The Belle Hotel

by Craig Melvin

  The unseen sea thundered at the shingle giving a backbeat to the hi-tempo house that smoked out of the doors of the clubs as he strode past. Charlie nodded at most of the door staff. Most of those shaved, scarred heads had given Belle Hotel service in one way or another.

  ‘All right Charlie? How’s tricks?’

  ‘Not so bad, Eddie.’

  ‘Whatcha got there?’

  ‘Clams, I just been doing a spot of fishin’.’

  ‘Yeah, fuck off, we seeing you later?’

  ‘Dunno, Lu and her crowd from the Hotel Epicure said something about the Arts Club.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, well take it easy.’

  A high five to Eddie and he continued on his way, a blue cloud of Marlborough cutting the salt lit air.

  Charlie crossed into Shoreham, shipbuilding coast, and cut back across the traffic into Surrey Boatyard. He hoped she was home alone. He buzzed the entry box.

  ‘Hello, stranger, come aboard.’

  Charlie shunted the steel door to the boatyard with his shoulder and stepped out onto the jetty.

  Lulu shouted at him to come aboard. The lights were low and he could see her outline through the glass screen to her bedroom. Some minutes later she came through to greet him.

  She looked beautiful. Dark hair up, wool dress slung on after a recent shower… no, he couldn’t go there. Again.

  ‘Hi, Lu. Is he coming?’

  ‘Who he?’

  ‘The stocktaker.’

  ‘If you are referring to Graeme my colleague, yes, he is coming. Just finishing up at the hotel. We did over two hundred covers tonight.’

  ‘Stocktaking.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Er, clams. I brought you clams. You got any white wine? And anything better than this?’

  He grimaced at the Dido muzaking away in the background. Probably the Hotel Epicure influence.

  ‘Listen, Charlie Sheridan, cut the crap. I’m pleased to see you, really I am, but this was Graeme’s idea so be nice.’

  Charlie chucked the clam bag in the sink and looked in the steel fridge for a drink.

  ‘Champagne OK?’

  ‘Hey, mister, we’re not celebrating, remember?’

  ‘Lu, I need to ask you for something before they get here.’

  ‘No, Charlie. Whatever it is, no. Sex. Sex and money. Sex and money and somewhere to stay. No. We were over a long time ago. This is, this is… work stuff. Call it industrial relations, if you like.’

  ‘You got any chilli?’

  ‘Oh, er, yes I think so. Bottom of… there.’

  Lu put on the Miles Davis CD they had both loved as teenagers. She stood behind him in the spotlit kitchen and watched him work.

  ‘How were the hen party?’

  ‘Yes, thank you very much for the sympathy fuck.’

  ‘Well, I thought you’d need the business and they are not really our type of cus—’

  ‘Yeah, OK, I geddit, thanks. Spent over a grand, as it happens, where there’s muck there’s brass. Vongole OK?’

  ‘Yummy. Graeme’s bringing over bruschetta and a lemon tart for afters. We’re sitting you next to Cindy, she’s new and up for a bit of rough.’

  ‘Oh, thanks a bunch.’

  Voices could be heard on the gangplank. Lulu stepped away from Charlie, leaning awkwardly against the butcher’s block her father had bought her as a birthday present, shipped in from Sicily, no expense spared, as usual. She stole a last solitary look at Charlie, resisted the urge to run her fingers through that nest of hair, missing the stink of kitchen fat and fags she knew would linger on her fingertips for the rest of the night.

  Graeme and the others came aboard. Graeme kissed Lulu a little too slowly to Charlie’s eye. Then, when he’d finally taken his hands off her, he squared up to Charlie.

  ‘Hellooo, Chef, what’s for supper?’

  ‘Spag Vog, Chef. How’s it going? You finished your spreadsheets for the night?’

  ‘Fuck off, Charlie.’

  ‘And—’

  ‘You two, cut it. Charlie, Cindy. Cindy, Charlie. Tanzie and Tom, you know Charlie, the beast from Belle, yes?’

  The caterers filled Lulu’s houseboat with chatter while Charlie clattered about comfortably in the kitchen. Graeme came in for a while and sat on the butcher’s block. If Charlie didn’t hate what Graeme stood for, corporate catering, they could have been friends. They had worked very well together in the kitchen at catering college before Charlie beat Graeme to the stage in Switzerland.

