Something Blue

by Rosie Orr

  She tried again. ‘I do see how awful it is for Chef after all his hard work, but let’s look on the bright side? It’s still early – there’s plenty of time for him to knock up a replacement …’

  He covered his face with his hands, and broke into fresh sobs. ‘If this gets out, we’ll be feckin’ ruined.’

  ‘Ruined? Look, it’ll be fine. All your chef has to do is …’

  Raising his head, he stared at her hopelessly. ‘There is no feckin’ chef.’

  Anna gazed back, astonished. ‘No feckin’ chef? But?’

  His voice sank to a whisper. ‘All the victuals are supplied by commercial caterers.’ He cast a swift look over his shoulder. ‘Frozen.’ A tear ran down his bulbous strawberry nose. ‘So there’s no feckin’ chef. Just Connor.’

  ‘Connor?’

  ‘Used to be the under-gardener till I put him in charge of the microwaves. Never cooks anything except guests’ breakfast toast, and he’s planning to put a stop to that soon. Going for le continental petit-whatd’yemacallit, so he’ll only have to microwave the rolls.’

  ‘Ah.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But surely you must have stock?’

  He snorted. ‘Not two hundred and fifty portions of anything, for feck’s sake. There’s mebbe thirty or so portions of that sorbet muck kickin’ about in the deep freeze. Always shift a lot of those on Saturday nights. Few apple tarts …’

  Anna bit her lip; it wasn’t exactly wedding fare. She thought of the elaborately printed gold menus Lucy had told her about excitedly when they last met, the dessert wine Eamonn had been despatched to France to select personally, the scene Tina would create if a slice of apple tart was placed in front of her after the lobster bisque and the pheasant royale, instead of the pudding she’d expressly ordered.

  She would have to do something. Mouth set determinedly, she straightened her shoulders.

  Alarmed by the glint in her eyes, O’Flynn lumbered to his feet and backed away.

  Anna darted forward and grabbed his lapels. ‘OK. Here’s what we’re going to do …’

  ‘All right, so it’s money yez want. How much d’ye want to keep shtum?’

  Anna laughed. ‘Money? It’s not about money, for Christ’s sake.’ She let go of his lapels. ‘Look, there’s not much time if we’re going to …’

  If we’re goin’ to what? He backed away; he wasn’t going to have anything to do with this madwoman. He halted, struck by a thought. If it wasn’t about money, what the feck was it about? ‘So why’s yez so concerned about the feckin’ puddins, then?’

  Anna smiled. ‘Because I’m the Mother of the feckin’ Groom, Mr O’Flynn, that’s why.’ She brushed a speck of gravel from her sleeve. ‘Now, let’s get to work, shall we?’

  Turning on her heel, she headed back to the kitchen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  An hour or so later, on a road some distance from The Grand Hotel, a gleaming red convertible sped past Jack as he stood dejectedly in the drizzling rain that had begun again shortly after the slurry cart dropped him on the verge.

  He was still standing there half an hour later, thumb outstretched, when it shot past in the opposite direction.

  It didn’t stop.

  Meanwhile, Anna was sitting on her unmade bed, scribbling notes for a poem about the taxi journey from the airport and finishing her breakfast. The Grand de-luxe mixed grill had been surprisingly good, considering the meadow-fresh mushrooms, hand-reared country-bred bacon rashers, dew-fresh tomato halves and dawn-gathered free-range egg had spent the last six months stashed in Nosh Anon’s freeze storage unit on a Belfast industrial estate before being delivered to The Grand and into Connor’s microwave. Before it was brought to her room, borne tremblingly aloft on a silver salver by a waiter who made the bellboy look positively youthful, Bernadette had managed to secure Anna an outside line. She spent several happy minutes chatting to a hungover Sam, managing not to remind him to comb his hair and clean his teeth before setting off for the church, and making a point of telling him how much she was looking forward to the wedding breakfast.

