The Belle Hotel

by Craig Melvin

  ‘No, Ernest, sorry, I was just yawning. Late night, understaffed and all that.’

  ‘Okay, well, what do the rest of the group feel? Are we happy to carry on after that interruption, or does anyone have anything they would like to express in non-violent form to Charlie?’

  Silence. Ian shifted his buttocks across the cushions he’d hogged and farted. Charlie sniggered.

  ‘Remember, folks: excessive anger, negative results. Learn to recognise the signs and symptoms of A-N-G-E-R and learn techniques to control it. Anger often results in criminal charges. Let’s remember why we are all here, guys. Our behaviour has been deemed unacceptable in society and we are using this programme to get to the root of the problem, working together to share solutions that help all parties involved. I can only teach the negative aspects of anger, when it is warranted and how it should be displayed. Sometimes the cause of anger is deeply rooted in the subconscious. Isn’t it, Charlie… Charlie?’

  Charlie slid his watch hand into his pocket. Good, half an hour gone already. Instant coffee, jammy dodgers and diatribe. Three more of these and he’d be free. Whitehawk Hill, salt breeze on his shoulders.

  ‘Let’s all link hands and OM, for a few moments before Parvez offers us his thoughts and feelings this morning.’

  The five angry men and their mentor kneeled in a loose circle and hummed to the rafters covered in seagull shit. Ten more minutes zinged by. Parvez, once again, took centre stage.

  ‘It’s like, oh, man, I dunno, just fucked, innit? She’s sayin’ that I gotta get out of me own house an all that shit and I don’t wanna lose me kids and me house and, fuck her, man, is like she is killin’ me slowly for what I done.’

  ‘Calm, Parvez. Remember calm, you are among friends here.’ Silence. ‘Now, tell us again from the beginning and we’ll try to make sense of your situation. Slowly, Parvez. Anger uses language to fan the flames. Relax, relax. Tell us in your own time. Feel free to ask any of us for…’

  ‘Yeah, okay, man. It’s just, y’know, I is not from this culture. Yet I is. Grew up in a Bengali strict family, arranged marriages for me brothers and sisters. Me father wanted me to be a doctor but I don’t get the grades. Brighton Secondary Modern, innit. Birmingham Poly for pharmacy and I meets a pretty girl, right religion, so I marries her. Third year and I is a taken man. I’m tellin’ ya that was a big mistake. Paying for that now big time. Fifteen years later, man, and we’re doing good. Big pharmacy in Crawley, kids in private school, Boxster for me, four-by-four for her. Happy. ’Cept that aint enough for me. I gotta make mistakes. Make up for lost time. Fuck around.’

  Come on, thought Charlie, we’ve heard it all before. Get to the juicy bit.

  ‘At first it’s no problem, just chicks on me hockey weekends. Then I gets the hots for the Saturday girl, innit. Me missus hires her, daughter of a neighbour. Eighteen, squeaky clean, ’cept she ain’t. I can’t keep me hands off her. In the stockroom, under the stairs, in the four-by-four, even gives me a blow job in the Boxster parked outside the house one Sunday night.’

  Heads are shaking, more in curiosity than contempt.

  ‘Then what happened with your infidelity, Parvez? Go on, unlock your anger.’

  ‘Then I gets ’er pregnant. No problems I say, take three of these. But she tells her mum. Who tells my missus. Who kicks me out of the house.’

  ‘Hardly surprising.’

  ‘Thank you, Charlie, for your contribution, though I doubt if that takes us any further in our understanding of Parvez’s situation.’

  ‘Then she lets me back, but she’s gone and got help. Y’know, counselling like, and suddenly I’m the bad guy. Treats me like shit in me own home. Won’t cook for me after a hard day working for me family. Won’t let me take the boys out on me own, makes me sleep in the spare room. Won’t let me touch her. Six months of this and I’ve had it. Snapped. When me mum and dad was over from Brighton and all that. Threw the book at her didn’t I. Marriage After Infidelity, or some crap like that. Now I’m barred from going near the house. And the Boxster. And the four-by-four. And me boys. And I have to pay for it all.’

  ‘Yes, ultimately we all have to pay for the negative aspects of anger.’

  ‘No, I have to pay for it all, innit. The house, the cars, the flat over the shop for me. Fucked. And she never did a day’s work of her own.’

