanted a table for two,” reasoned Eric. “You said you didn’t want to get stuck with the Fanshawes, or the Robinsons, or the Fazackerlys. When I booked the tickets, you said, 'tell them we want a table for two.’”

Olive continued to look around with narrowed eyes. “He was really insistent, wasn’t he? I mean, he made sure we were going to sit right here, in the window. And he knew we were coming. He said as much.”

Her eyes suddenly flew wide open and she gave a small shriek. “Oh my god! I know what it is!” She stared at Eric. “It’s a grudge thing. They have those, don’t they? He’s going to ASS...ASS ..SIN...ATE us!”

“Do what?” Eric put on his spectacles, the better to stare back at her.

Olive was pointing out of the window into the wintry night. “See all those bushes. He could have somebody hiding in there with a machine gun....pointed at us.”

Eric gave a sigh. “Anybody in those bushes tonight would freeze their arse off. Nobody, not even Al Capone, would be that keen.”

He reached across to pat her hand, anxious that a pleasant, if expensive, night out shouldn’t go pear shaped before it began. “Look, love, Mario’s as Aussie as we are. He was born here. His parents were both born here. His grandparents came over from Milan in 1955, he told me so.”

Olive was still staring out of the window. Then she gave another shriek. A car! That’s it! A great big, black car’s going to drive by, they’ll wind down the window, poke a gun out, point it at this window and......” Her voice trailed off into a moan and she looked at Eric as though his white dress shirt was already peppered with bullet holes and gushing blood.

Eric, in the meantime, was picturing his wife with her mouth tightly bound with gaffer tape.

“Darl,” he said from between clenched teeth. “If Mario was in the mafia, and if he had a grudge, don’t you think it’d be Charlotte he’d want to bump off, not us?”

“Oh, no.” Olive had already worked that one out. “He’s cleverer than that. He wants Charlotte to pay for the rest of her life. He wants her to know that she was responsible for the death of her parents!”

There was possibly an answer to that, but before Eric could find it, a charming young woman who could have been Mario’s sister, came up to their table with a tray of drinks.

“Your complimentary pre-dinner wine,” she smiled. “What’ll you have, red or white?”

Eric only had time to think that given the price he’d paid for their tickets, nothing they received was complimentary, when Olive pushed back her chair and jumped to her feet.

“We’re not staying here,” she cried. “We’ll have our drinks at that table there!”

Eric looked to where she was pointing. “You’ll be next to Joan Fazackerly,” he warned.

“That’s all right,” said Olive. “Just as long as it’s not Rita Robinson.”

With a sigh, Eric followed his wife to a table for eight that had two spare places. “All right if we sit here?” he asked.

“We’re saving those seats for Bill and Rita,” said Joan Fazackerly. “They’re running a bit late.”

“Probably not coming,” said Olive, in a tone that settled things.

Sitting at the large table, with Bob Fazackerly and Geoff Fanshawe to talk to, Eric’s evening started to look up. Olive deigned to order an entrée and a main course, and she even talked to Joan Fazackerly. But her bright eyes, flushed cheeks and high-pitched, non-stop conversation were all tell-tale signs that Eric knew well. Olive was still completely wound-up and she couldn’t stop herself from darting sideways glances at the window table.

Only when Mario emerged through the kitchen doors, notepad at the ready and making for the window, did something quite subtle yet unmistakable appear on her face. As the young waiter stopped, stared and frowned at the empty table, Olive gave a small smirk. Mario’s frown gave way to a look of deep disappointment and her smirk increased.

Eric started to feel distinctly edgy. The whole Mafia bit that Olive had been going on about was so much crap. Yet Mario had been very determined that they should sit at that table. And he did look very crestfallen now .He remembered that even as a third generation Italian, Mario had been cut very deep when Charlotte had decided that they weren’t quite right for each other.

Quickly draining his glass, Eric refilled it from the bottle of red in front of him. “Crap, Ol, crap, crap, crap.” he muttered to his creeping unease. But that was a lot of window, with a lot of view into the room. Maybe a few too many bushes outside and not enough lights. Just as well, perhaps, that they’d moved, if only to satisfy Olive.

Five minutes later another waiter showed in Bill and Rita Robinson. A quick scan of the large table told them it was full.  

“We saved you a couple of places,” said Joan. “But they’ve been taken.”

“That’s fine!” said Rita. “We’ll take that little table in the window.”

Eric looked at Olive. “Well?” his eyebrows signalled.

Olive gave a small shrug and her smirk became a gloating smile. He‘d no idea she disliked Rita that much.

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” Eric told himself as he drained his glass again. “Just Olive being a silly cow. And even if… even if… well, people have phones, don’t they? They can change plans just like that, can’t they? Cancel things. Call ‘em off. ”

At that moment there was a drumroll from the orchestra and Terry Wilkins, their MC for the night, vaulted nimbly onto the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he yelled into the microphone. “Welcome to Westsea’s biggest night of the year, the mayor’s fundraising dinner and cabaret, this year for a new bar for the footie club!” Terry grinned and bowed and tossed his hair around as his audience burst into applause.

When the clapping subsided he grasped the microphone again. “We’ve got some wonderful entertainment lined up for you tonight and we’ve got some great giveaways and prizes as well. So let’s have a bit of a breather before you have your afters...”

“Dessert,” said Olive, loudly enough for him to hear.

But Terry carried on uncorrected. “In a moment we’re going to have Westsea’s own queen of song, Syndeee-Chiara Bussell.” Again he cavorted amid the rapturous response. “But first!” he cried at last. “First, we have the one of those giveaways I mentioned. And it’s a biggie! Ladies and gentlemen, somebody here tonight is sitting on a very special chair. Under that chair is a red star. And the lucky person who has that red star has won five hundred ...yes, five hundred dollars’ worth of ladies’ fashions from Bella Boutique!”

The rest of the announcement was drowned by the rustling of gowns, clattering of feet and the scraping of chairs.

Eric didn’t look underneath his chair. He looked at Mario. Mario looked back at him with sorrowful eyes, shrugged, and spread his hands in a gesture of resignation.

Olive took longer to twig. In fact, her face didn’t crumple until a good five seconds after Rita Robinson’s ecstatic screams began to ring out from the table by the window.