By Gary Warner
Jason King took another sip of champagne before absentmindedly placing the glass back onto the table in front of him. He regarded the small bowl of strawberries with something approaching a frown as if they were in someway responsible for his present mood.
The meal at the Vittori’s had been up to its usual high standard. The service – Immaculate efficiency, but Jason was not happy. He didn’t want to dwell on the reasons for his deeply melancholy lest it start a downward spiral into something darker and more uncontrollable. He lifted the bottle of Dom Perignon from its ice bucket and refilled his glass.
The low murmur of civilised conversation filled the room. His eyes scanned every table, slowly taking in the smallest of details; an odd mannerism, a telling glance – all nourishment to the novelist who is forever drawing upon those everyday experiences. But tonight, none of these peripheral little dramas held any interest for Jason.
A mixture of emotions were welling up inside him, each fighting for supremacy. There was anger.
Anger that he should have allowed himself to slip into such a malaise. He was a lover of life, someone who celebrated his existence to the full all day, every day and to be without that inner zest was simply soul destroying. But with the anger was also sadness in equal measure, and that was as bad.
“Mr. King?” He looked up.
“It is Jason King isn’t it?”
The owner of the voice was a honey blonde, her classic profile thrown into sharp relief by the lamp at the centre of the table. Jason regarded her with care, noting the strong, almost aggressive jaw line and deep blue eyes that seemed so alive.
“I believe so.”
Jason spoke lazily, as if to answer was too much trouble. On any other day he would have been ordering another bottle of champagne and turning on the 22-carat charm, but today even the most beautiful of women was an intruder.
“May I?” She pulled up an empty chair and sat down opposite him.
“It looks as if you have already.”
“My name is Clarissa.” The only response was an almost imperceptible raising of an eyebrow, but she was unperturbed
“I just adore your books Mr. King. How do you imagine such amazing plots?”
To his credit, Jason did not grown audibly or immediately cry out “Boring!” to a question that was akin to asking an actor how he remember his lines.
“I exist Clarissa. I notice people, places, events. A desire for life drives the imagination wonderfully.”
She considered this for a moment. “A desire for life but not for company this evening, Mr. King?”
For the first time that day he managed a half smile. “I’m sorry to be so obvious. I think tonight must be a first.”
“Oh?”
“My declining the presence of a very attractive lady.” She took the compliment as no more than her due as she eyed the empty strawberry bowl.
“They look so nice.”
“They are.”
It was clear that no further offer was to be forthcoming, so Clarissa helped herself to one of the largest juicy strawberries from the bowl.
“I was saving that one!”
“How kind of you.”
“For myself!” he added in a somewhat resentful tone.
“And I’d heard you were so generous.”
“Don’t know who from.”
With impeccable manners she swallowed the last of the strawberry before helping herself to another. “You need cheering up, I can tell.” She said in a voice so bright and upbeat that it might have constituted reasonable grounds had Jason strangled her and then. “Your perception does you credit, Clarissa.”
It was certainly worrying that he had not, by now, ordered her on her way so that he could regain his solitude. But there was something about her.
Beauty would not have been nearly enough tonight, not on its own, but she had more. A spark, a spirit that Jason had to concede, was exceptionally appealing.
“Why do you need cheering up?” she asked with a childlike disregard for any of his finer feelings.
“You ask as if you know already.” If the comment was meant to provoke a response it failed. After a small pause he continued. “Have you ever felt loss, Clarissa – real loss?”
He found it difficult to believe that he was talking to her as if he’d known her for years.
“Tell me.”
The light, cheerful tone was replaced in a moment by the voice of someone who actually cared, and so he told her. Quietly, calmly, he shared his sadness with Clarissa.
As Jason and Clarissa left the restaurant some two hours later, they didn’t notice the woman in the car parked on the opposite side of the road. Their obvious happiness brought a smile of satisfaction to her lips. She had known Jason would need someone tonight. The right someone. He was no longer a working colleague, but he would always be a friend. Annabelle Hurst had remembered that today was the anniversary of Toki’s death, a loss that Annabelle knew had shaken Jason more than he would ever admit. But she also knew the antidote, and the medicine she had decided to secretly provide was in the shape of her cousin Clarissa – a girl with the right stuff for dissolving the worst depression.
Annabel slipped her car into gear and pulled slowly away into the London night.
© Copyright The Hellfire Club: The OFFICIAL PETER WYNGARDE Appreciation Society: https://www.facebook.com/groups/813997125389790/
PETER WYNGARDE: The Official Website 
One thought on “FAN FICTION: ‘Watch Over Him’”