Vincent had been patronising Pip’s restaurant for nearly twenty years. Just as he did every Thursday, he crossed to table twelve and sat facing the room, catching the wine waiter’s eye. Henry, who had been bringing him a half bottle of Jacob’s Creek shiraz for longer than he could remember, poured a little into a gleaming glass and paused, eyebrows raised as though uncertain of Vincent’s approval, before filling the glass. “Thank you, sir. Enjoy your meal,” he said as always and withdrew, allowing the winsome waitress Carlotta to take his place. She smiled. “Hello, Mr McKendrick. Will you have…