Identity

“Masden, yes that's the name”, he repeated for the second time.

The idiot at the other end of the line sounded like some drawling American who insisted on pronouncing the “a” with a long “r” sound. In Peter's ears it sounded more like “Aaargh”.

Oh well. The reservation was made and he settled back, pleased with his luck at getting booked at such short notice at the hottest restaurant in town.

Peter Masden had built up a name as the definitive expert on the period of English history leading up to the Norman conquest and his publication, “If Harold had won Hastings” had won popular acclaim. I say “popular”; well, let's just say he was quite a big fish in a very small pool; a puddle really.

Peter, of course, was happy in his little world of academic acclaim. Middle aged and comfortable, though by no means wealthy, he looked the part too. He was a portly professor, complete with bow tie and wayward white hair. His students loved him for his image if nothing else. And he basked in that. Even an academic can have an ego.

Anyway, celebration was the order of the day for Peter and his long suffering wife, Patricia. She was an academician too, but without Peter's need for acclaim so there were no popular publications for her. She was, however, quite happy to tolerate and even enjoy his claim to fame.

So, the night came for the celebratory meal; French it was. Peter couldn't resist the humour of celebrating, with French cuisine, an English hero, a hero in his eyes at least. Few would have recognised the reason for his amusement as he strolled in with a supercilious smile, all made even more ridiculous by his rather overdone bow-tie. Patricia was above all of that. She just exuded her normal absent-minded air which Peter ignored.

They walked up, regally, to the maître de who was standing at the reception podium that these pretentious restaurants seem to use. An observer could see that there was going to be a competition for superiority here. However, because both parties were competing on hugely different levels there would be no winner or loser; neither would recognise the worth of the other.

Or at least that is how it started.

“Good evening Madame et Monsieur, you have a reservation?”, he oozed with a practised disdain, complete with arched eyebrows and questioning look that did not catch the eye but was designed to catch the recipient off guard.

Oblivious to his games Peter replied, “Masden, for seven thirty” and smiled at no one in particular.

The eyebrows reacted. In fact they almost zoomed to the top of the maître de's head before he regained control.

“Marsden”, he feigned disinterest but to any unbiased observer his excitement could be discerned. Peter was oblivious, as was Patricia. She was gazing in the direction of the main room without really looking at anything in particular.

Peter did notice the pronunciation of his name with a little irritation. That drawling “r” instead of the “a”. He decided to ignore it though.

They were led to their table by the maître de himself. Amidst much fussing and faffing about they were seated at the best table in the restaurant. Even Peter recognised that they had a good one. He would never know that it was, actually, their best.

Menus were brought forth and handed to Peter and Patricia with a kind of dramatic flair that many would have found a little embarrassing but Peter did not. Patricia did not even notice.

“Are we celebrating anything in particular?” asked the maître de with an obsequiousness that would have made Uriah Heep proud and most recipients cringe; except, of course, Peter.

“We” with huge emphasis, “are celebrating my new publication” announced Peter. It didn't occur to him to make an effort not to sound pompous. Patricia was looking at the next table for no other reason than she thought the lady reminded her of that bust of Nefertiti; her area of expertise.

By now, there were two waiters in addition to the maître de, who had relinquished his position at the introductory podium in order to fawn over Peter and Patricia.

They took their time, as is the wont of academics. Time is not their forte. Eventually choices were made, to the ever so humble gratification of our, by now, grovelling maître de.

They both settled back with a glass of wine. Peter was the drinker. Patricia was able to escape into another world without alcohol. In fact she had difficulty in understanding the so-called real world. Peter had a foot in both camps; hence the wine.

“Mr Marsden”, came the irritating drawl, from the maître de again.

Peter condescended to return the question, we can assume it was a question, with what he designed in his mind as a kindly smile. In reality it came over as just plain patronising.

To think that Peter's condescension, unintended but noticed and that of the maître de, intended but unnoticed could have caused such amusement to the casual observer. But, alas, neither saw any humour here.

The maître de, of course, noted every slight, every patronising comment.

“My wife values your work. She has read everything you have written and is in awe of your writing skills.” he said with what could have been a grimace.

Well, even Peter was a little nonplussed by this. He had only written, and got published, a few pieces, but only “Saxon Sexuality” had gained any popularity. It had sold quite well but the reviews had accused him of misleading potential readers. Most of the book dwelt on religion, if truth be told.

Peter was brought back to the here and now with; “She would be honoured if you could autograph a copy of your book”

“Of course” was the joyous reply.

A book was brought and opened for him to sign.

It was by “Peter Marsden”, a thriller writer.

Peter looked at the page, the title and the smiling maître de.

Shit.