Page 24 of Lost Souls

He winks at Noreen. How can she not love his restaurant presence, his cosmopolitan elan?

The evening is going even better than he expected.

***

“AAAYYGGHH!”

The mounting shrieks and wails of the bizarre woolly female at table eleven, a person who appears to have decided to savour the Michelin stars whilst resembling the Michelin man, are starting to convert the other diners’ already piqued interest into something approaching restaurant trauma.

Unaware of the stares, Noreen is gazing down at her plate of neatly skewered meat as if she has just entered a crime scene. Which perhaps, for her, it is. Arnie, who is all too aware of the unwanted attention, tries frantically to comfort her, before they find themselves ejected.

“Noreen! Sweetheart! Cousin. It’s not like youknewthe friggin’ sheep! Hey, tell you what – I’ll order some carrots. Nice big, raw ones. You’re not pals with any oysters, are you?”

The man’s comforting is to no avail; his dinner guest is inconsolable. Finally, Noreen Millburn shakes her still-bobbled head.

“I’m not hungry, Arnie. I knew I shouldn’t have come.” She stares at him in total bewilderment, tears glooping down her face, as she gestures all around the gilded triple-rosette cage. “This – this isn’t me!Why did you bring me here? You hardly know me!”

Arnie leans across the table and hands Noreen a monogrammed silk handkerchief, hoping that she won’t actually discern what happy little body part the monogram designer has cleverly contorted his client’s initials to represent. She wipes her eyes and face, then blows her nose with some considerable power. He gestures that she should maybe keep the handkerchief.

When the snorting and subsequent deluge have passed their peak and he can make himself heard without alerting the entire restaurant, who right now appear to be all ears as well as all eyes, Arnie adopts his most sincere and indeed humblest voice (which has been known to work gangbusters in the past).

“Okay, Noreen, sweetheart. It’s time I levelled with you. I brought you here because… because…” The man can hardly talk, he is so choked up.

Noreen knows this because he stutteringly informs herso, before segueing more nimbly into the autobiographical bit.

“Noreen, sugar, people don’t know this, don’t even suspect it. Of me, Arnie Garth, big shot Hollywood producer of – uplifting, faith-based motion pictures. They think my life must be one long round of adoration and non-alcoholic parties. Truth is, I – I’m alone in the world. Entirely alone. Orphaned.Unmarried. Unloved. Unwanted. Hard to believe, I know.”

He allows time for her to interrupt, which she doesn’t, so he continues with his final pitch.

“And because – goddammit – you’re a very attractive woman, Noreen!”

“No, I’m not.”

“You got me. But hey, who needs tits and ass? Those I can…” He has a feeling people are leaning so far over from other tables they’re about to topple into the aisles or their entrees, so he dials down to a whisper. “You’ve got something better than looks, Noreen Millburn. You know what you got?”

“A sheep?”

“No! Forget the friggin’ sheep, for Chrissakes! I’m talkin’ about what brings us together. I’m talkin’ about our souls.”

“Arseholes?” says Noreen over-loudly, which would be a conversation stopper anywhere. “What have arseholes got to do with it?”

“Everything!”

Arnie is a touch bemused by the reaction, as to his unschooled American ears she is just repeating his sincerities in a silly accent. But he ploughs on.

“What I’m saying is, Noreen sweetie-pie, you’ve got a soul the size of – of the Lake District. In fact…” And at this point he looks around, just in case I, Ambrose, might be listening. “Between you and me, Ms Millburn, you got a soul to spare.”

Near the wind, Arnie Garth. Near the wind.

Now that she is persuaded that the man is not, in fact, talking orifice – and despite her own better judgment – Noreen begins genuinely to soften at this.

“Oh… oh… thank you, Arnie. No one has ever said this about me.”

“Perhaps it’s just ’cos they couldn’t get near enough.” He shakes his head, in what he hopes will pass as genuine admiration. “I mean, the way you help people. Not normal decent people… we’re talking sad losers here, no-hopers, deadbeats, sickos, dumb stinky livestock.” He smiles as a new thought strikes him. “Hey, it… it’s like this movie I just been making – about the animal nut. You know, Saint Francis the Sissy.”

Noreen brightens at this. Her pale-blue eyes, which aren’t her worst feature, begin to sparkle and gleam.

“Getaway!My late mum used to call me Saint Noreen!”