  She’d just finished the last mouthful of de-luxe crunchy crusty wholemeal toast when the phone rang. Reaching for the flesh-pink box, she snatched up the receiver, full of hope. ‘Jack? Oh darling, I’m so glad to hear you! You wouldn’t believe how much I miss you – the hotel’s unbelievable, an absolute hell hole, and –’

  ‘This is your receptionist Bernadette calling from the reception desk at reception.’ Somewhere in the background Anna could hear the lift doors opening with a clang and the sound of the Tina contingent complaining about the weather. Bernadette’s piercing tones dropped to a hoarse whisper. ‘Mr O’Flynn says to inform you he’s back with the goods.’

  Anna found herself gripping the receiver tightly, infected by the mood. ‘Message received. I’m on my way, reception.’

  ‘Copy that, contact. Over and out.’ There was a ping, and the phone went dead.

  Jack was sitting on the verge, head in hands, wet through, when a gold Mercedes hurtled past in the direction of The Grand. He staggered to his feet, thumb extended.

  Too late.

  Anna bustled about the kitchen, hair pinned on top of her head and sleeves rolled up, heaving copper saucepans that had hitherto served a merely decorative function down from their hooks on the stained plaster walls, and lining them up on the black marble counter beside the rickety New World gas cooker. She grinned as she set about hunting in the beetle-infested cupboards for wooden spoons and mixing bowls; it seemed only too likely that Christopher Columbus had discovered the cooker on his travels. In fact, she thought, a cauldron suspended over a wood-burning fire would have been more in keeping with the kitchen’s positively Dickensian air. Apart from a battalion of modern microwave ovens ranged above the gold-rimmed crockery and crates of dented silverware, the grumbling, juddering fridge was the only contemporary feature, though the flypaper suspended above the enormous freezer had been fashioned in a crude silhouette of Winston Churchill.

  She was washing out an enormous flowered jug that would come in useful when it came to portioning out the mixture when O’Flynn came puffing through the back door bearing a stack of cardboard egg trays so high only his bulging eyes and damp grey hair were visible above them. With an oath, he set them down beside the vats of double cream, the cartons crammed with giant bars of best quality dark chocolate and the bottles of Grand Marnier already arrayed on the blackened oak refectory table that ran almost the length of the kitchen, and wiped his forehead on a handy dishcloth. ‘That’ll be the last of the stuff, thank God. So, will we be ready to begin, then?’

  They certainly were, though there was now a slight change to the menu. The chances of producing perfect crèmes brữlées were practically zero; the egg yolks, sugar and cream mixture was sure to curdle as she brought it to the boiling point, and anyway, there simply wouldn’t be time to shove it in a bain marie for an age before chilling it. And then there was all the palava with the blow torch – ha, like the kitchen even had a blow torch … Chocolate mousse was the obvious answer.

  Anna handed him a plastic apron, barely noticing that it was emblazoned with the torso of a naked woman, complete with three dimensional nipples and scarlet navel gem stone (no doubt the property of Connor, who’d left straight after his breakfast shift, pleading a sick great aunt) and tied a tea towel stencilled with rather less inflammatory robins round her own waist. ‘Right, let’s make a start. If we can get them in the fridge by eleven, we’re in with a chance.’

  They set to work.

  As he observed Anna zipping to and fro between work top and stove, breaking chocolate into chunks, cracking and separating eggs, peeling lids from cartons with cheerful efficiency, allocating him the simplest tasks but never failing to thank him when they were accomplished, O’Flynn’s manner began gradually to change from grudging acceptance to something very close to respect. And when Anna, failing (not surprisingly) to locate an egg whisk, and instead of throwing a tantr
um as Connor would have done (having seen rather too many celebrity chefs on TV) merely shrugged and said it was no problem, they could make do with forks, he poured them both a coffee cup of Grand Marnier and invited her with a full heart and a catch in his throat to call him Desmond.

  Happy to be doing her absolute best for the person whose wellbeing had always been paramount in her life – Sam – Anna clicked her cup to Desmond’s with a smile, said she’d be delighted if he’d call her Anna and promised, to his childlike delight, to teach him the trick of separating the yolks from the whites using only one hand.

  The florist’s van had arrived at the service entrance, the waiters had begun to rearrange the tables in the dining room and the maids were scuttling backwards and forwards with armfuls of starched linen when the gold Mercedes swept into the courtyard and came to a halt in a spray of gravel at the bottom of the entrance steps.

