Come over, its all yours, Ian Spencer said, pushing the empty plate aside. Your dads a top chef, the stuff here is brilliant. The cabbage rolls are a hit, but the salads todays Caesar is rather soggy, the croutons limp. Who made them?
Mrs. Zinaida handles the salads, I replied.
Well, its high time we retired Zina and let her bake pies for the grandkids. Im already scouting a replacement.
How so? I asked, a little taken aback. I never asked for this, and Im quite happy with Zina. 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!
You wont have to. New owners will run the place.
But the pub was left to me in the will.
The will gives you the flat, the bank account thats yours to live in. The Three Oranges was a venture of your fathers and several other serious investors. Theyll take over.
And you too? You were a friend of his
Ian shrugged. Business, nothing personal. In fact, were not just going to squeeze the restaurant dry, well buy it from you at a fair price.
Turns out fair was only fair from the buyers side; the price was more symbolic than reasonable.
My dad had been a wellconnected bloke in the hospitality world. He started with modest pubs, then opened a bustling restaurant in the city centre where an old fishandchips shop used to be. After university, he brought me in to source market produce for the salads, but he never let me step into the kitchen, insisting he needed professionals for that.
Hed long since moved on with a new partner, a successful surgeon who treated the restaurant business with a chilly indifference, which explains why the will left The Three Oranges solely to me. He probably drafted it when he realised his illness was incurable some conditions even top surgeons cant beat.
When Dad passed, the restaurant kept ticking under its manager, while I threw myself into everything dreaming up new dishes, modernising the décor, and being part of the closeknit familylike crew.
Then the new owners arrived. I expected them to show a blatant, greedy interest, but it came in a subtler, more treacherous form. Ian, who used to take me and my dad to amusement rides in the park as a child, turned out to own those rides and more than one park, actually.
Dads circle of influential officials and businessmen had always seemed like friendly, generous uncles to me, handing out pricey gifts whenever I mentioned a new toy. Now those kindly uncles were snatching the restaurant right out from under me, brazenly.
My husband, Tom, who works on the railway and stayed far away from the new stepmothers world, gave his two cents:
Its a dodgy lot, love. Sell the place for any price and walk away. Open a chippy by the station theres always a queue for hot pasties on Platform Square.
Every inch of that square is already claimed, and The Three Oranges is a memory of my dad.
We still have the cottage, the flat thats a memory too. Dont go near that flat, there are sharks swimming in there, he warned, chuckling.
Those sharks never showed up; it was Ian who kept dropping in, chatting about selling the restaurant while politely paying for his favourite cabbage rolls. One day he said,
Youre being stubborn, love. Im just looking out for you, like a father would. Others might come along
Threatening me?
No, dear, Im caring for you, not myself.
Is there any interest in selling? I wont believe a word.
I have a bit. The people eyeing The Three Oranges are more powerful, mightier even. They could simply take it from you without a second thought.
And so it began. First, a bunch of grimlooking thugs swept through the premises, turned over the tomato crate, and claimed my dad owed them a fortune. Then nightly brawls and drunken rowdies broke out in the dining room, something that hadnt happened in years. Patrons drifted away to quieter venues, and one morning the staff found the restaurant in disarray: the lobby a mess, the kitchen floor strewn with the contents of every fridge, though, oddly enough, the booze cellar remained untouched.
I managed to get the police report into the hands of my old schoolmate, Boris Prentice. He listened from the start, from Ian onward.
Boris shook his head. I doubt Ians the mastermind. He was probably used as a gobetween because we know each other. Someone else is pulling the strings you cant just take a business with bare hands, you need solid evidence.
Who?
Theres a magnate who owns factories, newspapers, even steamships. He used to work for the council, now hes finding backdoor routes into properties. Hes behind the smashup too.
How so? They broke in, smashed everything
Theres no sign of forced entry, the alarm never went off. Someone must have disabled it and handed a duplicate key to the crew. Looks like theres a mole in the staff, a traitor.
No mole. Everyones been here ages.
Then they bribed someone or frightened them.
The trouble soon reached the front door. Tom, fed up, issued an ultimatum:
Either you sell the pub, or Im out. Ive already been met with a knife at the stairwell twice. If I dont convince you, theyll take it. I just want to live.
Running away, then? You promised to be my rock.
For a sensible wife, not a drama queen flinging forks at the walls.
He left that very day, taking every piece of luggage even the favourite mug Id given him.
Boris, ever the philosopher, said,
A husband who just occupies a flat is wasted. I split from my partner a year ago, work little, barely home. Has your restaurant recovered?
Been a while.
Then Ill treat you to dinner. Ill foot the bill and stand guard, so no one comes in with a club.
I suddenly thought he might actually stick around.
Six months later, a former council worker resurfaced, not only eyeing The Three Oranges but also a huge shopping centre and an underground car park hed already swiped with the help of an organised crime group.
The mole turned out to be the bartender, Victor, whose cocktail debts Boris uncovered. Victor was forced to switch off the alarm and make a copy of the key.
One day Ian dropped by for his cabbage rolls, asked how things were, then lowered his eyes and confessed that his own amusement parks had a few illegal corners. Hed been blackmailed into taking part.
I didnt hold a grudge; I even invited him back.
As he left, he asked,
Are the police watching you now? I saw a uniformed bloke in your office.
Theyre watching, I smiled, thats my future husband, Boris. Our weddings next week, right here in the restaurant .
