14October2025
Ive been invited back to my own place, but the invitation feels more like a summons. Edward Sinclair, the senior partner of the family firm, pushed his empty plate aside and remarked, The cabbage rolls here are always topnotch; your fathers former head chef really knew his stuff. The salads, though, are hit or miss. Todays Caesar is rather bland, the croutons soggy. Who prepared it?
The salads are Mrs. Mildred Pembertons domain, I replied.
Poor Mildred ought to retire and let the grandchildren bake pies. Im already looking for a replacement.
How? I asked, puzzled. I never asked you to meddle, and Im quite happy with Mildred. Her meatballs draw patrons from across the city.
Well get the recipe soon enough, and well find younger waitstaff
Dont think Im looking to hire anyone!
You wont. Others will take over the restaurant.
But its my inheritance.
Your inheritance is the flat you live in; you can stay there, no one will evict you. The bank account is yours. The Three Oranges was a venture not only of your father but of several serious investors. Theyll take the premises into their own hands.
You too? Werent you a friend of his
Edward shrugged. Business. Nothing personal. In fact, well not only keep the restaurant afloat, well buy it from you at a fair price.
In truth, the price they called fair was only fair from the buyers side. From my perspective it was barely symbolic.
My father had been a powerful figure in the hospitality world. He started with modest pubs, then built a popular bistro in central London on the site of the old Dumpling House. After university, he brought me on board to source fresh produce for the salads at the market, but he never let me set foot in the kitchen, insisting that only trained chefs should handle the stove.
Although he had moved on with another womana successful surgeon who showed little interest in the restaurant businesshe always tried to keep me close. I barely saw his new partner; she was more concerned with her operating theatre than with my fathers legacy, which perhaps explains why he left The Three Oranges solely to me.
He drafted his will when he finally accepted his terminal diagnosis. Some illnesses, even the best surgeons cant cure.
After his death the bistro kept running under a manager, but I threw myself into every aspect, dreaming of new dishes and a modern redesign. The staff treated me well; wed been a family for years.
Then the new owners appeared. I expected a greedy scramble for The Three Oranges, but it came more subtly, and the sting from Edward Sinclair was the deepest. He had taken my father and me to an amusement park as children, and later I discovered he owned those rides.
My fathers network of influential officials and businessmen had seemed like benevolent uncles in my youthalmost like fairygodparents, showering me with expensive gifts whenever I whispered a wish for a new toy. Now those same godparents were brazenly stripping the restaurant from me.
My husband, Tom, who works for the railway, saw things differently.
I told you this place smells of trouble. Sell it for any sum and move on. Open a fishandchip stall by the stationtheres always a queue for hot pies on Platform4.
Every inch of that square has already been parceled out. And The Three Oranges is a memory of my father.
We still have the cottage, the flatthose are memories too. Dont meddle with the flat; there are sharks there, Ive heard.
The sharks never showed their faces; only Edward kept popping up, always suggesting I sell, always paying for his favourite cabbage rolls with meticulous precision. One day he said, Youre being stubborn, girl. Im speaking to you as a father would. Others will come
Threatening?
No, I care for you, not for myself.
Is there any genuine interest in buying?
A little. The people eyeing The Three Oranges are far more powerful and, frankly, could just take it from you without repercussions.
And then it began. First, a crew of grimlooking men swaggered through almost every room, rifling through the tomato bins and claiming my father owed them an astronomical sum. Later, evening crowds were broken up by brawls and drunken argumentsa scene that hadnt occurred in years. Patrons dwindled as they chose quieter venues for dinner. One morning the staff found the dining room in shambles, the kitchen floor strewn with the contents of every refrigerator, though the liquor store remained untouched.
I managed to get the police report into the hands of my old schoolmate, Brian Pearce. I told him everything, starting with Edwards involvement.
Brian shook his head. Hes probably just a middleman. We suspect a major property magnateowner of factories, newspapers, steamshipswho once worked in the city council. Hes found a backdoor into other real estate. The breakin was clean; no lock was forced, the alarm was disabled. Someone inside must have handed over a key. A traitor in the crew, perhaps?
Theres no mole. Everyones been here for years.
Then someone was bought or blackmailed.
The danger even reached home. Tom issued an ultimatum:
Either you sell the pub or I leave. Ive been threatened at the flat entrance with a knife. If I cant convince you, Ill take whats mine. I just want a decent life.
Running away, then You promised to be my rock.
A proper husband, not a fool who throws cutlery at a doorway.
And he left, taking everything, even the beloved coffee mug Id given him.
Brian later mused, A husband who only occupies space is wasted. I split from my partner a year ago, barely make ends meet, never at home. Has your restaurant recovered from the wreck?
Its been rebuilt for ages.
Then Ill invite you over for dinner. Ill pay for everything and keep your security tight, so no one with a baton steps in.
I realized I couldnt count on him to flee at the first sign of trouble.
Six months later a former council employee resurfaced, not only laying claim to The Three Oranges but also to a large shopping centre and an underground car park hed already squeezed out of the market, backed by a whole organised crime group.
The traitor turned out to be the bartender, Vince, whom Brian identified quickly. He owed a massive tab on cocktail supplies; they forced him to disable the alarm and copy the lock.
One day Edward dropped by for his cabbage rolls, asked how things were, then, with a sigh, admitted his own ventures werent all above board, and that hed been blackmailed into this mess. I didnt hold a grudge; I simply invited him back for a visit.
As he left, he asked, Are you now under police protection? I saw a uniformed officer in your office.
Protected, I smiled, by my future husband, Brian. Our wedding is next weekright here in the restaurant.
