Restaurant Babylon

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ says Caz.

  ‘Happens all the time,’ says Adam. ‘We’ve had people throwing up at the table. They eat and drink too much or too quickly. It’s the excitement.’

  ‘I imagine it’s the drink,’ says Caz, as she pours herself another. They’ve moved on to what looks like Amaretto on the rocks. It’s one of Adam’s favourites, especially when he’s staying up all night. Personally, I think it already tastes of a hangover.

  ‘There’s nothing I like more than deep-frying someone’s steak when they’re pissed and have sent it back, asking for it to be well done. “That well done enough for you, sir!” It’s like a fucking old boot.’ Andrew sneers and helps himself to another drink.

  ‘And before you fry it, you’ve wiped your arse with it and kicked it about the floor,’ giggles Adam.

  ‘No – afterwards,’ grins Andrew. ‘No point in doing it before, totally defeats the point.’

  ‘Morning,’ I say.

  ‘Ah! There you are,’ says Adam. He clicks his fingers at me like an oligarch ordering a hit. ‘D’you remember the woman with the plastic leg you had at Le Restaurant?’

  ‘What? Last year?’

  ‘That’s the one!’ He starts to laugh. ‘So she turns up a little bit pissed and asks to use the toilets.’ He looks at me to confirm that this true. ‘Anyway, she then passes out in the loo, as you do, only none of us could get in to get her out. Anyway, finally, we poked our heads over the top of the loo and realized that her leg had come off and was blocking the door. So you pulled the leg out, and we got the woman out afterwards. She was out cold and we, you, wanted to close up. What could we do? So we went through her bag and found £500 in cash. So she was minted, but there was no ID. Eventually she mumbled “The Cumberland Hotel”. So we got a cab, popped the leg on the back seat, and we were really laughing because it was so crazy, and we turn up at the Cumberland. We carry her in, holding the leg on, and the doorman is standing by the door. He immediately recognizes her and starts telling us to “Fuck off! I am not having that woman in here! Fuck off now!” It is now, what—?’

  ‘Two,’ I say, sitting down next to Jason and Andrew and pouring a vodka shot.

  ‘And we’re stuck. We’ve got a nameless woman and her leg and nowhere to go.’

  ‘So what did you do?’ asks Jason, his leg still bouncing up and down.

  ‘We dropped her off at a police station and scarpered!’ splutters Adam, now laughing so hard he has little tiny tears of mirth welling up in his eyes.

  ‘You did what?’ Jason is taken aback. ‘You dumped her?’

  ‘Yeah!’ says Adam, nodding and laughing. ‘What else were we supposed to do, mate? Take her home? Check her into a hotel?’

  ‘It’s tragic,’ says Caz. ‘Almost as tragic as when David Hasselhoff came in, d’you remember? And he left a cash tip and a signed photo of himself that no one had asked him to sign and no one picked it up.’

  ‘I love the Hoff,’ says Jason.

  ‘We all love the Hoff, mate,’ agrees Adam. ‘I’m just not sure we need a picture of him on our wall.’

  Just as we are about to mull over the pros and cons of the Hoff, my phone goes. It’s Pippa.

  ‘Hi, Pippa!’

  ‘Tell her to get her arse down here!’ shouts Adam, beckoning with his hand.

  ‘What happened? You were supposed to come here for a drink,’ I say, suddenly sounding a little bit worse for wine myself. ‘We missed you. You never called. Nothing.’

  ‘The alarm’s gone off at La Table,’ she says, ignoring all our overtures.

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Now, I’m happy to go and check on my own if you want, but I would rather not.’ I can hear her sounding terribly brave.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do it, stay at home.’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘I don’t need to stay at home, I’d just rather not go in there on my own.’

  ‘I’ll come and I’ll bring a baseball bat with me.’

  ‘Good. You just don’t know who’s in there.’

  ‘It could be anyone.’

