“We don’t eat out that often,” says Gwen, “but Harold keeps track of restaurants. He reads the reviews and so on. But I don’t think you’ve come across many places where someone would spend a hundred and forty dollars on lunch, have you?”
Harold pulls a face. He is about to speak as an expert. “Oh, it certainly is possible. If a person is determined to spend money. Order a good bottle of wine, and — ”
“Oh, of course, wine,” says Gwen. The thought of a drink flits across her mind again, lighthearted as a debutante. “But you would know, wouldn’t you, Matthew? You eat out quite a bit, I’ll bet.”
“Oh, a bit.”
“Could two people spend a hundred and forty dollars on lunch?”
“At many places,” Matthew says. “Seasons, Aujourd’hui, the Ritz — ”
“Here?” asks Gwen. “Have you eaten lunch here?”
“I did come for lunch, last week. I got out for considerably less than a hundred and forty dollars.”
“Casing the joint, eh?” suggests Harold.
“Well, yes, in a way.”
“Oh, that’s sweet,” says Gwen. “You wanted to make sure it would be good enough for Belinda’s birthday?”
Matthew just smiles and shrugs. “You were saying that you read the reviews?” he asks Harold.
“Gwen said that,” says Harold. “I don’t know where she thinks I get the time for—”
“Oh, cut it out, Harold,” says Gwen. “You know you do. You read all those reviews. He reads them out loud. When he comes home, while I’m getting dinner ready, he reads reviews. We used to have a drink then, you know, but now that we don’t drink, Harold reads restaurant reviews. You know, I was thinking that I might have one drink. Since it’s my birthday.”
“Waiter!” Harold calls at once. The waiter comes to the table, and Harold orders Gwen a Kir Royale.
“Do you read these reviews every night?” Belinda asks.
“Yes!” says Harold, as if astonished to find that this is true. This is one of his odder affectations, delivering answers to questions about himself as if they startled him, as if he were crying “Eureka!” to discoveries about his life. Matthew wonders whether he thinks that this makes him seem more interesting. Then, as if a new thought has struck him, Harold says, “Well, no, not every night. Some nights I give demonstrations of positions in the Kama Sutra, some nights I read the comic strips, some nights I play the guitar and sing old Motown hits — ”
“Oh, Harold, you do not,” says Gwen, laughing again.
“I didn’t know anyone actually read restaurant reviews,” Matthew says, fishing.
“Which ones do you read?” asks Belinda. “Have you found any that are reliable?” Under the table, Matthew presses his knee against hers. She smiles a conspiratorial smile for Matthew, though she is facing Harold.
“Oh, I think they’re all a bunch of nonsense,” says Harold. “I’m sure there are payoffs involved — ”
“Really? You mean that?” Matthew asks. “You think the restaurants pay for good reviews?”
“Oh, not directly,” says Harold. “But I’m sure restaurants that advertise in a magazine or paper get better reviews than those that don’t.”
“You really think so?” asks Belinda.
“Of course,” says Harold. “Don’t be naïve.”
Matthew glances at Belinda but isn’t sure what he sees in her expression. She may be getting angry. Why on earth did I let us get stuck with these people? he asks himself. Why are we spending time with them? Belinda’s trying, really trying, I can see that. I wonder how long she’ll be able to sustain the effort. How do I get us out of this? It would be a grand gesture for him to get to his feet abruptly and announce that he has really had enough of all this, and that he wants to take Belinda back to his place and make love to her. It isn’t the sort of gesture Matthew’s likely to make, but it would be grand if he did.
“I hate this!” announces the child at the next table, smacking his fork into a plate of fusilli Bolognese.
[to be continued]
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