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The Presario was typical of the venues Jason and Gemma preferred to dine in. However, she’d only been to the Presario with Jason in the evening, and not at lunchtime, nor without him present. The staff on duty were different and the usual maître-d’, Marco, wasn’t present.
The headwaiter who greeted them checked the reservation, but didn’t appear to register the Lucas surname as special. He led them to a table down a middle aisle. Usually Gemma would expect to be seated in a corner and away from other diners. Not that there were many diners; she’d gone for an early lunch slot. Later, the place would fill out. Bookings were essential for those times. Not that it would make any difference to Gemma. She’d always get a table.
“Madame and mademoiselle.” Chairs slid underneath their bottoms, and napkins were laid on their laps with aplomb. All what she expected.
Mina stared at the menu and she mouthed the alien words. Furrows formed on her forehead as she frowned. Gemma ran her finger down the list. French cuisine, and each dish written like an essay: lush, descriptive words with an embellished vocabulary.
She leant forward and whispered, “Would you like steak with chips and salad?”
“Yes, please,” Mina giggled in a hushed tone.
“Then allow me.” Gemma ordered the dish, and Mina gave her preferred grilling requirement for the steak. Those few words would turn out to be contentious.
They chatted about life in general. Gemma’s loneliness with Jason absent, omitting the tale of the blackmail note. Mina worried about her father, a road sweeper, who struggled with ill health and his working hours.
Gemma couldn’t resist changing the topic to talk about their mutual friends in their Zumba class. There was nothing like a good gossip to put aside anxieties. “Do you really think Glory’s husband is going to leave her? He’d never eat. I mean, he’s useless at looking after himself.”
“Oh, he’s threatened before—when you were off with Josh. Came to nothing, but you’re right, she’d turn up every day with a sandwich for him.” Mina’s plate arrived, and she sliced into the steak. Her fork hovered midway to her open mouth. Something dripped from the piece of steak.
“What’s the matter?” asked Gemma.
“I asked for well done. This is pretty much rare.” Mina frowned and lowered the fork.
Peering forward, Gemma could see bloody juice running on to the plate from the steak. Her own choice of dish was a mushroom risotto—the dish Jason usually ordered for her and one she loved.
“Let me sort this for you, Mina.”
She signalled to a waiter as Mina offered up her reply, “Don’t bother. I’m sure I can manage.”
“It’s not what you asked for.” Gemma tapped her finger on the table as she spoke each word.
The waiter who took their order came over and thought that they wanted more wine. He picked up the bottle from the ice bucket.
“No wine, thank you.” She waved the bottle away. “My friend ordered her steak well done. This is medium rare at best.” She pointed at the offending steak and pool of redness around it.
“I’m sure that was what was ordered,” said the waiter in a heavily laced French accent.
His attitude riled Gemma. In her opinion, in a restaurant where lunch cost over a hundred pounds each, the customer was unassailable. Mina remained tight-lipped. Her retail training would have instilled the same attitude. Don’t argue. Resolve.
Gemma couldn’t hold her annoyance in check. “I wasn’t aware the words medium rare and well done sounded so similar. I do believe they were articulated very clearly.”
He shifted his gaze from her face to Mina’s and there it was—a slight subtle scowl of distaste. Gemma’s fingers fisted around her knife handle. She shook with hidden rage, aghast at the near blatant display of discrimination. Mina had the rich colour that showed her Caribbean origins; her voice had the wonderful lilt, too. Third generation, she couldn’t be more British, was more of a Londoner than Gemma, who was a suburban interloper.
“Is Victor in?” The name caught the waiter’s attention, the fact she knew the manager’s first name. He nodded, lips twitching.
Gemma gave him her sternest expression, her eyebrows knotted together. “Please fetch him immediately.”
The waiter scurried away, weaving between the tables.
The general hubbub of the restaurant masked Mina’s soft pleading. “Please, Gemma. I don’t want to make a fuss.”
“Mina. I do.” Gemma folded her arms across her chest.
Five years with Jason had changed her attitude to service and quality. She was assertive and critical, her natural temerity whittled away watching Jason’s tendency to shred apart with his pitiless style of reprimand any example of poor service or bad attitudes. The standards of respect and good manners he expected in his wife extended to all those around him.
The manager appeared and gesticulated at the waiter, his arms waving back and forth. The other man went pale while Victor turned red about the cheeks. Victor came over to their table.
“Mrs Lucas, I had no idea you were with us today.” He offered Gemma his hand, which she shook in a cursory fashion.