  ‘Anyone,’ she confirms. ‘See you there. Wait for me. You can go in first and, I promise, I’ll be right behind you.’

  5–6 a.m.

  I could really do without this at the end of such a long and difficult day. Dawn is on the verge of breaking now and I am marching along the street clutching a baseball bat, like the Pied Piper of pissheads, being pursued by Adam, Caz, Andrew and, for some irritating reason, Jason, who clearly has no home to go to and who now thinks he’s on to some story. It’s like he’s on the frontline of hospitality, competing with his pals in Mogadishu, waiting for me to go wading in with my bat in the name of my Gaggia coffee machine.

  Actually, it is almost never the machines; it’s always the money. And it is usually some inside job. A disgruntled employee, or someone who just can’t resist the lure of cash. If you’re going to get turned over it almost always happens on a bank holiday. You’ve got extra takings, you haven’t managed to get them to the bank, obviously, and that’s when they’ll walk off with what might be up to £40,000–£60,000 that’s sitting in the safe.

  ‘Hang on!’ begs Caz as we stride down the street. ‘I’ve got heels on!’

  ‘Listen, Caz!’ I say, turning around. ‘This is not a party, you will not be missing out on some fun if you don’t come now. There are no famous people. There’s no one to gawp at. The alarm has simply gone off at La Table. It could be nothing. It could be a cat. A tramp fancying a nice kip—’

  ‘Or an armed gang,’ says Jason, his wired eyes widening.

  ‘Or some teenagers,’ yawns Adam, whose two-day bender appears to be catching up with him.

  ‘Or a problem you need to find a PR solution to,’ replies Caz, indignant at my suggestion that she’s only come along for the ride.

  ‘Or—’

  ‘FIRE!’ yells Pippa, running towards me, dressed in an unforgiving pink T-shirt top and matching tracksuit bottoms. Her large bosom is flying to the left and then the right, with a momentum all of its own. ‘La Table is on FIRE!’

  ‘Fire!’ I reply, suddenly becoming totally sober. ‘Where? How big? How did it start?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says, shaking her head and beginning to mince her hands. ‘But there are flames.’

  We all turn the corner together and there is a collective intake of breath. La Table is indeed on fire and there are flames licking at the front windows and smoke pouring out of the door.

  ‘The glass could blow at any moment,’ says Adam, casting an expert eye over it. He didn’t live in the armpit of Australia without picking up a tip or two about bush fires.

  ‘Yes,’ agrees Jason. ‘It looks dangerous.’

  ‘Have you called the fire brigade?’ I ask Pippa.

  She nods. ‘As soon as I got here. They won’t be long, they said. But it’s spreading fast.’

  In a matter of minutes the curtains Sketchley and I had spent so long trying to hang correctly, or, more accurately, telling two designers called Camilla and Liz to hang, go up in flames. I thought they were supposed to be fireproof? The orange-yellow glow that we can see through the windows grows even more fierce. In the far distance, above the noise of the birds and the occasional early-morning car, I can hear sirens. The fire brigade, wailing a way off. And I’m compelling them, willing them, TO HURRY THE FUCK UP.

  Suddenly there’s a loud bang and smash and the tinkling of glass as one of the upstairs windows explodes. We’re standing in a row, on the opposite side of the street and we all look up.

  ‘Shit! Mate! Your flat!’ exclaims Adam, turning to look at me, his wide eyes shining orange with the glow of the fire. ‘Your flat,’ he says again.

  It takes me a while to react. I’ve been so busy reflecting on the damage to my business, on how much of it is about to go up in smoke, that I had completely forgotten that I live above the joint. It’s my flat. With all my stuff. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. Could t
hings get any worse?

  The fire engines screech around the corner and within minutes the whole area is crawling with vehicles, hoses and blokes in yellow helmets. They cordon the place off and repeatedly question both Pippa and me to make sure that there’s no one left in the building. I suddenly panic that Gina might be in there.

