by Martinis
‘You’re doing okay, Mum, we’re both doing okay.’ I stood up, preparing myself to get ready and start my day.
‘Well if there’s anything I can do… something not destructive, let me know. I’d really like to fix my mess.’
I smiled. ‘The time will come, I promise you.’
For now, it was time to get dressed up, put on that lipstick and feel like a leader. We were going to war.
Chapter Fourteen
It was good to see them all there, filling the dining room like faithful soldiers, amped up and ready to fight. There were so many of them, not just the bar and service lot, but the kitchen staff and the hosts, through to the part-timers and the pot wash. My little collection of misfits.
Jacques had pulled a couple of tables over towards the booth, so they were all sitting around and I stood before them, their expectant eyes looking for direction, something to follow. Taya sat to the side, her ankle strapped up, and smiled widely, covering up the look of concern that had sat on her face moments before.
‘Thank you all for coming today,’ I started, not really sure where I was going. I was confident that things had to change, but as to how… I was winging it, plain and simple.
Their faces looked up at me and I knew they were waiting to be told that everything was shutting down, and they were out of a job. The nervous energy in the room was clear.
‘You’ve all done the same excellent job you’ve been doing for ages, years for some of you. And, darlings, it’s been good, but things need to change. The club needs to change.’
There was an audible gasp around the table, as if I’d suggested we sacrifice a goat to bring about positive winds.
I grinned. ‘Bit dramatic, darlings. I know you’ve already been very helpful in providing some feedback anonymously, and we’ll go through it, but I suggest we do a little round table first. Let’s list the things we love about the club, and then the things we think could be improved.’
Jacques stepped aside and presented the whiteboard with a flourish.
There was a brief silence as they figured out whether they should really say what they thought, and I tried to smile. ‘Look, I’m sure some of you read that review, and perhaps you were outraged and think everything he said was wrong. But some of you might know some of those things were right. You’re my eyes and ears to the customers, darlings’ – I faced the front of house staff, and then turned to the kitchen staff – ‘and you guys behind the scenes might have ideas for improvement, and not get your chance. So here is your chance. Tell me. I will not fire you, I promise.’
I held my hand to my heart, and they laughed, disrupting the tension.
After that, everything flowed a bit better. They loved the atmosphere, they loved working together and being part of a family. Generally the customers didn’t tend to be awful. They thought I paid them fairly. They liked getting to see the shows. They loved the beautiful glossy bar, but the tabletops were hard to clean and got smeared all the time. They felt the upholstery needed replacing and the colours were a bit old-fashioned.
Jacques raised his hand. ‘I have something you’re not going to like.’
I resisted folding my arms, just tilted my head and noticed how the performers looked at each other. They knew what was coming.
‘I don’t like the Martini glass prop.’ He pointed to where it stood at the back of the stage, oversized and glistening. ‘I know it’s an ode to Dita, hallowed be her name, but as performers we feel like we have to be using it, and then we’re copying, not being original. And if we don’t use it, it sits there onstage distracting from the performance.’
I pressed my lips together. Of all the things I’d expected from Jacques, that wasn’t one of them. The huge Martini glass was one of the first things I’d bought when I set up the club – it set the tone, kept me on task. Kept me focused on getting the best acts, the greatest performers. Plus, it was branding. People would point it out and ask me if Dita Von Teese had performed here.
‘I’m not saying we get rid of it.’ Jacques put his hands up, softening the blow. ‘I just think it needs to be made more original, and it shouldn’t be on the stage.’
‘Where should it be?’ I said, trying to hold back the defensiveness from my voice. I’d asked for suggestions, and if my club was going to succeed, it had to be ‘ours’ rather than ‘mine’. I couldn’t do it alone; that was my lesson to learn. And it hurt like hell.
Charlotte raised a hand like she was in school. ‘I was thinking if we put it round by the bar, against the back wall, people would want to take photos with it. We’re always having to stop people trying to get on the stage at the end of the night to have their picture taken next to it. We could fill it with different things each week, or month, depending on the show – rose petals, flowers, glitter… something pretty and unique.’
‘Fill it with sparkly lights at Christmas, or hundreds of painted eggs at Easter! I love arty stuff, I’d love to do that,’ Taya added, clapping her hands. A few others piped up and said they’d help. Then they paused and waited for my response. They knew how much I loved that glass, maybe even what it symbolized. I wondered if they’d been moaning about it all these years, thinking it was pathetic and sad, my little homage to the queen of burlesque.
‘I think it’s an excellent idea.’ I nodded, and noticed how they seemed to exhale. I still couldn’t tell if that meant they were scared of me, or worried about me. ‘I think we should also brand it on the front, put a logo on the glass so the photos offer some publicity.’
‘Um…’ Aria waved her hand awkwardly, then tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, only making eye contact briefly before looking at a space beyond the group. ‘I used to work as a social media manager. I think there’s some things to be done with your online profile – running promotions, making sure people are talking about the club. Even the new speakeasies and pop-ups have a social following. I know you might be going for a more old school, whispered-in-ear approach to promo, but you still need to have social channels and be active. I’d be happy to do an audit of what you have, and set up a plan to make sure the club has a strong online presence.’