  Adjusting the epaulettes on the shoulders of his dusty jacket, the ancient bellboy winched a smile into place and tottered down the steps to greet the new arrivals.

  ‘God, no, Desmond – things go wrong all the time, honestly.’ Anna lifted the last bowl of melted chocolate from the microwave and set it down beside the others on the table, admiring Desmond’s wrist action as, using both hands, he beat savagely at two copper bowls of foaming egg whites using a clutch of battered forks as improvised whisks. The kitchen, pleasantly warm now, and smelling delightfully of vanilla and cocoa beans, was a hive of activity as they went about their preparations. A minion was washing the little gold pots at the low stone sink, another was drying them and setting them out in neat rows at the end of the refectory table; both were listening wide-eyed to Anna’s stories of life at Avant Art as they worked. Music was playing cheerily in the background on Connor’s portable radio – Desmond, unaware of the stifled giggles of the staff, had burst into song when ‘My Boy Lollipop’ had ripped through the airwaves a few minutes earlier.

  Anna carefully measured brandy into the bubbling chocolate, and began to stir.

  ‘Another time a coachload of Russian cultural officials showed up on the wrong afternoon. Roxy and I were alone in the gallery – Alastair was in London, checking out a new installation at the ICA, Fart Art, I think it was.’

  Desmond grunted, and topped up his coffee cup from the open bottle beside him. ‘Beggar sounds a right feckin’ ponce, if you ask me.’

  ‘Think you’re probably right there. Anyway, we had to think fast. There’d have been hell to pay if we’d let on we weren’t expecting them, they’d come to decide whether to allow Avant Art to show some of their own up and coming young artists – things were really on the line.’ She added more brandy to the chocolate, and glanced at the mountains of egg white beginning to burgeon in the great copper bowls. ‘Ease off a bit, Desmond, or they’ll be too stiff to use – soft clouds are what we need, not bloody great Alpine peaks.’

  ‘Sorry. So, what happened with the Ruskies, then?’

  Anna grinned. ‘Roxy took them on a tour of the exhibitions – parroted some of the junk Alastair comes out with and managed to steer them past the “Interactive Orgasm” installation – while I knocked up a quick batch of borscht and shot out to Tesco’s for a couple of jars of rollmops.’

  Desmond roared with laughter.

  ‘Those egg whites are coming on a treat. OK, I’ll mix the yolks into the chocolate while you stir, then I’ll add the cream.’

  Bernadette rolled her eyes at the florist, who was replacing the gladioli with sprays of white roses and carnations (dead cold for a wedding, in Bernadette’s opinion. When she got married she was going to have red and orange, like Madonna) and reached for the phone. It was the first moment she’d had to herself all morning, what with all the wedding guests complaining about their breakfast coffee being instant, and the hot water running out, and the lift not working and that – if she didn’t talk to Siobhan soon she’d go mental, she really would. Popping an imperial mint into her mouth, she dialled the number. Thing was, Siobhan was an expert on men; she’d know exactly what Bernadette should do next to ensure the delivery man didn’t swerve from his quest. Though that quiff was going to have to go, no way was she going to have hair gel smeared all over fanny when they …

  A ping from the bell jolted her back to consciousness. Sugar, another bleddy guest wanting to complain. Swear to God, sometimes she wished she’d gone into chiropody like her mother had wanted. With a sigh, she set down the receiver with exaggerated patience and looked up.

  A tanned, middle-aged man, groomed to within an inch of his life, drummed his fingers on the fan of brochures beside the sweet dish. Clinging adoringly to his arm was a stunning, world-class bimbo in her early twenties; nipped, tucked and suctioned to improbable proportions, implanted, injected and extensioned to Barbie-like perfection.

  Bernadette goggled at them. She confided to Siobhan in the Fox and Ferret that evening, Blake and Crystal in those endless reruns from Dynasty her gran was always watching weren’t even in it. Pulling herself together, she shoved her mint imperial down the side of her cheek with a forefinger and gave them her best receptionist’s smile. ‘Good morning, sir, madam. How can I help?’

