Your tables ready, love, said Arthur Sinclair, sliding the empty plate aside with a sigh. Your fathers old chef left us a brilliant shepherds pie, but the salads? Tonights Caesar is a drab affairsoft croutons, limp leaves. Who prepared it?
Mrs. Margaret Hargreaves runs the salads, replied Blythe, eyes narrowing.
Time to retire Margaret, let the grandchildren bake pies. Im already hunting a replacement, Arthur replied.
What? I never asked for this. Im happy with Margaretpeople travel from the other side of London just for her cutlets, Blythe protested.
Well get the recipe, it wont take long. And well bring in younger waitstaff
Im not hiring anyone! she snapped.
You wont have to. New owners will take over the place.
But the restaurant is my inheritance.
The inheritance is your flatlive there, nobody will evict you. The bank account is yours. The Three Oranges isnt just your fathers dream; its a venture backed by other serious investors. Theyll take the reins.
You you were a friend of his father, werent you?
Arthur shrugged. Business. Nothing personal. In fact, we dont just squeeze the restaurant out of you; well buy it from you at a reasonable price.
Soon it became clear that reasonable only meant reasonable for the buyers. The sum was barely symbolic, a farce.
Blythes father had been a powerful man in the hospitality world. He started with tiny pubs, then opened a celebrated eatery in central London where the old Dumpling House once stood. After university, he handed Blythe the task of sourcing market produce for salads, but barred her from the kitchen, insisting only seasoned chefs should cook there.
Although he lived with a new partnera successful surgeon who treated the restaurant business with cool indifferencehe kept Blythe close. His new lover rarely saw him; the surgeon was more interested in the operating theatre than in the clatter of pans. Thats why the will left only Blythe the Three Oranges.
Hed drafted the will when he knew his illness was terminalone of those ailments no brilliant surgeon could cure.
After his death the restaurant kept running under a manager, but Blythe threw herself into every detail, dreaming of new dishes and a modern redesign. The staff treated her like family; theyd known each other for years.
Then the new owners arrived. Blythe expected greedy vultures, but the betrayal was subtler, more personal. Arthur Sinclair, who had once taken little Blythe and her father to the fairground rides, turned out to own those ridesand not just in one park.
Her fathers old circle of influential officials and businessmen, once fairygodparents who showered her with expensive gifts whenever she mentioned a toy, now stalked her like wolves in a pack, ready to snatch the restaurant outright.
Charlie, her husband, who worked on the railway and stayed far from the restaurant scene, offered his bleak assessment: Ive told you this place is a front for shady dealings. Sell it for any price and were done. Open a chip shop by the stationtheres always a line for hot pasties on Platform Square.
The whole square is already split up, Blythe replied. And The Three Oranges is a memory of my father.
We still have the cottage, the flatdont go after those. Sharks are circling, he muttered.
Only Arthur kept showing up, politely offering to buy the restaurant, eating his beloved shepherds pie and paying for it with exaggerated precision. One day he said, Youre being stubborn, love. Im speaking to you as a father would. Others will come, you know.
Threatening me? Blythe asked.
Me? Heaven forbid! Im looking out for you, not myself.
Your interest in this sale is?
A little. The people eyeing The Three Oranges have far more clout, far more power. Honestly, they could just take the place from you without a second thought.
And then it began. Roughlooking men in gangster trim stormed the back rooms, overturned crates of tomatoes, and claimed Blythes father owed them an astronomical sum. Evening crowds were broken by fights and drunken brawls that hadnt been seen there for years. Patrons dwindled, opting for quieter venues.
One morning the staff found the dining room in chaostables overturned, the kitchen a mess of scattered fridge contents. The liquor store remained untouched, bizarrely.
Blythe managed to get the case of the ransacking to Detective Boris Whitaker, a former classmate. She poured out every detail, starting with Arthur.
Boris shook his head. Hes probably just a middleman. Someone else is pulling the strings. We need a solid paper trail.
Who?
Theres a tycoon who owns factories, newspapers, steamships. He once worked in city hall. Hes been scouting property, yours included. The breakin shows no lock damage, no alarmsomeone disabled the system and handed a key to the culprits. Theres a mole in your crew, a traitor.
Impossible. Everyones loyal.
Either someone was bought or intimidated.
The pressure soon reached home. Charlie delivered an ultimatum: Either you sell the pub or I leave. Ive been threatened at the doorstep with a knife twice. If you wont sell, Im out. I just want to live.
Youre running away? I promised to be your rock, Blythe snapped.
From a proper wife, not a, he spat, his voice cracking.
A few weeks later Charlie vanished, taking his belongings and even the mug hed given Blythe.
Boris offered a philosophical take: That sort of husband never deserved a roof. I split from my partner a year ago, earn little, never home. Has your restaurant recovered?
Its been rebuilt, Blythe said.
Then Im inviting you to dinner. Ill pay, and Ill stay as security so no one comes with a bat.
For a moment Blythe thought perhaps hed finally stand his ground. She had never paid much attention to him in school.
Six months later a former cityhall official resurfaced, not only claiming The Three Oranges but also a massive shopping centre and an underground car park, already seized with the help of an entire crime syndicate. That was another story.
The mole turned out to be the bartender, Vince, whom Boris quickly pinpointed. Vince had a huge tab on the cocktail ledger, which broke him. He was forced to disable the alarm and hand over a key imprint.
One day Arthur stopped by for his shepherds pie, asked how things were, then, eyes downcast, confessed that his own amusement rides had weak spots, that not everything in his empire was legal. Hed been blackmailed into the scheme.
Blythe chose not to hold a grudge and invited him back.
As he left, Arthur asked, Are you now under police guard? I saw a uniformed officer enter your office.
Guarded, Blythe smiled, by my future husband, Boris. Our weddings next weekright here in the restaurant.
