The Belle Hotel

by Craig Melvin

  Something about the sticky pudding and the swaying of the carriage sent Lulu off to puke.

  ‘Right, I got most of that.’

  She was back. Charlie was halfway through a fag. The supposedly banned fug was making her gag. Not long now. They pressed on.

  ‘I’ve had a look and think we should do treacle tart and chocolate torte. You can copy them both verbatim, but I want to make a tweak to crème anglaise. Franco’s custard came up like concrete, mine has less yolk and more cream. Mind you, I never got the hang of Ile Flottante.’

  ‘Isle what?’

  ‘Precisely. Weird how some stuff drops from the repertoire. We used to do a bomb on them in the seventies, right up there with crêpes Suzette.’

  With that, Charlie slipped back to his savouries. Sixty in for lunch and only him and Fish on shift. Things were going in the right direction, Lulu knew that. Charlie was behaving himself, acting like he meant it. Belle Hotel owed so much money that it was a full-time job just paying back the debt. But it was being paid off! She sighed a sweet sigh of satisfaction, and looked up at the ceiling.

  A flake of fading paint fluttered down from the cornicing as a couple of dirty weekenders shunted around the bed on the first floor. Making love or babies, she wondered. Or both? Lulu patted her stomach with her left hand and typed with the other. What was Madame Tatin’s name? She couldn’t read her notes. Not to worry, Judith Langdon would pick it up in the edit.

  Back to Hotel Epicure to make its shareholders some more money.

  ‘Dad, I’m through doing this for other people.’

  ‘That’s my girl.’

  ‘Are you sure, Dad?’

  ‘Go for it. I didn’t get where I am today without taking a few risks. It’s only a boat and I only helped you with that first London flat deposit. This is Belle Hotel we are talking about. I’d have helped, but Hardman Academy and that bastard bank in Iceland have wiped me out. Shagpile II is on the market, but nobody wants a gin palace in a recession.’

  Roger Hardman was entertaining a party of eight journalists for Saturday lunch. As sponsor and namesake of Hardman Academy, Roger was deep into the promotional activities for his new-found passion. Defending his decision keep an ancient Mr Caner on as the new principal of the Academy had been very unpopular. Especially with Charlie. Roger grimaced at the line of questioning taken by the Guardian and dashed down his duck terrine in between answers. He’d rather have been at Belle Hotel, as would most of his guests, but they’d endure the portion-controlled cuisine out of family loyalty to Lulu because she worked there.

  ‘Marry him, Lulabell and put my taste buds out of their misery.’

  Busy Brighton weekend, deep in conference season. Day-trippers, locals and delegates, demanding to be bedded, fed and watered. Both hotels were fully booked and bouncing late arrivals up and down Ship Street. Charlie cooked through the new menu. The cut coriander for turbot took him back to poulet rouge with Lulu and his last session on the book. Once it was done, then would she move in? He was staying at hers most nights, trotting along the wave-swept front after service, happy. Happy as Larry. But that was not saying much.

  Monday morning he called her.

  ‘Come for lunch, Lu. Mum wants to see you and I’m cooking curry.’

  Lulu’s stomach lurched at the thought of the creamy spices. She’d be better by three, she told herself, and readily agreed to the thinly veiled summit. Today is the day. She decided to take the morning off again. Sod them. Three years of covering her staff for their duvet days and she was feeling sick anyway. Sick as a pig and she was beginning to show. Time to do a deal with the Sheridans, for the sake of the Sheridan inside her.

  Lulu lay in deliciously until noon, took a long shower in her soon-to-be-forgone houseboat and set her face for family business.

  It was a windy day, gusts darting across the border between Shoreham and Brighton. Lulu decided to enter Belle Hotel by the pub, Janet’s territory, and had her trajectory momentarily diverted by the door-barging departure of a lank-haired punter. He’d have to be barred, for a start.

  ‘Hello, Janet, how was the lunch trade?’

  She was swaying slightly, but seemed happy enough. It’d take more than topping her ex-husband to throw this bird off her perch.

  ‘Hello, Lu, love. Curry for us, eh? Can I get you a drink? Lager or summat?’

  ‘No, just a water with a slice of lime, thanks.’

