Scrimpers

IN HERE: 'I'll do yours, love,' Martin says. Charlie and I exchange 'He'll be OK' looks, and then Martin says one of those phrases that make the blood run cold

We're in this restaurant. The noise level has long since risen above the acceptable, but it's a noisy restaurant and at least no one's throwing bread rolls. I'm watching everyone from my customary position on the planet Zarg while ranting about how much I hate the people I was at university with who seem to be cropping up in safe Tory seats. The boys are trying to lob raspberries down my cleavage, which is in full sail in black velvet.

Lisa is schmoozing her new squeeze. His name is Martin and he wears braces and slicks back his hair like Gordon Gekko. I'm not sure about being at a table with a man who wears braces, but I'm the sort of person who'll try anything once. And Lisa has definitely got a bit of a crush, so you have to try being nice even if she did pick him up in Corney & Barrow.

We've been joking around about meanness. It's been Nick's birthday, and his family are legendary for their meanness. His mother empties the grounds out of coffee filters and leaves them to dry for re-use. His father used to walk into rooms and switch off lights even when there was someone in there. He thought for many years that the collection bag in church was something you dipped your hand into ritualistically: no one told him that you were supposed to put money in.

"It wasn't too bad this year," he says. "Sal gave me the usual collection of shampoos from hotel rooms. Mum and dad actually gave me a bottle of Scotch. Safeway own brand, but it wasn't watered. The seal was still on."

"How about Rachel?" asks Lisa.

"She made a donation to Friends of the Earth for me."

Martin looks at his watch, makes a scribbling gesture in the air at a passing waiter. "Do they have one of those gadgets for recycling soap?" he asks.

"Do they heck. They nick it from public lavatories."

"Hah," says Lisa. "Lucky to find any. There was this pub in Cambridge where you had to ask for bog paper at the bar. The landlord thought women were wasteful."

I tell the story of the recently privatised public utility I once worked for, in a huge building in St James's lit by neon striplights. They were on timers. Every 15 minutes, all the lights bar the emergency lamps would go out and you would have to stand up and pull a piece of string over your desk to turn them back on.

Charlie looks at me. "I seem to remember," he says, "that someone sitting not too far away from us used to roll cigarettes from old butts in ashtrays."

"That was poverty," I plead, "not meanness."

The bill comes. Martin reaches out, picks it up, looks at it. He leans across to Lisa. "I'll do yours, love," he says. Lisa looks all pleased and pinky. Charlie and I exchange "He'll be OK" looks, and then Martin says one of those phrases that make the blood run cold.

"What did you have?"

"Err-mmm-huh?" says Lisa.

"What did you have?" says Martin. "I'm buying yours."

Lisa is looking round the table to see if anyone has heard him. She clocks me clocking them and throws me one of those "Don't you dare say a thing, bitch" looks.

"Can't we, um, split it seven ways?" she says, "That's what we usually do."

"No," says Martin. "Everyone else had starters and you've hardly been drinking. Serena's drunk at least twice what you've drunk."

"I'm bigger than her," I say.

"Yes, but I don't see why I should subsidise you."

"Look," says Lisa. "Really. Don't do mine. It's far too much hassle. Let's just split it up, huh?"

He looks slightly relieved to have got off the hook. "Well, if that's the way you feel," he says. "I'll just do mine. Now, let's see. I had a boeuf bourgignon, that's pounds 8.45, and three glasses of house wine. That's about pounds 4. Call it pounds 12.50." He opens his wallet, blows the odd moth chrysalis away and counts out two fives and three pound coins. "Anyone got change for a pound?"

"Maybe you could put that towards the tip," says Charlie.

"It's already got service in it," he says.

A small but significant silence has fallen across the table. "Yes, but that goes to the restaurant. You have to stick something in to go to the staff."

"No you don't. Service included means the tip's already in. You shouldn't have to put anything extra in unless the service has been really good."

"Look, they always kiss you when you come in here," I say. "That deserves at least a couple of quid."

"They didn't kiss me," says Martin.

Charlie picks up the bill. "OK, darlings," he says, "Now that Mr Pink has sorted out his end of the bill it's a flat 18 each. Anyone got any problems with that?"

"Oh," says Martin, "I forgot my glass of mineral water. Forget the 50p".

Lisa, Martin and I share a cab home. She is obviously still planning on sleeping with him, but I don't give it more than a few dates. They get dropped off first. Lisa shoves a tenner into my hand, double kisses me. "See you soon, sweets," she says. "Yes. Soon."

Martin leans back in through the window. "'Bye," he says. "Oh, I thought you might like this." He gives me an ashtray emblazoned with the logo of the restaurant.

"Thanks, Martin, but I couldn't possibly."

"Oh, don't worry," he says. "I got some wine glasses for Lisa."