But he barely knew the names of the people who served him.
He had never considered that a failing. In his view, the restaurant existed to provide a service, and the staff existed to deliver it. Courtesy was appropriate. Familiarity was optional.
Yet Eleanor, dressed as though she had no particular interest in impressing anyone, had remembered the name of a waiter who had once made a mistake.
Richard watched Daniel walk away.
Then he looked back at Eleanor.
She was studying the menu.
He could not understand why she had been given that table.
He could not understand why the hostess had changed her manner after reading the reservation.
And he especially could not understand why the restaurant appeared to be treating her as someone important when she did not look important to him.
Richard pushed his chair back.
“Where are you going?” Gregory asked.
“To find out what's going on.”
“Richard, leave her alone.”
“I am not going to leave anyone alone. I'm asking a reasonable question.”
“No, you're not.”
Richard ignored him and crossed the dining room.
He moved between tables with the confidence of a man accustomed to having people make room for him. A waiter carrying a tray stepped aside. A guest paused in the middle of a sentence to let him pass.
When Richard reached Table Twelve, Eleanor looked up.
“Yes?” she asked.
Richard smiled, though there was little warmth in it.
“Excuse me, madam. I believe there may have been a mistake.”
Eleanor glanced at the tablecloth, then at the empty chair across from her.
“A mistake?”
“With your table.”
She studied him calmly.
“It seems to be functioning properly.”
Richard's smile tightened.
“I mean the reservation.”
“I see.”
“This is a private dining area.”
“No,” Eleanor replied. “It isn't.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Perhaps you misunderstood when you made the reservation.”
“I doubt it.”
Richard folded his arms.
“Who exactly are you meeting?”
Eleanor slowly closed her menu.
“I'm sorry?”
“This table is generally reserved for important guests.”
For a moment, Eleanor said nothing.
She looked at Richard's face, then at his folded arms, then at the space between them.
Finally, she asked, “And what kind of guest am I?”
Richard glanced at her handbag.
Her coat.
Her shoes.
He did not need to say the rest.
Eleanor understood immediately.
She sighed, not angrily, but with the quiet weariness of someone who had seen the same mistake repeated too many times.
“I see.”
Richard leaned closer.
“I'm trying to prevent an embarrassing situation.”
“For whom?”
“For you.”
A couple at the neighboring table stopped speaking. A woman holding a wineglass turned slightly in her chair. One of the waiters slowed as he passed, sensing that the conversation had moved beyond an ordinary disagreement.
Eleanor remained composed.
“I appreciate your concern,” she said. “But I assure you, I am quite comfortable.”
Richard did not move.
“You should probably leave before the manager notices.”
Eleanor looked directly into his eyes.
“Sir, the manager already knows I'm here.”
Richard laughed.
“Of course he does.”
At that moment, Daniel returned with the menus.
“Mrs. Grant, would you like to order?”
Richard turned toward him.
“Daniel, I think there's been a mistake with this table.”
Daniel looked confused.
“No, sir.”
Richard stared at him.
“No?”
“No. Mrs. Grant has a reservation.”
“I'm sure she does,” Richard said. “I'm simply suggesting that perhaps she would be more comfortable somewhere else.”
Daniel glanced at Eleanor, then back at Richard.
“Table Twelve was specifically reserved for Mrs. Grant.”
“By whom?”
Daniel hesitated.
“I'm not authorized to disclose private reservation details.”
Richard laughed, loud enough for several nearby diners to hear.
“Authorized? Apparently we've reached the point where the waitstaff decides who gets the best tables.”
Gregory had risen from his seat.
“Richard.”
Richard ignored him.
Eleanor remained seated. She did not raise her voice. She did not insult Richard or demand that he apologize.
She simply regarded him with an expression that was almost sad.
“Mr. Halston,” she said, “you've made your point.”
Richard's smile returned.
“Good.”
“But you have not made the point you think you have.”
His smile faltered.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you have spent the last five minutes telling everyone what kind of person you believe I am.”
Eleanor folded her menu and placed it on the table.
“You haven't asked me a single question about who I actually am.”
The pianist continued playing, but the restaurant seemed quieter. The nearby guests were no longer pretending not to listen.
Richard straightened his jacket.
“I don't need to know who you are.”
“No,” Eleanor said softly. “You don't.”
She lifted her water glass.
“That is the problem.”
Richard stared at her for another second, searching for some sign of uncertainty, embarrassment, or anger.
He found none.
He turned and walked back to his table.
Gregory watched him sit down.
“What exactly did you accomplish?”
Richard adjusted his cuff.