Dear Diary,
Im still trying to make sense of the mornings conversation over lunch at the family table. The cabbage rolls here are always superb, Ian Spencer said, pushing his empty plate aside. Your fathers good chef found the perfect recipe for them. The salads, though, are a different story. Todays Caesar is rather lacklustersoft croutons, no bite. Who made it?
Its Zoe Parker who handles the salads, I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.
Ian laughed, Zoes long overdue for retirement. Let her bake pies for the grandchildren. Im already scouting a replacement.
How? I asked, puzzled. I never asked you to intervene, and Im quite happy with Zoe. Her meatballs draw customers from the other side of town.
Well get the recipe, it wont take long. And well find younger waitstaff
Im not hiring anyone! I snapped, feeling my cheeks flush.
You wont, either. The restaurant will soon be in other hands.
But its my inheritance, I protested.
Your inheritance is the flatlive there, no one will evict you. The bank account is yours too. And Three Oranges was a project not only your father started but also a number of serious investors. Theyll take over the premises.
And you too? You were my fathers friend
Ian shrugged. Business. Nothing personal. In fact, were not just going to squeeze the restaurant out of youwell buy it from you, at a fair price, of course.
Soon enough, the fair price turned out to be only fair from the buyers viewpoint. From my side it felt more like a token sum stretched thin.
My father, Edward Whitaker, had been a powerful figure in the hospitality world. He began with modest pubs, then turned a rundown eatin on Deansgateonce called The Dumpling Houseinto a bustling citycentre restaurant. After I finished university, he trusted me with buying market produce for salads, but never let me step into the kitchen, insisting he needed professionals there.
Although he had long since moved in with a new partnera successful surgeon who never showed much interest in the restauranthe always kept me close. He barely saw his new companion, who seemed content with her own career. Perhaps thats why the will left only me the Three Oranges.
He probably drafted that will when he realized his illness was terminal. Some ailments even the best surgeons cant beat.
After his death the restaurant kept running under a manager, but I threw myself into every aspect, dreaming of new dishes and a modern redesign. The staff treated me like family; theyd known me for years, and the place felt like a closeknit community.
Then the new owners appeared. I expected some opportunistic interest in Three Oranges, but not the overt, almost predatory, tactics that followed. The most painful blow came from Ian Spencer, the man who once took my father and me to the amusement park as children. Turns out he owned those rides and more than one park.
My father had plenty of influential contactspoliticians, businessmenwho seemed like kindly uncles in my childhood, gifting me toys whenever I mentioned a new one I wanted. Now those kindly uncles were brazenly snatching the restaurant from me.
Kevin, my husband, who works on the railways and stayed far away from the restaurant scene, gave his own take on the mess:
Ive told you for ages this pub is a criminal venture. Sell it for any price and youll be done. Open a pie stall by the stationtheres always a queue for hot pasties on Station Square.
Every inch of that square is already claimed. And Three Oranges is a memory of my father.
We still have the cottage, thats a memory too. And the flat, if you sort it out. Dont go theresharks swim in those waters, he warned, his tone suddenly sharp.
The sharks never showed up; only Ian kept resurfacing, regularly bringing up the sale, eating his beloved cabbage rolls and paying for them with a forced politeness. One day he said,
Dont be stubborn, girl. Im speaking to you as a father would. Others might come along
Are you threatening me?
Me? God forbid! Im looking out for you, not myself.
Is there any interest in this sale on your part? I wont believe a word.
Theres a little. The people eyeing Three Oranges are far more powerfulmuch more influential, in fact. They could simply take the place from you, and nothing would stop them.
And so it began. First, a group of grimlooking men swaggered in, rifled through almost every room, overturned a crate of tomatoes and claimed my father owed them an astronomical sum. Later, evenings that used to be lively turned into brawls and drunken scenes that hadnt happened in years. Customers dwindled, preferring quieter venues for their dinners and events.
One bleak morning the staff arrived to find the dining room in chaosa fullblown riot, the kitchen floor littered with the contents of every fridge. Strangely, the liquor stores were untouched.
I managed to get the incident reported to the local police, and it fell into the hands of Barry Collins, a former classmate. I told him everything, starting with Ian.
Barry shook his head. I doubt Ians the mastermind. He was probably just a gobetween because you know each other. We suspect someone with deep city ties is pulling the strings. You cant take him down with bare hands; you need solid evidence.
Who? I asked.
Theres a factory, newspaper and steamboat owner, former city official. Hes found a backdoor into real estate. Hes also tied to the vandalism at your place.
What about the breakin? There were no lock marks, no alarm. Someone must have disabled it and handed over a key. Theres a mole in your crew, a traitor.
No mole that I know of. Everyones been here a long time.
Then someone was bribed or intimidated
The trouble soon reached my doorstep. Kevin suddenly gave me an ultimatum:
Either you sell the pub, or Im leaving. Ive already been threatened with a knife outside our flat twice. They say if I dont convince you, Ill get it. I dont want that. I just want to live.
Youre running away now? You promised to be my rock.
Enough of a wife who throws spoons and forks at the ambush.
A week later Kevin packed up, taking even my favourite tea muga gift Id given him and walked out.
Barry, ever the philosopher, commented later, A husband like that just wastes space. I split from my partner a year ago; I earn little, never home. Has your restaurant recovered after the wreck?
Its been months, I said.
Then Im inviting you over for dinner. Ill pay for everything, and Ill stand guard so nobody comes in with a bat.
I realized I didnt fear Ians threats any longer; hed been a childhood companion, after all.
Six months later a former city official resurfaced, not only eyeing Three Oranges but also a large shopping centre and an underground car park hed already seized with the help of a whole organised crime group. Thats a story for another day.
The traitor turned out to be the bartender, Victor, whom Barry quickly identified. Hed been deep in debt on cocktail cards and was forced to disable the alarm and provide a key copy.
One day Ian dropped by for cabbage rolls, asked how things were going, then, with his eyes downcast, confessed that his own amusementpark empire had its cracks. Hed been blackmailed into this mess. I didnt hold a grudge and invited him back whenever he wished.
As he left, he asked, Are you under police protection now? I saw a uniformed officer in your office today.
Yes, I smiled, thats my future husband, Barry. Our weddings next weekin the restaurant, of course.
