Im inviting you over, Ian Spencer says, pushing an empty plate aside. Your fathers a great chef, his meatballs are always superb. The salads, though, are hitormiss. Todays Caesar is pretty bland, and the croutons are soggy. Who made them?
Mrs. Zinnia handles the salads, I reply.
Its high time Zinnia retires. Let her bake pies for her grandchildren. Im already looking for her replacement.
What do you mean? Olivia asks, surprised. I never asked you for this, and Im happy with Zinnia. Her cutlets draw customers from the other side of town.
Well get the recipe quickly, and well find younger waitstaff
Im not hiring anyone! I snap.
You wont have to. New owners will take over the restaurant.
But its my inheritance.
The inheritance is your flat you can live there, nobody will evict you. The bank account is yours. Three Oranges was a venture not only your father started but also several serious investors. Theyll take the place into their own hands.
And youre one of them? You were a friend of my father
Ian shrugs. Business, nothing personal. In fact, well even buy the place from you at a fair price.
Soon it becomes clear that the fair price is only fair from the buyers point of view; from my side it feels almost symbolic.
My father was a powerful figure in the hospitality world. He began with a few modest pubs, then opened a popular restaurant in central London on the site of the old Dumpling House. After university, he brought me in to source market produce for the salads, but he never let me into the kitchen, insisting he needed professional chefs.
Although he no longer lived with my mother because he had a new partner, he always kept me close. He hardly saw his new partner, a successful surgeon who was, to put it mildly, indifferent to the restaurant business. Thats probably why he left only Three Oranges to me in his will.
He likely drafted the will when he finally accepted that he was terminally ill. Some illnesses even the best surgeons cant beat.
After his death the restaurant kept running under its own manager, but I threw myself into every aspect, dreaming up new dishes and a modern redesign. The staff treated me well; after all, wed been like one big family for years.
Then new owners appeared. I expected greedy vultures to swoop in, but the betrayal hits harder. Ian Spencer, who once took me and my father to a fairground as a child, turns out to own those rides and several others in different parks.
My fathers circle of influential officials and businessmen had always seemed like benevolent uncles in my youth, showering me with expensive gifts whenever I mentioned a toy. Now those kindly uncles are snatching the restaurant away, brazenly.
My husband, Tom, works on the railway and stays far from the restaurant scene. He gives his own take: Ive told you this place is a shady business. Sell it for any amount and youll be done. Open a fishandchips shop near the station thatll be profitable. Every day I see a line forming at Euston Square for hot pies.
Every square foot of that area is already spoken for, I answer. And Three Oranges is a memory of my father.
We still have the cottage another memory and the flat, if you sort it out. Dont meddle there; there are sharks swimming around. He laughs, but the sharks are invisible, only Ian appears, repeatedly bringing up the sale, eating his favourite cabbage rolls, and paying for them with exaggerated politeness. One day he says, Youre being stubborn, girl. Im just speaking fatherlike. Others might come
Are you threatening me? I ask.
Me? Heaven forbid! Im looking out for you, not myself.
Is there any interest in this sale? I wont believe anything without proof.
Theres a little. The people interested in Three Oranges are far more powerful. They could simply take the restaurant from you, and nothing would stop them.
And it starts. First, a grim gang of thugs walks through almost every room, overturns the tomato crate, and claims my father owes them an astronomical sum.
Later, evenings that were once bustling turn into fights and drunken brawls, something that hadnt happened in years. Customers dwindle, preferring quieter venues for dinners and banquets. One morning the staff finds the dining room in chaos tables overturned, kitchen floor littered with the contents of every fridge. Strangely, the alcohol stores were left untouched.
I manage to get the case of the vandalism into the local police department, where it lands on the desk of Boris Prentice, a former classmate. I tell him everything, starting with Ian.
Boris shakes his head. Its unlikely hes the mastermind. He was probably used as a gobetween because you know him. We suspect someone else is pulling the strings. You cant take a property like that with just bare hands; you need solid evidence.
Who?
Theres a man who owns factories, newspapers and shipping lines. He used to work for the city council. Hes found a way into private property. The breakin was clean no lock damage, no alarm. Someone must have disabled the system and handed over a key. Looks like theres an insider, a mole in your team.
Theres no mole. Everyones been here for years.
Then someone was bought off or intimidated
The trouble reaches home. Tom issues an ultimatum: Either you sell the pub or Im out. Ive been threatened with a knife at the doorstep twice. If I dont convince you, Ill take whats left. I just want to live.
Youre running away now Remember you promised to be my rock.
From a proper wife, not a nag who throws spoons and forks at the battlefield.
A few weeks later Tom actually leaves, taking everything even the mug hed once given me.
Boris comments philosophically, A husband like that just wastes space. I split with my partner a year ago, earn little, and never stay home. By the way, has your restaurant recovered from the wreck?
Its been a while, I say.
Then Ill invite you over for dinner. Ill pay for everything, and Ill keep your security, so no one comes in with a bat.
I suddenly realise he isnt the type to run at the first sign of danger, and I wonder why I never paid much attention to him in class.
Six months later, a former city official appears in town. He not only wants Three Oranges but also a large shopping centre and an underground car park, which hes already claimed with the help of an organised crime group but thats another story.
The mole turns out to be the bartender, Vinnie, whom Boris quickly identifies. Vinnie was deep in debt to a cocktailcard supplier, and they forced him to disable the alarm and copy the key.
One day Ian Spencer drops by for cabbage rolls, asks how things are going, then, looking down, tells me that his own attractions have weak spots and not everything he runs is legal. Hes now part of a blackmail scheme.
I dont hold a grudge; I invite him back in.
As he leaves, he asks, Are you now under police protection? I saw a uniformed officer in your office.
Protected, I smile, by my future husband, Boris. Our wedding is next week right here in the restaurant .
