There He goes again, I just catch a glimpse and off He disappears as though He was never there. I look around somewhat, guilty, embarrassed. It’s the sort of feeling you get when you just realise you’ve been caught with your guard down, and you feel betrayed, scared. It’s like telling your new partner a dark secret of yours, something that you feel might bring you closer to them, just because you shared. then days later, it all goes wrong. They flee, never to return, carrying your darkness with them. Essentially, they have run away with a part of your soul. It is precisely at this moment that you don’t want anyone to notice you have an exposed flaw. You don’t want anyone using that against you.

I’m lucky. No one has noticed my frenzied look around. The guests are still chatting under a muffled, down-tuned setting, and I cannot understand a word they say. The waiters on the other hand, blurred in fast forward, zip past me carrying on their work. Something touches my arm, and as I turn, I see Him there again, just for a brief moment looking at me, before I complete my 180° to see the Maitre’D mouthing words I do not comprehend. I must have looked dazzled. He repeats again, slowly, with frustrated, yet contained, patience. ‘Mr O’Connor isn’t happy with the menu and wants to talk to you. Can you go to him?’ ‘Actually, no. I can’t. I need some fresh air. Deal with it. You know what he likes.’

I move myself at the back of house, past the kitchen, past Nicholas’ cheese room, past the cellars, past the… and there He is again. The Ghost looks back at me as I gaze angrily into His green eyes. ‘What do you want?’ I think with putrid hate.. I launch a judgemental attack by quickly assessing his slightly unpolished Dolce and Gabbana’s, passable Paul Smith black suit and shirt with a navy blue tie that for some reason, one might think looks passable in the morning as soon as you awake, only to realise by mid afternoon that you look like an overdressed, highlighted pimp. Besides, the Half Windsor knot He has assembled doesn’t look straight, and the collar button is exposed. The guys at the London Underground would have the time of their lives telling Him to ‘Mind the [fucking] gap! The belt is positioned a hole too small trying to hide His slightly bulging belly.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ I growl as I approach the image, menacingly,deathly close. The image closes in on me slowly, defiantly, yet with a pitiable, uncertian look in His eyes. A look that betrayed His inside thoughts.

We’re locked in face to face, so close that my breath clouds the fridge glass window I’m gazing upon. My reflection bounces back immediately, in stark realisation that I have been talking to myself. Under the corner of my eye, I notice a small, (real) human figure, looking at me with comical wide eyes. I keep my composure and polish the window with my napkin. ‘Who cleaned the fridges this morning?’ I demand at the poor commis waiter looking at me in shell shocked surprise. ‘I saw Soviette in earlier on, maybe she missed it.’ ‘Missed it ?! There are fingerprints all over. Looks like a bloody crime scene.’

The commis scurries away scaredly looking for some cleaning spray and cloth, obviously wanting to win Soviette’s appreciation by doing the job himself. The mess is not that bad really. I was just exaggerating to cover my moment of weakness, but I am touched by this helper doing his best to get things right, and gain the hardy Soviette on his side. After all, she’s someone you’d definitely want as a friend, rather than your enemy. ‘Maybe I’m being too hard on all of them’ I ponder. I look again at the wine fridge. There’s my reflection again, looking at me through the smudgy window glass.

‘You need a holiday’ says the Ghost. Maybe he’s right. I’m catching the next Air Malta flight down home.