“I’m inviting you over,” Ian Spencer said, sliding the empty plate aside. “Your father’s good chef found a great recipe for the cabbage rolls. The salads, thoughtoday’s Caesar is rather soggy, the croutons are limp. Who made that?”
“Mrs. Penelope Clarke handles our salads,” I replied.
“Well, Penelope’s long overdue for a retirement. Let her bake pies for her grandkids. I’m already looking for a replacement.”
“Excuse me?” I said, eyebrows raised. “I didn’t ask for any changes. I’m perfectly happy with Penelopepeople come from the other side of town just for her meatballs.”
“We’ll get the recipe, no problem. And we’ll find younger waiters too”
“That’s not my job!”
“You won’t have to. Someone else will run the restaurant.”
“But I’ve inherited it.”
“The inheritance is your flatlive there, no one will evict you. Your bank account stays untouched. ‘Three Oranges’ was a venture not only of your father but of several serious investors. They’ll take the place over.”
“And you? You were a friend of my dad”
Ian shrugged. “Business. Nothing personal. In fact, we’re not just going to squeeze the restaurantwe’ll buy it from you, at a reasonable price, of course.”
It turned out the price was only reasonable from the buyers’ point of view; from our side it was barely a symbolic gesture.
My late father had been a heavyweight in the hospitality world. He began with a handful of modest pubs, then launched a popular eatery in central London in the old Dumpling House building. After I graduated, he handed me the market purchases for the salads, but never let me step into the kitchen, insisting the chefs were professionals.
He and his new partner, a successful surgeon, barely saw each other. He kept me close, though his new lady rarely crossed his path. The surgeon was indifferent to the restaurant business, which probably explains why the will left Three Oranges solely to me.
He’d drawn up the will when he realised he was terminally illa disease no topnotch surgeon could fix.
After his death, the restaurant kept running under its own manager. I threw myself into it, dreaming up new dishes and a modern redesign. The staff treated me like familythey’d known me forever.
Then the new owners appeared. I expected some opportunistic snatch, but it was Ian who delivered the real blow. He’d once taken me and my dad to a fairground as a child; it turned out he owned those rides and more than one park.
My dad’s circle of influential officials and businessmen had always seemed like kindly, generous unclespractically fairy godparentshanding out pricey gifts whenever I mentioned a toy.
Now those fairy godparents were brazenly trying to seize my restaurant.
My husband Charlie, a rail worker, who had never liked the restaurant scene, gave his twocents:
“Tell you what, love, this pub looks like a criminal operation. Sell it for any sum and walk away. Open a fryup stall at the stationbig money, trust me. Everyones lining up for hot pasties on Platform Square.”
“The whole block is already split up, and ‘Three Oranges’ is a memory of my dad.”
“We still have the cottage, the flatdont touch those. There are sharks swimming in that market.”
The sharks never showed up themselves; it was Ian who kept dropping hints about selling the place, polishing his cabbage rolls, and paying with exaggerated precision. One day he said,
“You’re being stubborn, love. I’m just looking out for you, like a father. Others might come”
“Threatening me?” I snapped.
“Me? Dear, I’m only worried about you, not myself.”
“There’s no interest in your sale. I wont believe a word.”
“There is a little. The people eyeing ‘Three Oranges’ are more powerful, more influential. Honestly, they could just take the restaurant from you and face no consequences.”
And then it began. First, a grimlooking gang strutted through almost every room, flipped the tomato crate, and claimed my dad owed them a fortune. Then, evening brawls and drunken squabbles erupted in the dining hallsomething that hadnt happened in years. Patrons dwindled as they fled to quieter venues. One morning the staff found the place ransacked: the dining room a mess, the kitchen floor littered with mixedup fridge contents. Miraculously, the booze stock stayed untouched.
I managed to get the case of the vandalism into the local police by turning to my old schoolmate, Boris Chapman. I laid out everything, starting with Ian.
Boris shook his head. “I doubt Ian’s the mastermind. He was probably used as a gobetween because you know him. The real puppetmaster is a big industrialistowns factories, newspapers, and a fleet of barges. He used his former council job to find a backdoor into property. Look at the chaos in your restaurant; there are oddities.”
“What oddities?” I asked.
“The lock showed no forced entry, the alarm never went off. Someone must’ve disabled it and handed the keys to the crooks. That means there’s an insidera moleamong your staff.”
“Theres no mole. Everyone’s been here ages.”
“Then someones been bribed or threatened.”
Soon the pressure reached home. Charlie issued an ultimatum:
“Either you sell the pub or Im out. I’ve already been met with a knife at the doorway twice. If I dont convince you, they’ll take it from me. I dont want that. I just want to live.”
“Youre running away Remember you promised to be my rock.”
“Im the rock for a proper wife, not for a drama queen who throws forks at the balcony.”
A week later he packed up, taking even my favourite muga gift Id given him.
Boris commented philosophically, “A husband who only occupies a flat is a waste. I split from my partner a year ago, earn little, rarely home. Has your restaurant recovered after the raid?”
“Its been months.”
“Then Ill invite you over for dinner. Ill foot the bill, and Ill stand guard so no one comes in with a bat.”
I thought maybe hed actually stay when things got rough, unlike the strangers Id ignored in school.
Six months later, an excouncil worker turned up, eyeing not only ‘Three Oranges’ but also a massive shopping centre and an underground car park hed already swindledthanks to a fullblown organised crime gang. Thats a story for another day.
The mole turned out to be the barback, Vince, whom Boris identified swiftly. Vince owed a huge tab on cocktail supplies; the debt broke him. He was forced to disable the alarm and make a duplicate key.
One day Ian dropped by for cabbage rolls, asked how things were going, then lowered his eyes and admitted his own rides had shady corners. Hed been blackmailed too.
I didnt hold a grudge. I invited him back anytime.
As he left, he asked, “Are the police now watching over you? I saw a uniformed lad in your office.”
“They’re watching,” I smiled, “and that’s my future husband, Boris. Our weddings next weekright here in the restaurant.”
