Man and Boy. Tony Parsons

to see you. Is there a problem?’

      ‘Apparently there’s no table.’

      ‘Ah, we always have a table for you, Mr Mann.’ Paul’s Mediterranean smile flashed in his tanned face. He had a good smile too. But it was a completely different smile to the one she had. ‘This way, please.’

      We walked into the restaurant and got the usual stares and murmurs and goofy grins that Marty’s entrance always provoked. Paul snapped his fingers and a table was brought from the kitchen. It was quickly covered with a tablecloth, cutlery, a wedge of rough-hewn peasant bread and a silver bowl of olive oil. A waitress appeared by our side. It was her.

      ‘Hello again,’ she said.

      ‘Tell me this,’ said Marty. ‘Whatever happened to the good old stereotype of the American waitress? The one who serves you with a smile?’

      ‘It’s her day off,’ the waitress said. ‘I’ll get you the menu.’

      ‘I don’t need the menu,’ Marty said. ‘Because I already know what I want.’

      ‘I’ll get it anyway. For your friend here. We have some interesting specials today.’

      ‘Shall we have this conversation again once you’ve turned on your hearing aid?’ Marty asked. ‘Read my lips – we eat here all the time. We don’t need the menu.’

      ‘Give her a break, Marty,’ I said.

      ‘Yeah.’ She looked at me for the first time. ‘Give me a break, Marty.’

      ‘I’ll have the twirly sort of pasta with the red stuff on top and he’ll have the same,’ Marty said.

      ‘Twirly pasta.’ She wrote it down on her little pad. ‘Red stuff. Got it.’

      ‘And bring us a bottle of champagne,’ Marty said, patting the waitress on her bum. ‘There’s a good girl.’

      ‘Get your sweaty hand off my butt before I break your arm,’ she said. ‘There’s a good boy.’

      ‘Just bring us a drink, will you?’ Marty said, quickly removing his hand.

      The waitress left us.

      ‘Christ, we should have ordered a takeaway,’ Marty said. ‘Or got here a bit earlier.’

      ‘Sorry about the delay,’ I said. ‘The traffic –’

      ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said, raising a hand.

      ‘I’m glad you agreed to the fifteen-minute delay system,’ I told him. ‘I promise you that it’s not going to harm the show.’

      ‘Well, that’s just one of the changes we’re making,’ Marty said. ‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you.’

      I waited, at last registering that Marty was nervous. He had a set of breathing exercises which were meant to disguise him having the shakes, but they weren’t working now. And we weren’t celebrating after all.

      ‘I also want Siobhan more involved with the booking of guests,’ Marty said. ‘And I want her up in the gallery every week. And I want her to keep the station off my back.’

      I let it sink in for a moment. The waitress brought our champagne. She poured two glasses. Marty took a long slug and stared at his glass, his lips parting as he released an inaudible little belch. ‘Pardon me,’ he said.

      I let my glass stand on the table.

      ‘But all those things – that’s the producer’s job.’ I tried on a smile. ‘That’s my job.’

      ‘Well, those are the changes I want to make.’

      ‘Wait a minute. I’m not getting a new contract?’