  ‘Thank you, Parvez. It is time to move on.’

  ‘But I can’t even get a girlfriend now, not living broke in that grotty flat.’

  ‘No, Parvez, I mean, please move out of the circle. It is time for another member of the group to be heard. Charlie.’

  ‘No, you’re okay there, Ern, let Parv have his say. Do you think he brought any of this on himself?’

  ‘Charlie, the circle. Now, please. We will summarise and support once all have given to the group.’

  Charlie shuffled onto Parvez’s spot, winking at the angry adulterer as he went back to bite his mucky fingers against the woodchip.

  ‘So, Charlie, let’s try to go deeper than we went before. If you remember last time, the group felt that your reasoning was a little skewed, and that you were particularly confrontational with Brian. Brian, do you want to bring any negative feelings into the group as a result of Charlie’s actions?’

  The unseen clock tower chimed eleven. Halfway through. Good.

  ‘Okay, we’ll take that as a cue to move on. Charlie, I want to ask you about the red rage you mentioned to us last time.’

  ‘What about it, Ern?’

  ‘The uncontrollable urge to lash out that you felt those two times.’

  ‘It was only once. He slipped the second time, remember?’

  ‘I have to deal with the facts as they have been judged by society.’

  ‘Fucking judged. Bollocks. Even Fish said he sli—’

  ‘No aggressive language in here, Charlie, this is a safe space. Let’s go back to those uncontrollable urges.’

  ‘Let’s not, can we? There’s not much to say. It’s hot. I’m working hard. Some fuckwit lets me down and I give them a slap. Bad boy, shouldn’t have done it. Sorry.’

  ‘The group knows that the first incident was a premeditated branding using a red-hot palette knife. Can you talk us through this?’

  ‘Well, you hold the tip of said utensil under a flame for a few seconds and hey presto, lethal weapon.’

  ‘The feelings, Charlie, the feelings. Anger, red rage.’

  ‘What do you want me to say, Ern? Shit happens, this is a kitchen. On my first day in Switzerland they stood me on top of the hob and made me stand there until the soles of my shoes burnt through. Blisters for a week. Just a laugh, you know? Kitchen initiation. That wimp should never have been in my kitchen. I get burns worse than that most days. Branding? Pathetic. It was just a bit of kitchen banter, anyone worth his salt knows that.’

  ‘Charlie, I need you to recognise the negative aspects of your anger in order that you complete the course.’

  Five minutes is a long time to be looking at expectant faces.

  ‘OK, Ern. I was working myself into the ground, six days a week, eighteen hours a day. I was obsessed with work and achieving recognition. Pushing myself to the limit all the time had a detrimental effect, and not being a great communicator, I took my anger out on others. For what? Something marginally overcooked or mis-seasoned? It all seems a bit silly now, but I thought I was infallible. I have learned. I have moved on.’

  ‘Good, Charlie, good.’

  Charlie uncrossed his legs and fingers to make way for Clive. Thank God that was over. Now he could get back to the good stuff. Anything to avoid having to talk about his feelings, his problems with anger management. Things had got worse since Franco died and Lulu stuck the knife in at the funeral. Now, to add to it all, Charlie didn’t know for certain who he was. He didn’t know if he was born a chef, the one certainty he’d based his life upon. The reason he followed Franco’s masterplan.

  Clive sat down awkwardly in the middle of the roo
m, not knowing where to put his boot-shod feet.

  ‘Well, I’ve not said much yet. And I guess now we’ve all heard from Charlie, I’m the only one left. I’m a bit shy, you see. You probably guessed as much. That’s why it surprised me when I clumped that lad. Not that he hadn’t provoked me, like, it’s just that I’ve never done anything like that before.’

  ‘Go on, Clive. The group is with you. Aren’t we?’

  Five heads bobbed in rapt anticipation.

  ‘I’m shy, see. When I met Julie, she was me first serious girlfriend, if you know what I mean. I married late, mid-thirties, like, and Julie was a lot younger than me. Full of life she was then, like. The first five years were great. Then we got new jobs with our employer and relocated here. Great for both of us, by the sea for me, near the shows for her. Then she got ill, see. Kidneys. And everything changed. I guess I became her carer, like.’

  Ernest waited, with nothing from the handbook to say. Clive continued.