  ‘I’m just going to soften this garlic. Then, hey, pass me the wine.’ He sloshed it in, watched it flame up. ‘Make yerself useful and chop some parsley.’ Charlie pulled the green sprig from his back pocket and tossed it across to Graeme. ‘Suppose you’ve never seen it done this way, I expect you just cut the bag once you’ve boiled it.’

  ‘Up yours, bankrupt boy. Hey, are the rumours true?’

  ‘Nice bruschetta, by the way and no, they are not. Who says, anyway?’

  ‘Just a few of the suppliers, y’know, I don’t like to listen to tittle-tattle, but when they are affecting my margins…’

  ‘How can my not paying for potatoes possibly hurt your calculations?’

  ‘Drop it, you two,’ interrupted Lu. ‘When do you want that crusty bread?’

  ‘’Bout now would be good. Has that oven gone off?’

  Charlie span round, grabbed Graeme by the parsley and clattered it into the vongole with a ratchet of his huge wooden spoon.

  ‘Nice utensil, this. Must nick it. Righto, grub’s up.’

  The six of them ate with the ease of odd-hour workers with Dido, reinstated, as background. Through the putter of hot candles, Lulu glared at Charlie, warning him not to complain. The tart went down nicely with a bottle of Muscat de Beaumes de Venise that had passed its last hours in the bottom of Lu’s freezer. A line or two later and the friends were ready for Sussex Arts Club.

  The white Georgian building leaned as unsteadily as its punters into the narrow confines of Ship Street. Charlie’s party jumped the queue, thanks to Deano, and slumped in the huge leather sofa that faced the street. Charlie sat too close for comfort to Lulu, longing to reach out and hold her. Graeme took an age at the bar.

  ‘Probably checking up on their weights and measures.’

  ‘Ha, ha, Mr One-joke. What you going to do, Charlie?’

  ‘Get a couple of shandies down me and dance till they put the house lights on.’

  ‘No, with Belle Hotel.’

  ‘Same as ever. Keep buggering on, as Franco used to say.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re not Franco. My dad—’

  ‘Oh, here we go.’

  ‘Well, my father happens to have created a lot of wealth in his time. Some of which he wasted on you.’

  ‘He told you to say that, did he? Come on, Lulu, love, he was a carpet fitter. Hardly the restaurant business.’

  ‘Yes, but he knows how to make the most of what you’ve got. He says you should—’

  ‘What, you’ve been talking to him about me?’

  ‘No, he talked to me after a Hookes luncheon he—’

  ‘Fucking Peters, he doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.’

  The piano man struck up a Billy Joel classic.

  ‘Graeme’ll love this, where are our fucking lagers?’

  ‘They care about you, Charlie, your talent. Belle Hotel. Your mother.’

  ‘Enough, Lu, I don’t want to talk about it. You, caring about me. That’s a laugh. I suppose that bullshit you told me at Franco’s funeral was caring, too?’

  ‘No, Charlie. That was cruel and, I don’t know, I’m sorry. Have you spoken to Johnny about it?’

  ‘Nah, too busy.’

  ‘Hopeless. You Sheridans are hopeless. I give up.

  ‘I’m going to see what Graeme’s up to.’

  Two hours later the exes were back together on the sofa. Graeme had gone home, early start in the morning, the other couple and Charlie’s love disintere
st, Cindy, were dancing to Human League in the back room. Pissed enough to slur the words and blur the distance between them, the conversation kicked off once more. Charlie burped loudly and a cloud of clam, wine and garlic wafted seductively in the general direction of Lulu.

  ‘Revolting. You really are the end, you know that. Okay, I’m going to say my piece for one final time, and fuck you.’

  ‘Thank you. Fuck you. I wish.’

  ‘Shut it. Just hear me out, come here, I don’t want to have to shout. I’ve got another business opportunity for you. The Belle Hotel Cookbook. How about it? Judith Langdon, at Haddon. The cookbook supremo. Remember, the publisher that did The Ivy cookbook? I’ve contacted her and she’s interested. She’s interested in a meet. It’d be good for business, good for your personal brand as a chef. Don’t shake your head. All the chefs do a cookbook now. All the ones I’ve worked with. It’s good for business, keeps a bit of extra cash coming in and codifies your life’s work. It’ll help you move on from the Michelin star and the anger reputation and all that. What do you say? Recipes and revelations. Bring some of Franco’s book to life. Come on, Charlie, go and see her at least. It could be your last chance.’

  She let go of his hand. Graeme was a much more sensible choice than Charlie. Sensible, but… She leaned forward on the sofa and kissed him. She’d tasted his food and it had made her mouth water. Now she wanted to taste him. He tasted good.