  ‘Has anyone seen Gina?’ I turn and ask the group.

  ‘Gina?’ ask Adam.

  ‘Gina? The pretty girl who was working behind the bar today? Andrew?’

  He shrugs. ‘Not since staff supper.’

  ‘Has she got keys?’ asks Pippa.

  ‘Keys?’

  ‘To the flat?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ I am pacing about, overcome with anxiety. There’s nothing like a bloody great fire to make you completely irrational and send you rapidly over the edge.

  ‘Did you give her any?’ asks Pippa, taking hold my shoulders and looking me in the eyes. ‘Did you? Think?’

  ‘No.’ I pause. ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Well then, she is not inside then, is she?’

  ‘No, no, good. You’re right. What’s the matter with me?’

  The fire brigade have got their hoses out now, pouring thousands of gallons per second onto the flaming building.

  ‘It’s going to be all right, mate,’ says Adam with a large sniff as he pats me on the back. ‘You’re insured, right? You’ve got all the right paperwork?’

  I nod as I watch the smoke and flames still pouring out of the building.

  ‘Look on the bright side,’ says Caz as she rattles around in her handbag for lipstick. ‘It’s the perfect opportunity for a refit. One of my clients had a fire the other day and he was over the bloody moon. It was a bit touch and go to start off with because the insurance company were bastards and took bloody ages to pay up, and he had to bankroll the first hundred thou himself but, you know, it came through in the end. He was quite smart about it. He got half his staff to help out with the refit, and the other half he sent on compulsory holiday.’

  ‘Clever,’ agrees Adam. Staff have a compulsory four weeks off a year. Two weeks of their choosing and the other two when their boss says they are allowed. ‘Although I don’t see Pippa here sanding tables!’

  Pippa laughs. ‘I don’t know, my DIY skills are second to none. I have been known to put up Ikea shelves.’

  ‘Christ!’ says Adam. ‘I’ve never managed to put anything together from there.’

  Caz is right. It’s the perfect opportunity for a refit. Truth be told, most restaurateurs love a fire. There is an old restaurant joke.

  ‘Where’s the fire?’

  ‘Shhh, don’t tell anyone. Next week.’

  There are also numerous little tricks and dodges that make it even more worth our while. Smoke damage is our friend. You’d be amazed how terrible and destructive it is when you go round the ashes of a place with the loss adjustor. Smoke gets into every nook and cranny and soft furnishing. It destroys tables! Lights! Sofas! Everything! However, once the insurance company has paid up, you’d be amazed how tables can come back to life after a quick scrub down. Send the soft furnishings to the dry cleaner’s and suddenly you have two sets of cushions or curtains for the price of one. Smoke damage really is the restaurateur’s very best pal indeed.

  Equally, what better way to get rid of a failing place than having a ‘terrible accident’. I had a mate who did torch his own place as it was losing him £4,000 a week. He couldn’t carry on playing for it, so he dropped a fag, a bit of this, a bit of that and a bit more besides. A few months later he was back in business with a new groovy design and some young groovers packing the place out. Although I have to say he was lucky that no one found out.

  ‘They look like they’ve got it much more under control now,’ says Adam. ‘It won’t be long. I always think fire is like vomit or blood. It always looks much worse than it is.’

  He’s right; it feels a lot less hot. The intensity has dissipated and there are a couple of firemen going into the building, hauling in hoses to put out the last pockets of flames. The smell of the smoke and water is really rather unpleasant; it’s acrid and catches at the back of your throat.

  ‘Excuse me,’ says Pippa, grabbing a passing fireman who is broad and butch and strip-joint handsome.

  ‘Yes?’ he says, turning to look at both of us with his pale blue eyes. I am just glad Jorge is not here, otherwise he’d be liable to squeal.

  ‘Do you have any idea how it might have started?’