  ‘Ten years without having sex or a holiday. It can get to you, like. And Julie’s moods. Then remission. The chance of normal life. Just before that lad, we were hoping to take a week in Spain, like. She collapsed at the airport. Had to be taken to Horley Hospital for three nights. Spent the cancellation money on medical bills. So I gets her home and settled in her room downstairs when I hears a ring at the door. Knock down, ginger, I think they call it. But this lad has smeared dog dirt on the knocker. I lose it. I just lose it. Chase him into the cul-de-sac and smash the living crap out of him, like.’

  Silence once more. Then a slow, steady handclap of support.

  ‘Hold on a second, folks. We need to, er, help Clive with these negative feelings of anger. To prepare him.’

  Two large tears swelled and broke down the shattered man’s features. No group hug was going to put this right.

  The fluorescent tube that bathed the room in blue light buzzed once and died. Ernest looked up and raised his hand from the cord in defeat.

  ‘Enough for today, let’s end on an OM.’

  Lulu looked up and there he was. Graeme with a cup of coffee from the staff espresso machine. Lulu hated that coffee, hated its portion-controlled button-pressing mentality. Her formative coffee years had been Belle Hotel’s dented silver pots and a generous shot of Franco’s hand roasted blend. She did her best to smile.

  ‘Thank you. This’ll help. Head office want us to drive GP up to sixty-five per cent. I can’t see how it can be done.’

  Graeme took the chance to pull up his lumbar support chair. He smelled shower fresh, Lulu noticed, as if he’d taken the time to wash off the worst of the kitchen before coming to see her. He bared his upper teeth as he concentrated on the lines of numbers. A not altogether unattractive look, that at least brought a smile to Lulu’s face. Lulu thought about Charlie, how he always looked at numbers sideways, or the wrong way up. Anything to avoid the facts.

  ‘Mmh. Maybe. Well, I can switch to frozen New Zealand lamb, if you sack the sommelier. Make the waiters promote the wine. Put them on commission for the high margin stuff?’

  Lulu saw the sense in this. With her head. Her heart sank a little more into the grey carpet-tiled floor.

  ‘Of course, we could put this back in the laptop safe and make love on the desk.’ Graeme bared his teeth again and produced the office door key from his pocket. ‘Would you like me to lock us in, so nobody can disturb us?’

  Lulu wavered. If she did this, would that be it? Lulu and Graeme an item. No chance of ever getting back with Charlie. Not that that is what she wanted. No way. Graeme was a nice guy; Charlie a shit. Maybe he was the best option for her? Her dad seemed to think so. Why was it always the bad boys that did it for her? What was wrong with having a bit of head as well as heart? But the offering to lock the door thing… creepy.

  It was the kind of commitment that was tempting, but permanent. Like Graeme’s offer to help her buy Belle Hotel from the bank. She’d gone as far as to have her dad approach Paul Peters and pool her savings with Graeme’s super-savers account, the one he’d had since he was a child, the one he got the free ruler and calculator for opening. As Graeme, her father and Paul Peters were quick to tell her, if she did this, ditching any chance of Charlie permanently, she’d be getting a hell of a good deal and her freedom, to boot.

  ‘I’m sorry, Graeme, I can’t do this. It’s my time of the month.’

  Graeme flinched slightly. A second or so later, he’d regained his executive head chef composure.

  ‘Well, we could always…’

  What was he suggesting? Whatever it was there wouldn’t be much in it for Lulu. Graeme drove a hard bargain, like her dad. His savings were a bit higher than hers and it meant that she’d be the junior partner in buying Belle Hotel from the bank. Her dad, as a matter of principle, would not help. And as a matter of fact, could not help. The capital he’d made from selling the carpet business was invested to the last penny in Hardman Academy and an obscure Icelandic bank. God forbid that Roger would trust the tax man to invest in schools anonymously on his behalf.

  The time of the month thing was a lie. The handy fib had bought Lulu a bit of time. Graeme had a good heart and she very much wanted Belle Hotel, always had done, but she and Charlie, bloody Charlie, were unfinished business. He was showing annoying signs that he cared. That he might be committed to turning Belle Hotel around, rather than driving her into the ground. Lulu felt so very guilty about what she’d told Charlie at Franco’s funeral. It was spiteful and a betrayal of Johnny’s trust. No wonder Charlie was going off the rails. At least he was trying to get himself back together. The anger management classes were a start, anyway.