  Janet fixed the smeared glass of tap with a dash of disdain. She topped it with a half-melted cube of ice and a slice of limp lemon from the plastic pack, topped up her own lager, filled a metal bowl with nuts and zipped round the zinc to join Lu on the stools.

  ‘Cheers, love. Here’s to us.’

  Janet knew what was coming. She was going. Of that much she was certain. The when and how would be hammered out next door, but for now raised receptacles spoke of conquest and defeat. The taking of places. But Lulu had a plan.

  First they must eat. Table two, as always, view of reception and kitchen. Things were getting better, Claire now stayed on most afternoons to cover the phones and reception and Charlie had given his new assistant a sack of Sussex spuds to turn before service. And the food.

  ‘This is just… delicious.’

  ‘Thanks, Lu.’

  ‘My God, Charlie, we haven’t had this for years. One of Franco’s, your dad’s, favourites. Poulet rouge. Anyone want another lager?’

  Lulu gave Charlie the look. He made himself scarce and she braced herself for Janet’s return.

  ‘Janet, I want to come here and live with him. I want my name above the door. It’s time.’

  ‘Good for you, love. It’s about time, too.’

  ‘I want to sort this out today and move in tomorrow.’

  ‘Bloody hell. You don’t hang around.’

  ‘Yes, well, no time like the present.’

  Move in here? thought Janet, spice-tainted brain chugging things over, what about me?

  ‘I’ve been thinking about you. About you and me. What we’ll do.’

  ‘Me too, love.’

  ‘Well, I wondered if—’

  Charlie’s quizzical face appeared at the porthole. No, she frowned, not yet.

  ‘I wondered if you’d consider retiring. Taking my houseboat. It’s only down the road, you know. Charlie told me about you wanting to go up north, but I thought a couple of miles west might do for starters.’

  Janet looked at this proud alpha female and knew. She was going, and the best thing to do was to go with good grace. Nice solution too, the houseboat. Probably her father’s idea. Sharp bastard, that Roger Hardman. Still, it’d give her a good send-off. But what about the pub?

  ‘What about the pub? I could—’

  ‘No, Janet. If we do this I am going to make some changes. I’m calling the pub Franco’s. It’ll be a gastro pub with his classic dishes from the cookbook.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Charlie and I… We’re going to go for Michelin stars again in the restaurant. New food. Flavours. New ideas. It’s what Charlie, his cooking, needs. I know you don’t want to hold him back. We’ve made a three-year plan.’

  ‘Three-year plan, I see. Well good luck to you both – and the baby. Eeh, I’m looking forward to being a granny!’

  Janet hugged Lulu into her sturdy frame, holding them both tight in the embrace of the banquette.

  ‘Shall we tell Charlie what’s been agreed?’

  ‘Sure, sweetheart. Franco’s, eh? Good idea. Are we keeping shepherd’s pie?’

  ‘Yes. And we’re going to do oysters, too.’

  ‘Not Rottingdean oysters, I hope?’

  ‘Newhaven.’

  ‘No fancy sauces, mind. Franco liked his plain.’

  ‘No fancy sauces. I’ll leave that up to Charlie. Oh, here he is. You’re back.’

  ‘Hello, Mum, Lu. Everything okay?’

  ‘Everything’s just fine, Charlie, love. I’ll leave you two on your own for a while. I’m knackered.’
>
  Lulu quit Hotel Epicure that afternoon and took a whole two days off before taking on Belle Hotel. Janet’s possessions filled a Brighton cab and she was surprised how at home she felt on her houseboat.

  Lulu was on her hands and knees in her new two-room apartment at the top of Belle Hotel, scrubbing the lime-stained loo for all she was worth, when a gentleman came calling four floors below.

  ‘Er, good morning.’

  Charlie, ever the model of great customer service, failed to look up. He was engrossed in the final lines of Lulu’s opus. His cookbook. Let the punter wait.

  ‘Is the owner here?’

  Charlie looked up this time. What now? Tax inspector? VAT man? Health and Safety? Brighton CID? He took in the tweed-and-bow-tie confection standing in his lobby. The Fine Art Curator.

  Jeremy Beaker rocked back on his brogues, enjoying the handmade creak of last-cobbled leather on threadbare carpet. He already knew what he was looking at. Sausage fat pomade in that shock of tousled hair, spattered white jacket gaping open at the neck. The hum of nicotine and Nescafé hanging in the air. The Brighton Rock ’n’ Roll chef.

