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When you work at the most iconic restaurant in London, where hundreds of the wealthiest and most refined visitors visit daily, you make a note of the regulars.
The waiters and waitresses who worked at the restaurant at The Ritz weren’t what you would call a tight-knit group. For a start, there were so many of them that you would maybe actually talk to a quarter of the people who even worked at the same time as you, and a lot of them were such pompous old farts that they rarely made idle chat with the younger employees. Besides, everyone was always busy - the Ritz was known for its exceptional service, and they were constantly running back and forth from the kitchen (while making it seem like they totally weren’t rushing at all), making conversation with customers, greeting and waving off and haphazardly navigating through the sea of kitchen staff: there was hardly any time to get to know your fellow colleagues.
If there was one topic of conversation, however, which every staff member had at least heard of, it was the matter of the Definitely Not Husbands.
Affectionately nicknamed by Ruth, the older lady who served them at the same time every Sunday morning, the two men who dined so regularly that none of the employees really knew when they had even started coming were borderline famous amongst the staff. There was Mr Fell, the amiable bookseller who always tipped far too much and never seemed to tire of the same dishes he always ordered, and Mr Crowley, the man with a dark suit and dark glasses and a slightly threatening personality who ordered next to no food in exchange for honestly incredible volumes of alcohol. Every Sunday, same time, same table. The fact that they became a talking point was no surprise.
“I assumed they were partners, at first.” Ruth had once said. “I mean, anyone would think so, the way they talk and act. ‘Should I get a table for you and your partner?’ I asked, the first time I served them, and you should have heard the denial! Complicated history, perhaps, although they keep coming together so it must all be fine now. What? Oh, I must have been only in my 30s at the time… Gosh, they really haven’t aged a day, have they? I could only be so lucky-” And so on and so forth.
One day, however, something changed.
Daniel was one of the people who handled the telephones. Day in, day out, calls about reservations and cancellations and complaints and congratulations, half of which he really just wished they had put in a review on TripAdvisor rather than wasting his precious little time but he couldn’t very well say that to a customer so he had to just keep quiet and polite and wait until his shift finally ended. He often wondered why he had tried so hard to get the damned job when it was possibly the dullest placement he could have ever ended up with - that was until he got his paycheck at the end of the month, and remembered ‘Oh yeah, this place is expensive.’
A break in the monotony was always welcome though, and that Saturday morning… Well, he certainly got what he wished for. Of course he had heard of the Definitely Not Husbands, there were very few people in the building who hadn’t, but he had never actually spoken to them - they generally came in through the restaurant-exclusive entrance while he manned the entrance to the hotel. That is, until his telephone once again started ringing on his desk to the right of his computer. Alright. He said to himself. Take a deep breath, get your customer service voice on, and deal with whatever this rando has got going on quickly so you can get back to definitely not playing Solitaire.
A few minutes later, Daniel reached for his mobile on the other side of his computer and got to texting Clara, his friend who worked just a little bit away in the restaurant.
Daniel - Clara
Clara
Hey Clara
Clara - Yeah what is it
Daniel - I think Mr Crowley is finally going to ask out Mr Fell
Clara - I’m sorry WHAT
Three things were strange about Crowley that day.
For starters, he was driving under the speed limit, an occurrence so rare and unprecedented that you wouldn’t be blamed for thinking someone else was driving the car if you couldn’t see inside the windows. In fact, it was unlikely that Crowley had ever driven under the speed limit before, as there was no need for him to pass any sort of test at the time he got his car and he certainly didn’t have any consideration for any of the other drivers on the road, no matter where he was.
Secondly, he was driving in silence, when anyone who knew him for the past 50 or so years would be hard-pressed to remember a time he didn’t have an incessant string of Queen songs blaring out of his speakers, loud enough to be heard from at least 5 metres outside his car.
And lastly, for the first time Crowley could remember since he had been living on Earth, he was alone.
Of course, Crowley had been by himself before. For years, even centuries at a time: after all, he had slept through the entirety of the 19th century, and many of the demonic exploits he had performed over time had been entirely solo acts. Still, being by yourself and being alone were, what Crowley was starting to discover, two very different things.
That morning, as he drove in no particular direction, wanting a drink more than anything, Crowley was completely and undoubtedly alone.
Well. He had a reservation booked, so he might as well drink himself stupid and fail to forget the whole damned thing.
“Mr Crowley!”
Ruth greeted the gentleman with her usual friendliness. Well, calling him a gentleman may have been a slight stretch. He certainly wasn’t the sort to come in with a tuxedo, or a properly tailored suit: rather, every time she saw him, he was always donning the same black blazer, black shirt, black trousers, black glasses combination that he seemed to favour as opposed to Mr Fell’s coffee-and-cream coloured attire. She supposed it made her laugh, seeing the two of them every Sunday, complete opposites of each other that seemed to get along so well. They always came in as a pair, like an old comedy act. It was slightly disconcerting to see only one of them step through the doors.
“I’ll take it you’ll have your usual table?”
“Yeah, I’ve got- uh, I’ve got a reservation.”
That was right. Clara, the little gossip, had been quick on the money telling everyone about the news from her friend out front regarding the Definitely Not Husbands: Mr Crowley had booked a reservation. Like actually booked one. Normally, when he and Mr Fell showed up, a slot just seemed to appear within their schedules and their same table always just seemed to be free - it would have been weird (and, if she was honest, it still was kind of weird, except the frequency of their visits meant everyone had kind of gotten used to it). This time, though, Mr Crowley had actually gone into the effort of phoning the front desk - you know, like a normal person - and booked - like a normal person. “Apparently, he said that he just wanted to especially make sure that the table would be free for the two of them today,” Clara had whispered to her as they entered the kitchen with arms chock-full of plates and bowls. “I mean, seriously?? You’re supposed to tell me this isn’t going to be their first official date when the most regular customer we have here is calling about a reservation for the first time ever? He’s gonna ask him out, I just know it!”
Ruth had to admit that while she had gotten a bit old for the excitement around dating and relationships and all that nonsense (she had a husband of 20 years and she certainly wasn’t messing around trying to lose him now), she had gotten more invested in the whole ridiculous business than she cared to admit. She had been regularly serving the two men for so long that she felt as though she was almost old friends with them, and, well, if she was the waitress who was the first to see when they finally got together, that would certainly give her bragging rights over the other employees. Plus, you know. She was invested.
“Right, well, I’ll show you to your table, and would you care to take a look at the menu while we wait for Mr Fell? We have a few new wines in this week, there’s a chardonnay which is really quite nice, you ought to try it-”
“Oh, no, we don’t need to wait.”
A pause. “No?”
Another pause, and Mr Crowley glanced away from any particular direction, choosing instead to stare out the window at the passing traffic. Ruth thought she may have imagined a faint scar of tears catching the light against his cheek.
“No.
He’s not coming anyway.”