Aria looked down at the tabletop again, coughing to signal that she had finished talking. She tapped her fingertips a couple of times, and then looked up at me, perhaps expecting a fight. Instead, I wondered what had led a social media manager who clearly knew her stuff to end up working at a bar when she was clearly happier behind a screen.
That pointless boyfriend had to be involved in there somewhere. I wondered whether she had her fuck-off fund plan and how long it would take for her to leave. She was one of the ones I had started scanning when she walked in, looking for hidden bruises or pain in her walk. So far, Aria seemed only to be lacking in self-esteem and confidence, and I had hoped the Martini Club would help to change that.
‘Thank you, darling, I think that’s a wonderful idea – let’s talk about it together this afternoon, yes?’
She seemed to shine a little in the glow of my praise, and I felt sure I could help her as much as she wanted to help me. There had been another shy girl on my staff not so long ago, and she had blossomed in ways I’d never expected. Speaking of…
‘Ricardo, food.’ I turned to my chef, who looked anxious. He’d lost weight, I noticed, and his brow sat heavy, those bushy dark eyebrows almost hiding his eyes. I should have known there was no joy in the food any more. When I used to come into the kitchen, Ricardo was always singing along to the radio, teasing his staff members, laughing with them and making them better. These days, he was quieter, more focused on timings. He still wanted perfection, but there was no soul there any more.
‘Yes, boss?’
‘You read the review, right? What did you think? Be honest.’ I tried to be gentle, but honestly, I wasn’t sure how to be with this newer version of him. When I first hired him, we’d enjoyed the banter. I called him a troublemaker and threatened to fire him every other week, and he always made me something so delicio
us for lunch that I called him a genius and told him he must never leave me. And the cycle continued.
‘Honestly’ – he rubbed the back of his neck and looked at the ceiling – ‘honestly, I think he was right. There’s nothing wrong with our food, but it’s not exciting, it’s not blowing anyone’s mind. There’s no creativity there any more, and I know that’s my fault, I’m sorry, boss.’
There was something going on there, I was sure. Ricky was a proud man, and an even prouder chef. He didn’t just throw up his hands and accept defeat. He certainly didn’t attempt to stand up and shuffle off like he was doing.
‘Darling, where are you going?’
‘I’ve let my team down.’ He shook his head. ‘And honestly, I just don’t have the passion any more. I shouldn’t be working here if I’m going to fail the club.’
My eyes flickered to the rest of the table. ‘Jacques, darling, take over would you? Chef, come with me please.’
I tilted my head to the office door, and Ricardo followed stiffly, like a child getting a telling-off from a headmistress. I could hear Jacques leading the conversation as I pushed through the double doors, and perhaps that was the best option anyway – let them talk without feeling they were criticizing everything I’d built.
We sat in the office, him slumped in the chair opposite me.
‘Ricky, talk to me. We’ve been in this together a long time. Do you want to go, and just didn’t want to tell me?’
He shook his head, lips pressed together.
‘Then what is it?’
I never usually had to wait a whole thirty seconds for the chef to tell me what was on his mind. Once, he’d spent eight whole minutes talking about the quality of the limes at the farmers’ market he’d been to and all the things he could use them for. More often than not I had to cut him off, not encourage him to speak.
‘Maria’s sick, and I’m trying to look after her and keep the kids happy, and I come to work, and I love to work but my brain is fried. I can keep cooking, I can keep checking the line, making it all go out the same, but as for ideas… I’ve got no creativity left, boss. It’s like my brain won’t work, or my taste buds are dead. But I need this job, and I didn’t want to—’
He pressed his lips into a thin line, his eyes focused solely on a pen on the desk. He cleared his throat.
‘I don’t want to leave, but I don’t think I can give you what you need. You need someone dynamic and creative – someone who’s still got that soul. I just want to cook decent food and go home to my family.’
I felt my throat close up. ‘Ricky, why didn’t you say anything? We would have helped, you could have had time off, whatever you needed! We’re a team, you need to trust your team to pick up the slack.’
Ricardo raised an eyebrow at me and looked so much like his old sarcastic self for a second that I wanted to cry. ‘Pot, kettle.’
‘Well I’m learning now, aren’t I? So what do you need? Earlier finishes, of course, so you can spend more time with the family…’ I started making a list on a nearby notebook.
He cleared his throat. ‘I think I want to take a step back… you need a head chef who is vibrant, young, energetic. Someone who can bring passion to the menu, make it something to talk about. I know how to run a kitchen, I know how to do the costs and make it all work. Why not give someone else a chance to shine and I’ll mentor them?’
I thought of one person, one person who would be perfect, who knew the club, knew the team and knew how to bring that passion.
Ricardo pointed at me. ‘You’re thinking the same thing I did.’
‘She’s travelling, she’s got big plans for her own place, she’s not going to want to come back,’ I said, shrugging.