  ‘I am the owner. Well, in a manner of speaking. Are you looking for Lulu? She’s upstairs.’

  ‘Jeremy Beaker, Brighton Museum Keeper of Fine Art. Where is it?’

  ‘What, Mr Beaker?’

  ‘Come, come. Don’t tease. I have it on good authority that you are hoarding a Hockney somewhere on the premises.’

  ‘Ah, the Hockney.’

  Beaker rocked back with another satisfying creak and ran a pinkie-ringed finger through what was left of a foppish fringe.

  ‘Yes, the Hockney. Come along, Mr Sheridan, you are a tease. Where is it? I operate on a slim purchase grant, but if this is what I think it is I’ll have a stab at it. Imagine. An undiscovered Hockney hanging on my temporary exhibition wall? Come, come, I’ve mentally cleared the gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender community collage in anticipation.’

  ‘Okay, just hang on a mo, I’ve got to finish this.’

  Charlie took his time over the last line. Was his cookbook not art, too? Eventually he was happy with the phrase, as he hoped Judith Langdon would be. Done. He pinged it shut and emailed the twenty-thousand-word manuscript off, care of Hope at Haddon Towers.

  ‘Right, thanks for waiting. It’s in here. Come on in.’

  The Fine Art Curator braced his senses. Sure enough, his delicate synapses flared up at the first sniff of fried food and dust mites. It’d take an evening of vapours to rid his senses of the smell, not to mention the dry-cleaning of his Cordings of Piccadilly suit. He was in the middle of damning the dirty kitchen worker when he saw it.

  ‘You beauty.’

  ‘Any good?’

  ‘You beauty. Mind if I…?’

  Charlie shrugged. Janet was gone and this guy had his chequebook poking out of his checked pocket.

  ‘Just what I was hoping for. No. Better. Not Hockney, of course. Good, that would be beyond me anyway. More of a Hackney, if you know what I mean. This is a David London, similar style but more naturalistic. When?’

  Beaker lifted the rectangle respectfully off its nail and tilted Charlie’s parents into the pale light drifting in off the water.

  ‘Beautiful. And kept out of direct sun. No bleaching. Mint. Let’s look at your behind.’

  He turned the picture over and voiced a thirty-year-old dedication.

  ‘Franco, Janet and The Belle Hotel Mouse Catcher. Happy times.’

  ‘Well, well. Mr Beaker, I presume?’ It was Lulu.

  ‘Yes, how do you do? We were just admiring this wonderful inscription. I have to tell you both that I am terrifically excited. Gosh, the buzz of anticipation was palpable among our many museum staff as I left my study this morning. Not a Hockney, of course. But still of enormous sentimental value to Brighton. Wonderful. I say, I think this calls for a drink.’

  Lu set up a table for the three of them in Franco’s – the new sign was already up on the Ship Street facing wall – and sent Charlie down below for a bottle of vintage Krug. Usually unmoved by either fine art or wine, Charlie sifted through the dust-shrouded bottles for a ’76.

  Lulu turned to Emma. ‘Thank you, Emma. And we’ll have some still water. Can you come back and pour in about twenty minutes? It should be suitably chilled by then.’

  The silver ice bucket gleamed on the thick-linen-laid table. Franco turned over in his grave and slept soundly. A firm hand was front of house again.

  ‘Now then, Mr Beaker. While we wait for our champagne, shall we talk turkey? What’s it worth?’

  Jeremy Beaker had removed his jacket and carefully laid it down on the battle-weary seat at his side. Damp patches were clearly visible under his arms and it was clear he’d neglected to iron his sleeves. So, the offer.

  ‘Mint condition. Mounting a historical piece like this in my temporary space. Bringing such a piece into the National collection. Priceless.’

  ‘Yes. Thanks, Charlie. Can we—’

  Charlie, open-mouthed at Lulu’s ordering him about, placed the elevenses, a silver salver of small parmesan puffs and egg mayonnaise tartine, onto the table beside Franco, Janet and the cat. He pulled up a chair from the adjacent table, got on it backwards and flared up a fag with a flash of gold. Emma appeared from behind the bar with a soon to be defunct BH ashtray. Good, thought Lulu, they were getting the hang of it. If Beaker was as good as his tailor, they’d have the money to hang on a few weeks longer.