  ‘Say you’ll do this, Charlie.’

  ‘I’ll say anything, if you’ll do that again.’

  Then they were in a cab and all over one another like teenagers. Then on the houseboat, Lulu stripped and Charlie watched and then they made love for the first time in a very, very long time.

  Six thirty am and half past the hour bong from Franco’s clock. Janet banged on Charlie’s door.

  ‘Come on, Charlie, love. Time to cook.’

  He lay there for a few minutes more, letting his brain ease into his eye sockets. He’d only got back from Lulu’s houseboat an hour or so earlier. He’d taken his time, strolling along the seafront, watching the sun come up, scarcely believing his luck. Smiling, crying a little bit, then checking that no one was about, punching the air. He had won Lulu back at last. Charlie forced himself up and rummaged around in the pile of clothes in the corner for his chef’s whites. Down all four flights at a pace, ignoring fluff, litter, and came barging into the dark kitchen – fuck, he hadn’t locked it – and lit the stove and his fag in the flick of a match.

  ‘Morning, Emma, you get it last night, love? You got a glint in your eye.’

  ‘You get hit, Charlie? You got what looks like bruises under yours.’

  ‘Nah, just the usual. Too much ale and not enough kip. How many we got in for breakfast?’

  ‘’Bout twenty. They’ll be down pretty early, some sort of private tour around the Royal Pavilion before it opens.’

  ‘Ta, you wanna fix me a coffee? and I’ll pay yer with a nice bacon butty.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  Trays from the walk-in – thank God he’d prepped them the night before – on the hob for a flash browning then into the oven for twenty minutes and… hold. Belle Hotel Breakfast. From butt-kicking Michelin star to button mushrooms. What the fuck happened? Anger, that’s what happened. Anger that he’d have to learn to manage if he had half a chance of keeping Belle Hotel, Lulu and getting his Michelin star back. He’d got it all, then nearly lost the lot. This, this cookbook and Lulu and him back together, it was a sign. A sign that things were about to get a whole lot better. He’d been in the shit and now he would come out smelling of roses.

  Charlie leaned back against the range and let the hot metal warm his bony behind.

  ‘The Belle Hotel Cookbook.’

  He leaned across the pass and took down Franco’s old leather binder. He uttered the title once more, book in hand, then held it up to the light. Could he do it? Should he do it? What other choice did he have? Good for business, Lu had said. That beat tossing twenty fried eggs. Whatever they paid as an advance, it’d be more than the hundred he’d siphoned from the stags and hens and sunk down his throat at the Arts Club. He was broke. They were broke. Monday tomorrow and the people who made Belle Hotel tick-tock would be turning up for their lolly. Lolly that Charlie had borrowed and spent a dozen times over. What was the word for it? The word was insolvent: bust, tits up. Belle Hotel was bankrupt. It was only Charlie’s cooking of the books that was propping it up.

  Charlie flicked through Franco’s book. Its faded, stained pages taught him how to cook. Every secret of how to run a successful hotel. Could he share it? Should he? What the hell would he have to say about the… incidents? Anger management class again tomorrow, at least the idea would give him something to talk about.

  Janet came through the kitchen doors and caught him. He shot his mother the look. What are we going to do, Mummy, what are we going to do? She came over to her son, took the book from his hands and placed it back on its shelf above the pass. Then she held onto him for dear life.

  Charlie stood on platform six at London Bridge, waiting. Sure enough, the shiny Charing Cross train slid in. Moments before, the ageing Thameslink shuddered off towards the river and its northwards haul to Bedford.

  Flat broke, the Ks had been reeling around his brain all morning. Ten K for the over-overdraft, six for staff, five worth of bookings…

  Franco had rarely banked less than ten K. Today, Charlie had about a fiver in coins in his back pocket. It had been touch and go if the ticket office would take his Visa.

  ‘Fucking hell.’

  Charlie pulled into Charing Cross on the back foot, two-fingered his way across the Strand – bastard bus drivers – and entered the cool plate glass lobby of Hookes Bank.

  ‘I’m sorry, Charlie, I really am. Franco would have wanted me to help you. But we are owned by GBS now. Corporate rules, I’m afraid. You can’t overdraw any more. I’ve got Belle Hotel secured as a guarantee up to the roof tiles for you. Can’t do any more.’

  Paul Peters shifted in his stuffed leather seat and gazed out of the window for want of something to do. It was awkward, really, especially as he’d been down at the Belle Hotel himself the week before, with one of his assistants, for an away day.