‘Well, maybe she’d want to do a residency for a few months? It couldn’t hurt to ask, right?’ Ricky said sensibly, and I tried to establish my feelings. Savannah had been a diamond in the rough, a sweet bartender with a fair bit of family drama who had found her place in the kitchen. She sent me postcards every few months, updating me on her experiences at culinary school, the delicious cocktails she’d tasted in different European cities, the shows she’d seen and what she was inspired by. She was living her dream the way I had eight years ago, building something for herself. I couldn’t take that away from her.
‘It’s something to consider,’ I said, secretly wondering how I’d even afford to pay two head chefs. I was going to have to talk to the accountant. Especially if we were going to start making some physical changes to the space. ‘Okay, why don’t you go back and join the team – I’ll do some research and we’ll chat about it again in a couple of days? And if you need to leave early today to be with your family, you just go, okay? Do you need anything, is there anything I can do?’
Ricky’s eyes watered slightly, and he looked horrified, so I averted my eyes.
‘Thanks, boss, I’m good.’
I waited until he had closed the door behind him before I placed my head on the desk. This was harder than I’d thought. Everyone had their own stories and issues. Everyone had opinions about my baby, my club, and I had spent a lifetime building something and not caring what anyone else thought. Too many thoughts muddied the vision – I knew what I wanted and I had built it in my image.
But businesses had to breathe and grow, like people. The club had become stagnant, the same way I had. Doing the same things day in, day out. Playing a part and fitting the mould I’d made. Eight years ago I’d built a business, created a persona, and all I’d done since then was maintain. I was like Ricardo – I hadn’t created anything in a long time.
I jumped up and walked out to the stairs, jangling the keys as I unlocked upstairs and stepped out onto the roof space. It was plain, grey concrete with high brick sides, but I’d put a couple of flowerpots up there. I liked to sit up here to do paperwork in the summer and see a little sunshine. The club was about darkness and shadows, sparkle in the spotlight – it needed that dark sexiness to thrive. The evenings were illicit. But I loved the sunshine, and sitting up here always made me feel like anything was possible. I looked across at the London skyline and remembered the first time I stood in this spot. I was in my mid-twenties, wearing a suit jacket from a charity shop that I’d tailored to fit me, clasping a business plan printed from the shop on the corner. I was full of bluster and when the man showing me the property had tried to talk down to me, asking for much more than it was worth, I’d spoken like someone I thought he’d respect. And the Arabella voice was born. When he’d taken me to the roof, I said I needed to return a call to my investors, and asked for some privacy. I didn’t call anyone, I just stood there staring at that skyline and wondered if I could really do this. I was alone, not particularly intelligent or special in any way. The only thing I had was the tenacity of a terrier, and a vision for somewhere I could belong. That was it.
Looking at that same view now, the skyline had changed. The buildings were taller and shinier. The smog seemed to lift with the summer sunshine, and the noise from the street seemed far away. This was my little summer escape, and those few times when I didn’t think I could keep up the pretence, I came here to breathe. To access that driven woman from all those years ago who knew she wasn’t special or impressive or anything much at all, but that none of that would stop her from creating something wonderful.
As long as I created something brilliant, it didn’t matter that I’d spent years making terrible choices and just getting by. The Martini Club was my chance to be more than just a person. It was the way I guessed some people felt about their children, being able to leave a legacy.
I’d never had a desire to have children, but I wanted the club to outlive me, to be something I started, something I’d made that would survive, in one way or another, to prove I’d done something wonderful.
I supposed that was a bit much to expect for a business. That was more of a people thing.
I took a few deep breaths, enjoying the space, the tentative kiss of sunshine on my face. Summer was comi
ng. People didn’t want silk corsets and dark rooms. They wanted white linen dresses and jalapeño mojitos, fresh crunchy salad and ice cream sundaes that made them feel like a kid again. But a business had to have a brand; it couldn’t be everything at once. Perhaps I could, though.
I leant on the wall and peered over at the street, to the front of the club. Everything was as it had always been, people rushing about, tourists bumbling along with apparent delight at everything, truly seeing in a way Londoners had long ceased doing. And there, outside the door of the club was a man staring straight up at me. He waved.
For the briefest moment I thought it was Brodie. That he’d come to support me, to make sure I was following his advice. Maybe a small, nostalgic, teenage part of me hoped he had run here, like in one of those London-set rom coms, so that he could take me in his arms and tell me the biggest mistake he’d ever made was not kissing me back all those years ago.
But it wasn’t Brodie. As I squinted, peering down at the brown hair, dark T-shirt and jeans, the man waved at me. And that was when I realized who it was.
* * *
I pulled open the front door and slipped out, not letting him in.
‘Euan, what are you doing here? I don’t really have time for this today.’
As he turned around I was faced with the ugly puffiness of a black eye as he winced. Didn’t seem to make a dent in his cheerful attitude. ‘Well hello to you too! I saw the review and wanted to offer some moral support, but you’ve been closed. So I’ve been popping by each day to see if you were around.’
Something didn’t quite ring true, and I tilted my head. ‘What’s with the black eye?’
He smiled and shrugged. ‘I may have been a little cheeky with someone I shouldn’t have been cheeky with. You know me, Bel, always learning the same lessons.’