THE CAFÉ ROMA in Percy Street was run by an Italian called Giuseppe Peano who knew what good Italian food tasted like but found it more profitable to forget. Having abandoned his culinary integrity, Giuseppe made a reasonable living by serving spaghetti with chips and lasagne with baked beans. The only thing even Giuseppe could not bring himself to desecrate was his coffee. He served the best cappucino in London’s W1.
Wyman stepped into the café at 11 A.M. and said good morning to Giuseppe.
“Good morning. Iss usual for the dottore?” Giuseppe asked.
“Yes, iss usual,” Wyman said.
Giuseppe called “Cappucino” to a sultry girl behind the counter. She clanked metal cups, twisted chromium pipes and steam-blasted milk as Giuseppe went to Wyman’s table.
“Perhaps you like to eat today, dottore?” he suggested.
“I don’t think so,” Wyman said.
“No? You no’ hungry? No’ want to eat? Why not?”
“Because I like Italian food,” Wyman said.
Giuseppe laughed.
“Very funny, dottore.”
“No, Giuseppe. Very tragic, from a gastronomic point of view.”
Giuseppe shrugged.
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But, if iss what people like, iss what they get, no? All right, so iss sheet. People like sheet.”
“I don’t,” Wyman said.
Giuseppe considered this as the girl brought the coffee. Then he said: “For you, iss only one solution. Marry nice good Italian girl who cook for you. Then you will be happy.”
“That’s an idea, isn’t it?” Wyman said. “I’ll think about that, Giuseppe.”
“You no’ too old. Nice good Italian girl give you cheeldren, not like these Eengleesh scrofe—how do you say scrofe, dottore?”
“Sows, Giuseppe,” Wyman said. He was never entirely sure if Giuseppe was joking. “Ah, here comes my very own scrofa now.”
Margaret walked in. Her cheeks were flushed with the morning cold.
“Hello, Giuseppe,” she said. “Cappucino, please.”
“Good morning,” said Giuseppe, and he returned to the counter.
Margaret was opposite Wyman.
“Hello,” she said. “What’s new?”
“Lots,” Wyman said. “How about you?”
“Lots,” she said. “Who goes first, you or me?”
“Ladies first.”
“Age before beauty.”
“The Firm is making me redundant.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“Good God!”
“Christ!”
There was a long silence.
Margaret Ramsey was thirty-nine. She was tall, blonde and slender. Like Wyman, she was a divorcée. She had worked as Wyman’s assistant until it became clear that she was assisting Wyman with more vigour than her job merited. At that stage Owen’s embarrassed coughs had articulated themselves into an ultimatum: either Margaret would be transferred or she would leave the Firm. She chose to leave.
Margaret’s resignation invigorated their affair. All the care and enthusiasm she had formerly applied to her work were now lavished on Michael Wyman.
“When did you find out?” Margaret asked.
“This morning. Nothing was said; just a buff envelope on my desk which said that the Firm has to economize. It was all very polite, of course, but the point was clear. They’re getting rid of dead wood, and in arboreal terms, I am very dead indeed.”
“But that’s absurd. You do a splendid job for them.”
“Tell them, not me,” Wyman said. “Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. What about this baby? How on earth did it happen? I mean…well, you know…”
She nodded.
“Yes, I know. The doctor was wrong, wasn’t he? I am fertile, obviously.”
“Are you absolutely sure about this? I mean…”
“Absolutely sure.”
“Well, well,” said Wyman. A roguish grin split his face open and he laughed.
“It’s not as big a problem as it seems, you know,” Margaret said. “I’ll just fix things up with a clinic. I’ll only be away a couple of days—”
“What? You don’t want to have an abortion, do you?”
Margaret seemed confused.
“Well, I thought…I assumed that you…well, you know…”
“I know nothing of the sort,” Wyman snorted. “If you don’t want to bring up the child, I will.”
“You want the child?” gasped Margaret.
“Of course,” Wyman said. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“I think I’m going to faint,” Margaret said.
“Two more cappucinos, Giuseppe,” Wyman said. When Margaret had recovered, Wyman explained his plans. “It’s quite straightforward,” he said. “I’ll return to College and work there until retirement. The income isn’t as good, but it’s enough to manage.”
“What about your alimony payments?”
“They will continue,” Wyman said. “It’s not as if I have a great deal of choice, though I suppose they might be reduced a little.”
“A lower salary, alimony and now the baby. Michael, are you really sure you can manage all that?”
“I’ll find a way. The College is quite good about these things.”
“I hope so,” Margaret said. “If they’re anything like the Firm, we’ll be in a real mess. Why didn’t they give you a pension? It’s the least you’re entitled to.”
Wyman sighed.
“I’ve explained this before. The arrangement with the College doesn’t permit it. Officially, I was lent out to the Firm by the College. In theory, the College is my real employer.”
“But they changed your status to Honorary Fellow.”
“A technicality,” Wyman said, waving his hand. “The fact is, no contract was ever signed by either side. It’s a gentleman’s agreement.”
“In that case,” Margaret said, “let’s just hope that your College is run by gentlemen.”
“It is,” Wyman said. “There is one more thing…”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not sure how I should put it…it’s to do with how you, er…fit in.”
“Fit in?” Margaret’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Michael, are you trying to propose to me?”
He grinned sheepishly.
“I suppose I am. Not very good at it, am I?”
“No, you’re not.”
“Well, er…perhaps you’d like to think about it.”
“I’ll do that,” she said solemnly.
“Jolly good. Heavens above, is that the time? I really must get back.”
He stood up and fumbled in his pockets for money for the coffee. Margaret gazed at his obvious embarrassment in silence until she could restrain her laughter no longer.
Wyman looked at her indignantly.
“I fail to see any cause for laughter,” he said.