  ‘Having it away day,’ Janet had whispered to Charlie as Peters took his pinstripe, Viagra and mistress up to room 14. What did she see in him? Maybe a comb-over was the Essex in-thing. It kept Janet smirking for the rest of the morning. Dirty old bastard, he had to be in his seventies, looked ancient when Janet first met him over three decades ago.

  ‘No dice, Charlie, old boy. Good luck at the publishers. Push them for every penny you can get.’

  Peters walked his oldest client’s heir back down the corridor of Hookes framed greats and into the lift. Charlie glanced back at his banker, grinned, winked and ran his trembling fingers through that thatch of hair. Peters blocked the lift door with his brogue.

  ‘Here, have a bite at your dad’s place on me. I’d join you, Charlie, it’s just that I’m having a one-to-one with Janine at midday. New GBS policy, quality time with your subordinates.’

  Peters gave him a wink back with the fifty and the great glass elevator slid shut. Charlie gazed at his reflection. Back in the lobby the door opened and Janine switched her choice of lifts, unnerved by the sight of lift number one’s inhabitant banging his head on the smoked glass.

  Charlie made it as far as the Euston Road, yards from the door of Haddon publishing, but the pub next door looked so inviting and the fifty quid was burning a hole in his pocket and he didn’t know if he could write this bloody book anyway. He didn’t know who he was. Was he even born a chef? So he fucked the thing off and drank ten pints to celebrate.

  A voicemail on his phone, when he woke up in the train carriage at Brighton Station.

  ‘Charlie, I really need to come down and see you. Can you square this with your mother and let me know when suits? I can be with you any time in the next month. No later. Let m
e know. All the best, er, Dad.’

  Johnny, John, Dad. He’d been avoiding his calls for months but there was no avoiding this. Something about the urgency and fact that Johnny seemed to have no work commitments for the next month hinted at something serious. What now? Another business venture gone wrong? The truth about the Lulu bullshit story? Whatever it was, Charlie doubted if the Savoy Group’s new owners would tolerate the kind of nonsense they had in the old days. He sighed and texted an answer back.

  ‘How about Monday?’

  There’d just be the weekend to get through and he wouldn’t tell Janet. No point getting her worked up. What to cook? Simple. Lobster Belle Hotel, Johnny’s favourite dish. Charlie called Sinker and promised to pay on delivery. Johnny could join them for Belle Hotel family lunch. Some family. Charlie sighed, shrugged to the empty lobby, sat back in the cubbyhole behind reception and waited for the chick he’d checked in earlier to come back looking for what she’d heavily hinted she was after. Brown-eyed this time, the last one, Daisy was it, had blue eyes.

  Tick-tock, tock-tick, one last outing for Charlie’s dick. But brown-eyes came and Charlie turned away. It was time to commit to Lulu, if she promised to swear off Graeme and the next foreign friggin’ waiter that took her fancy. They were back on for good, Charlie hoped. If he’d made it back into her bed, maybe he could get her back to Belle Hotel and everything would be okay? Together they could turn it around, win back the star, get the bank off their backs. Franco’s clock struck two and Charlie swore to lay off the Daisys and Maisys and commit to what he’d wanted all along: Charlie and Lulu at Belle Hotel.

  *

  The weekend came and went. Janet took badly to the news of her ex-husband’s day trip. By mid-morning, Charlie noticed she’d tied back her hair and wasn’t wearing her apron.

  ‘I’m shutting the pub. We’re always quiet on a Monday anyway and I don’t want to be running back and forth when he’s here.’

  Charlie frowned. Shutting the pub? Didn’t they need every penny? He shook his head and went back to his mise en place. Twenty in for lunch, Fish could do that with his eyes shut. Sinker and Brampton were early with their deliveries and paid directly from the pub till. He put the cold, dozy lobsters in the walk-in, mentally reserving the largest two for the family – family, what did that mean? – and went back to butchering his fillets. He could have let Brampton do it, but since he’d had the training it was hard to let go. Anyhow, it gave him an enormous sense of satisfaction. He flipped the long shank of red meat onto the counter and slipped a slim plastic chopping board under one end. Then he sharpened his eight-inch knife, like Franco had showed him back at the start, and slipped the steel back in its wrap. Charlie deftly cut eight-ounce portions of fillet and piled them up in an ice-cream container ready for service. This, with a pepper sauce, was on the fixed-price menu. Fish would get through the eight, no trouble, more if the table of six were all men.