  The curator’s hand made for the platter, long fingernails darting between warm pastry and chilled toast. His brain settled on the former and the flaky cheese sensation crumbled to his touch. He managed to shovel half of the horn into his mouth and spent the money shot sweeping greasy pieces onto the floor.

  ‘Not Hockney money, but I think you’re going to like it.’

  In Charlie’s telling of it, the art ponce got out his chequebook there and then. Brampton and Sinker loved it. Both asked for their month-long accounts to be settled in the same breath. In truth, it took a little longer for the triple-signed cheque for five grand for and on behalf of Brighton and Hove Council to come through. Not the extra couple of noughts they were hoping for, but better than a poke in the eye from an angry lobster.

  Lulu used Jeremy Beaker’s receipt towards another five days at Hookes. When the money came, it came as a temporary relief. Like somebody putting their finger back in the dyke. Lulu finally understood what it meant to be running your own business.

  ‘That’s my girl.’

  ‘But Dad, this’ll just cover five days. The quarterly VAT payment is due next Monday and it’s the biggest one, too.’

  ‘That’s business. There’s no business like business,’ laughed Roger Hardman at his badly sung pun. He glanced at his arm where his Rolex used to be. ‘Gotta go, Lulabell. How’s my granddaughter cooking?’

  ‘Good, I’m eating enough for two. Anyway, who says it’s a girl? We haven’t had the scan yet.’

  He was gone, up on deck to join the boys for drinks and to check on his frozen funds in Iceland. Business. Roger read the global markets in his Times newspaper and tutted that things had got this bad. He’d worked hard for his millions and had the carpet burns to prove it. Then some banker in an ivory tower had gambled it away again. Bastards.

  Lulu patted her stomach and placed the trimphone back in its cradle – she’d get round to refurbing their flat once she’d done the bedrooms – and went back to the laundry brochures. Down below in a gleaming kitchen Charlie piped truffled potato onto a buttered baking tray.

  A knock at the kitchen door, just as he’d put the baking tray into the oven. Charlie opened it wide. He was starting to feel less anxious about visitors to the kitchen door now he had Lulu fighting his corner.

  ‘Tom. Man, how are you?’

  ‘Oi roite, taxi driver said this was the place to find yer. How long’s it been man?’

  ‘Tony Blair’s party at Downing Street. What, a decade. Come in. Let’s ha
ve a jar. Come in, man, come in.’

  Charlie and Tom sat at the bar, the hotelier and the entertainer. A next-generation Franco and Larry.

  ‘Summer season on Worthing Pier. I’m just in off the cruise ships. Having a month off. Say, can you do me a room at Belle Hotel, mates rates, mind.’

  ‘Sure, no problem. Ah… wait. I’d better run it by Lulu. She sort of runs the place now. Well, the hotel side, anyway.’

  ‘Lulu, that’s a blast from the past. How lovely yous two are still together. Childhood sweethearts. Love’s young dream.’

  ‘Not exactly, mate. More like War and Peace. I’ll tell you about it sometime. But we’re happy now and about to have a baby and that’s great.’

  ‘Grand that it’s worked out for yous. You’ll see that my solo career didn’t come to much. I had a falling out with Simon Cowell and he dropped me after my first single flopped. But you know, singing at sea has its upsides. It’s good to see the world, and hell, it’s better than being stuck in a kitchen. No offence, brother.’

  ‘None taken, Tom. None taken.’

  Lulu had been surprised how much she’d felt from her growing child. From the moment she’d seen the thin blue line she seemed to be having a sixth-sense conversation with the human being growing within.

  Things were being created up the track in London, too. Judith Langdon was hard at work on the edit of Charlie’s first draft, blinds drawn on the BT Tower and Soho, head down at laser-printed paper. Swift incisions of blue pencil were picked up by Hope, who turned potatos into potatoes at the flick of a French-polished finger. Judith liked the mix of food and fable. The folklorish feel of the piece was working as she’d hoped it would. It just needed a little more shaping around the dishes, this after all was what people would be wanting for their twenty-pound investment. Twenty pounds, she sighed, most of them would buy it for £9.99 at Tesco. Dear Lord, what was happening to the publishing profession? Allowing ourselves to be commodified like eggs.