Hey love, let me fill you in on the whole mess with the restaurant.
So the cabbage rolls here are always spoton, Ian Sinclair said, pushing the empty plate away. Your dad found a top chef for us. The salads, though, are hit or miss. Todays Caesar is pretty mediocre the croutons are soggy. Who made them?
The salads are Zoe Whitakers domain, I replied.
I think its time we sent Zoe off to retirement. Let her bake pies for her grandkids. Im already looking for a replacement.
What? I never asked you for that, Blythe said, a little puzzled. Im happy with Zoe. People come from the other side of town just for her meatballs.
Well get the recipe, no problem. And well find younger waiters
Im not hiring anyone! I snapped.
You wont have to. New owners will take over soon.
But the place was left to me in the will.
The will gave you the flat, so you can stay no ones kicking you out. And the bank account is yours. The Three Oranges wasnt just your dads project; it had a lot of serious investors. Theyll take the restaurant in their own hands.
You too? You were my dads friend
Ian just shrugged. Business. Nothing personal. Actually, we plan to buy the place from you at a fair price.
Turns out the fair price was only fair from the buyers side it was basically a token amount.
Your dad, Arthur, was a heavyweight in the hospitality world. He started with a few small pubs, then opened a popular eatery in the centre of Manchester on the site of the old Dumpling House. After you finished university, he trusted you with ordering the salad supplies at the market, but he never let you into the kitchen, saying the chefs were professionals.
Even though Arthur had moved on with a new partner a successful surgeon named Dr. Helen whod never really liked the restaurant business he always kept Blythe close. He barely saw his new lady. When he wrote his will, he left The Three Oranges solely to his daughter because he knew his health was failing. Some illnesses, even the best surgeons cant beat.
After Arthur passed, the restaurant kept running under a manager, but Blythe threw herself into every detail, dreaming up new dishes and a modern redesign. The staff liked her; it felt like one big family.
Then the new owners showed up. Blythe expected some greedy interest, but it wasnt the obvious looting she imagined. The real sting came from Ian, whod taken her to amusement parks as a kid turns out he owned those rides too, and had connections everywhere.
Arthur had a whole roster of influential councilors and businessmen who seemed like kindly uncles to Blythe when she was little almost like wizards, always showering her with expensive gifts whenever she mentioned a new toy.
Now those kind wizards were snatching the restaurant right out from under her, brazenly. Her husband Tom, a railway worker whod been further removed from the restaurant by Arthurs new wife, gave his own two cents:
Ive told you this place is a shady business. Sell it for any sum and move on. Open a chippy near the station; theres always a queue for hot pasties at the market square.
Its already split up, every inch of that square belongs to someone. And The Three Oranges is a memory of my dad.
We still have the cottage, thats another memory. And the flat, if you sort it out. Dont get involved there are sharks swimming around there, he warned, abruptly.
Those sharks never appeared, only Ian kept popping up, chatting about selling the restaurant while polishing off his favourite cabbage rolls, paying for them with a flourish. One day he said:
Dont be so stubborn, love. Im just looking out for you, like a father. Others might show up
Are you threatening me?
Me? Heaven forbid! Im caring for you, not myself.
Is there any interest in selling? I wont believe a word.
Theres a bit. The people eyeing your Three Oranges are bigger, more powerful. They could just take it from you, and it wouldnt hurt them.
And then it all started. A group of grimlooking lads came in, inspected almost every room, turned over the tomato crates, and claimed Arthur owed them a fortune.
Soon the dining room, usually packed in the evenings, was plagued by fights and drunken rows something that hadnt happened in years. Customers fled to quieter venues. One morning the staff arrived to find the front door wide open, the dining room a total wreck, and the kitchen floor strewn with mixed fridge contents. Oddly, the booze store was untouched.
Blythe managed to get the case of the vandalism to the local police, thanks to her old schoolmate Boris Prentice. She told him everything, starting with Ian.
Boris shook his head. I doubt hes the mastermind. He was probably just a middleman cos you know each other. We suspect the real puppet is a bigtime tycoon who owns factories, newspapers and riverboats. He used to work for the city council, so he knows how to slip into properties. The breakin shows no forced lock, no alarm someone turned the system off and handed over a key. Must be a mole inside, a traitor.
No mole, Blythe protested. Everyones been here forever.
Someones been bought or scared.
The trouble soon hit home. Tom gave her an ultimatum:
Either you sell the pub, or Im out. Ive been threatened with a knife at the door twice now. If I dont get you to come around, Ill take whats mine. I just want a normal life.
Running away, then You promised to be my rock.
For a decent wife, not a
And one day he walked out, taking everything, even his favourite mug the one youd given him, remember?
Boris offered a philosophical take: That bloke was just wasting space. I split with my partner last year, earn little, never home. Has your restaurant recovered from the wreck?
Its been a while.
Great, then Ill invite you over for dinner. Ill pay for everything, and Ill stay as security so nobody comes in with a bat.
Blythe thought, maybe he wouldnt bolt at the first sign of trouble. Shed never paid much attention to him in class.
Six months later, a former council officer showed up in town. Turns out he wasnt just after The Three Oranges, but also a huge shopping centre and an underground car park hed already claimed, backed by an entire crime gang a whole other story.
The mole turned out to be the barback Vinnie, whom Boris quickly identified. Vinnie was deep in debt on cocktail supplies, so they forced him to switch off the alarm and copy the key.
One day Ian dropped by for his cabbage rolls, asked how things were going, then, eyes downcast, confessed that his own amusement rides had a weak spot not everything was above board. Hed been blackmailed into joining the scheme.
Blythe didnt hold a grudge. She invited him back in.
As he left, Ian asked, Are the police watching you now? I saw a uniformed bloke in your office.
Theyre watching, Blythe smiled, Its my future husband, Boris. Our weddings in a week right here in the restaurant .