  ‘Can we… I’m sorry, I need some air. I’m getting a bit of a headache.’

  Lulu clicked the spreadsheet shut and set off to stare at the sea.

  Tick-tock tick-tock every hour, more on the clock.

  Charlie breathed in the fresh air, sunlight and freezing cold. Freedom. Whitehawk Hill. Left-bank Brighton at its bohemian best. He pulled the lapels of his peacoat tighter around his throat, tossed his cigarette into the bushes strewn with rubbish and climbed higher. Not long after noon and they were just arriving. The Food Collective had sprung out of a draconian decision taken by the council to pass on unkempt allotments to the eager influx from London, each desperate to have their little slice of the Downs for frisée and dinner-party chat.

  ‘All right, darling?’ It was Dawn, Franco’s veg supplier since he’d quit tilling his allotment. ‘Hard frost’s going to hit us, you want some spuds?’

  ‘No thanks, love, I’m up here looking for beets. Got an idea.’

  ‘Okay, see you in a bit. I’ll shout you when I’ve made a brew.’

  Dawn’s shed, an old railway carriage, had to be the best on Whitehawk Hill. Some said she lived in it, but Charlie had been to her flat on the council estate that had robbed the hill of its hawks. She was a decade older than Charlie and, at forty-six, still sexy as fuck. Charlie thought she might, if he asked her, then he remembered the hordes of kids that buzzed about her come summer. None of them his, but this was not the time to be entering into a love-child lawsuit. Mother nature’s emissary on earth, Charlie knew that Dawn eschewed all contraception. It messed with her germination.

  He tramped down the frost-tinged planking, low-lying sun still not touching ground level yet, and soon saw Franco’s allotment.

  Franco had had the allotment since the fifties. He loved his shed and his spade, his only hobby, apart from the gee-gees. Charlie was less enthusiastic, but he’d kept the allotment on. The shed, roof worn and floor wonky, was his thinking space away from Belle Hotel. There was an old army camp bed in the corner and a potting table and stool under the cobwebbed windows that looked out to sea. Strewn across the table were not the usual seeds, pots and plant tags, but rough sketches of plates. Plates that bore pictures of food. Dishes half created, a visual map of flavours to come. Charlie pulled out the stool, lit up a fag and turned over a roughly sketched souffl�
� to settle over its blank side. He picked up a stub of pencil that had rolled to the far end of the table and snuck it behind his ear. The pot-bellied stove gaped open. A fire would be nice, but Charlie had cooking on his mind. The venison on his menu had been bothering him. Not the cut, braise or presentation, but the sauce. Too heavy, too alcoholic. He needed something as bold, but fresh. It was on the final OM at anger management that it had come to him. Beetroot. Took an act of God not blurting it out. What would Ernest have said? A healthy release of anger, root vegetable as expletive, we dig that.

  Beetroot: bright red, bold enough for the gamey flesh and yet fresh enough to cut the mustard when it came to flavour. Charlie drew his dual lobes of venison, sitting atop some sort of ring-cut gratin. Sketching out the presentation of the dish before plating it, as Franco had taught him to do all those years ago.

  ‘Layered beetroot and potato. Garlic, thyme and cream. Prepped first thing, then left on top of the grill for flash service.’

  Everyone talked to themselves at their allotments. It was eccentric behaviour that came with a royal seal of approval. Charlie sketched in the sauce, stub of HB at forty-five degrees for effect, then with its newly sharpened tip drew three dark orbs.

  ‘Baby beets to finish it off. Nice dish. Venison fillet with beetroot purée and gratin.’

  Charlie pushed the paper to one side. A facsimile sketch was etched inside his skull. Coming to the allotment calmed Charlie like nothing else apart from cooking. He pulled across the butt-filled Belle Hotel ashtray to concentrate on his fag. Franco had brought that BH-embossed trophy up from the restaurant back in the days when people thought that nicking silver was just not done. Now they were down from a rack-full to about three or four and Charlie had no intention of replacing them. Neither did he have any intention of bringing this one back down. Charlie looked at the low bed and considered, for the first time, the reality of living here. But what would become of Mum? A kettle-shriek from Dawn’s carriage roused him from going bust and beetroots. Tea.