Samantha and I were still sleeping together. She’d mentioned that we should move out of the duplex as we didn’t need the top floor anymore but just occasionally, after a stressful day, I wanted my space, therefore the extra $400 a night the top floor cost me, or rather Daddy, was good value as far as I was concerned.
Things had cooled a little between us after an incident at Metrazur where some rather drunken clients had started to grope Samantha and more importantly as far as she was concerned, I had done nothing about it. To me, Samantha was part of the business and if clients wanted to grope her, they could.
Three or four nights later however, Samantha glided down the spiral staircase and snuggled into ‘her’ side of the super-king size bed. Back to normal I thought as she took my hand and put it between her thighs.
The ‘truce’ only lasted a week or so before the next problem surfaced.
We’d arranged to meet some potential investors at a restaurant favoured by Patrick Pelinni, one of the older guys in the office. Patrick seemed to know everybody in the Big Apple and I trusted his judgment implicitly. He could get us into restaurants when there was a queue outside, could get us tickets for the US Open tennis when none were available and generally was a gold-plated fixer. His salary of $200,000 a year was a rounding error on the payroll!
Patrick told our limo where to go and instructed the two other limos, containing Samantha and some other guys from the office, of the address. We set off in convoy which must have looked impressive, even to New Yorkers, and within ten minutes we were piling out onto the pavement on the corner of 7th Avenue and West 52nd Street. Jim the client, and some of his guys were already waiting outside when we got there. Patrick took immediate charge and headed into a cavernous restaurant with all twelve of us following in his wake. He was greeted by a rather delicious dark-haired woman who kissed him on both cheeks and showed us to the farthest corner of the completely full dining room.
I was rather disappointed that he hadn’t organised a private room but as we passed the various tables, each diner in turn stood up and shook his hand or shouted a greeting in Italian. Better than that, just as we reached our table the chef came out and grabbed me by the shoulders and planted a kiss on both of my cheeks. ‘Meester Nigel, it eez a pleasure to see you again’. Patrick had done it again – he’d organised things to perfection, even making sure the chef, whom I’d never seen in my life, greeted me like a long lost friend. All to impress the client.
Thereafter Patrick discreetly advised me and I advised the others on the best dishes to have and the best wines available, some of which weren’t on the extensive wine list. The clients were impressed, apart from the complete dongo (one of Jim’s gofers) who wanted a burger. I saw Samantha leaning over and telling him that burgers weren’t on the menu but no sooner had she said it than Patrick called the waiter over and ‘sorted’ it. What a diamond.
The meal was going spectacularly well. I told Jim Levinski, who was the lead investor that our minimum was $2 million and he didn’t flinch – he just picked up his glass of 1958 Barolo and clinked it against mine and winked. No problem there then.
My Pasta Pelinni tasted even better after that. Pasta Pelinni, a ribbon pasta with small pieces of veal and black olives in a rich creamy sauce and named after Patrick who had been giving the restaurant his business for over 30 years.
We were well into our mains (or entrees as I’d learned to call them) when I looked at Samantha, who was seated to my left and directly across from Jim, struggling with a meatball. She’d ordered ‘veal meatballs in tomato sauce’ and I could see the whole meatball teetering on the edge of her fork as she lifted it to her mouth – why hadn’t she cut it? I tried to catch her attention to tell her of the ‘problem’ but it was too late. Thereafter, it was like a slow motion film as the meatball fell what seemed like feet, but in fact was merely inches, right into her plate of sauce. A tsunami of tomato sauce then rose up and headed in Jim’s direction. Bizarrely, I felt that I could throw my napkin over him before the sauce found its target but reality took precedence over fantasy and it was too late – the sauce showered him from neck to waist! I’d seen something similar on crime programmes – blood splatter! My immediate thought was how the fuck could a simple meatball cause such a mess but I was shaken from my analysis of the situation by Jim standing up and shouting at Samantha.
‘You stupid fuckin broad, look what you’ve done’, he cried. My immediate reaction was amazement that guys still called women ‘broads’ but just as I was thinking about this, Samantha decided to take control of the situation and threw her glass of Chablis over Jim, making sure her aim was at his silk Hermes tie. This made Jim, who obviously wasn’t aware of the stain-removing properties of vintage Chablis, even more incandescent.
‘What the fuck …..’, he started again but before I could do anything Patrick had made his way from the other end of the table and ushered Jim into the kitchen. I had no doubt that Patrick would fix the problem with Jim, but just in case, I grabbed Samantha, dragged her to the front door and literally threw her into one of our towncars which was waiting outside. ‘Take her home’, I shouted at the driver and he started the engine. I thought I saw a tear fall from Samantha’s eye as she mouthed the word, ‘sorry’. The car did a tight u-turn and headed back to the Chambers.