  ‘Not sure,’ he says. ‘It could be petrol through the door. There’s a smell of fuel. Do you have anyone who, how shall I put this, doesn’t like you?’

  ‘Doesn’t like us?’ Pippa looks puzzled.

  ‘Enemies?’ he suggests.

  ‘Enemies?’ Pippa repeats.

  ‘He’s just gone through quite a sticky divorce!’ says Andrew, rather unhelpfully out of the blue.

  ‘Yeah!’ agrees Adam. ‘Sketchley doesn’t do the woman scorned thing very well.’

  The fireman looks at me. I am sure he’s wondering what sort of name is Sketchley and why on earth would a woman ever bother getting her gusset in a twist over some half-baked, unshaven loser like me. Let alone resort to arson.

  ‘It could also be a coincidence,’ he says.

  ‘So it’s not a chip pan, then?’ asks Pippa, obviously harbouring some sort of not-so-terribly-secret guilt.

  ‘We can’t rule that out,’ he says.

  ‘What can you rule out?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing at this point,’ he says.

  It could be Big Pete, I think. This is not beyond his remit. No! What’s wrong with me? Surely arson is a little big heavy at his juncture? Even for him? I mean, I only said I was interested in the terrible Greek place and it is not as if I’ve got a plan together, or got the money to do it.

  I stare over the road at my smouldering restaurant and the thirty or so firemen stomping through the ashes with their great big boots and heavy hoses. It is a piteous and pathetic sight and yet I don’t feel cowed. You never know, I think (I have always been a glass-half-full person), given some clever accounting this could all turn out to my advantage. It could be OK. I could do up this place and properly throw my hat into the ring with the Covent Garden dive as well. I could have the beginnings of a proper empire. I could get myself a proper little brasserie. I should think snazzy, I should think of turning those tables and getting the slebs. I should get my skinny arse down to Balthazar and get my notepad out, check out the red leather seating and see what all the fuss is about. To be inspired, not steal. Obviously.

  ‘Christ,’ says Adam, checking his ridiculously expensive watch. ‘Is that the time? It’s nearly six. The cleaners will be in soon.’

  ‘And the butcher,’ sniffs Andrew. ‘I should go home, have a disco nap. Haven’t we got a hundred and fifty covers to do today?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I say.

  ‘You could always come and stay at mine for a bit if you need to, darling,’ says Caz, looking across the road at my smoking apartment. ‘Gerry won’t mind if you stay for a while.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, patting my back pocket for a packet of fags. ‘Do you know what? I’ve got quite a lot to do today.’

  ‘Really?’ She tries to frown.

  ‘Yes. What’s another twenty-four hours at the coalface of the hospitality industry? It’s five to six. What else is there to do but push on through? I need to talk to the butcher anyway, find out about the turkeys – after all, it’s nearly Christmas.’

  About the Author

  Imogen Edwards-Jones is the bestselling author of Hotel Babylon, Air Babylon, Fashion Babylon, Beach Babylon, Pop Babylon, Wedding Babylon and Hospital Babylon, as well as novels such as My Canapé Hell and Shagpile. She lives in west London with her husband and their two young children.

  By the same author

  The Taming of Eagles

  My Canapé Hell

  Shagpile

  The Wendy House


  Hotel Babylon

  Tuscany for Beginners

  Air Babylon

  The Stork Club

  Fashion Babylon

  Beach Babylon

  Pop Babylon

  Wedding Babylon

  Hospital Babylon

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  First published in Great Britain

  in 2013 by Bantam Press

  an imprint of Transworld Publishers

  Copyright © Imogen Edwards-Jones 2013

  Imogen Edwards-Jones has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a fictional account based on the experiences and recollections of the author’s sources. In some cases, names and sequences or the detail of events have been changed to protect the privacy of others. The author has stated to the publishers that, except in such respects not affecting the substantial accuracy of the work, the contents of this book are true.

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  Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781448111374

  ISBNs 9780593069905 (hb)

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