  ‘G’day. I think you’ll find we have a reservation.’ The man squeezed his companion’s raspberry-pink chiffon-clad bottom, puckered his lips at her in an extravagant kiss, then turned back to Bernadette. ‘The name’s Hardy.’ He puffed out his chest, which filled out the jacket of his cream linen safari suit just a little too fully, looking pleased with himself. ‘Tony Hardy.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Hardy, we received your email. We’ve been expecting you.’ Bernadette unhooked the key to Room 34 from the patchily gilded pegboard behind her and handed it across the desk with a gracious smile. She clicked her fingers at the bellboy, who having made three trips to the Mercedes’ boot to retrieve the new arrivals’ luggage was lurking by the lift trying unsuccessfully to unwrap a Fisherman’s Friend.

  ‘Thanks, sweets.’ Tony leaned across the desk. ‘Wonder if you could tell me what room Anna Hardy’s in?’ He smirked. ‘Only polite to introduce my lady ex-wife to my lovely fiancée before the kid’s wedding, wouldn’t you say?’

  Bernadette gazed at him, glassy-eyed. He was the Anna woman’s ex? Didn’t look at all her type. She shrugged. Oh well, better give him Anna’s room number, let them sort it out between them. With a bit of luck she could find an excuse to nip up to the second floor later, and listen to the row. She was riffling through the register to check Anna’s room number when the door to the kitchen swung open behind her and one of the staff hurried through and on towards the dining room, where she was scheduled to fold a hundred and fifty napkins into swans. Before it closed again Tony caught a glimpse of Anna, cheeks flushed, hair escaping in delicate wisps from its pins, stirring something in a bloody great bowl and laughing up at a fat bastard in a kinky apron who was doing something weird to something in two bloody great bowls.

  As the door swung open once again under its own momentum, Anna raised her arm to push a lock of hair out of her eyes, caught sight of the ex-husband she hadn’t seen for nearly twenty years, and dropped her wooden spoon.

  Tony’s jaw dropped. As the door clicked shut he did an exaggerated double-take, eyebrow raised as incredulously as if he’d caught a glimpse of his ex-wife pole dancing.

  There was a short pause. Then the door opened and Anna emerged, sans robin-printed tea towel, sleeves rolled down, hair smoothed into place. Bernadette crammed several mints in her mouth, eyes swivelling greedily from Anna to Tony, whose companion waited, smiling politely at the open register. Tony favoured Anna with a pitying smile.

  ‘Say, hello there. If it isn’t good old Annie. Grand to see you again. But,’ he did the incredulous leer thing again, ‘what on earth are you doing in the hotel kitchen?’

  Anna felt her hands clench involuntarily. No no no – that wasn’t the way at all; she mustn’t let him bait her. And she wouldn’t comment on his ridicul
ous Australian accent. Wishing the ancient Indian healer was there to admire her astonishing mastery of emotions she concentrated on producing a sophisticated smile. ‘Hi, there.’ She gave what she hoped was a casual shrug. ‘Cooking’s what I do professionally these days.’ She chose to ignore Tony’s disbelieving shake of the head. ‘The Grand’s chef’s world famous, of course, and the kitchen here’s just to die for – I simply couldn’t resist popping in for a professional pow-wow.’ Trying not to think of the beetle-infested cupboards, she gave a little gurgle of helpless pleasure.

  A frown marred Tony’s brow for a second, then the smile resumed service as he reached out an arm and yanked the Barbie lookalike to his side. Anna blinked; she hadn’t realised they were together. ‘I want you to meet someone very special, Anna. My fiancée, Tara-Louise – this is Anna, my ex.’

  Anna’s eyes widened. ‘Fiancée? But you didn’t mention any fiancée in your reply to Lucy and Sam!’

  He nuzzled Tara-Louise’s ear. ‘Decided to keep it as a fabulous surprise.’

  Tara-Louise giggled prettily.

  The trick was to never show the buggers they’d surprised you. When she got back to Brighton she was going to tell that breakfast television show to axe the Indian and take her on instead. She took a deep breath. ‘But that’s wonderful! Congratulations!’

  Tony squeezed Tara-Louise’s bottom again. ‘Y’know things couldn’t be better. Life’s been just one long success story ever since I got my shit together and struck out for the outback.’

  Anna restrained a shriek of fury and with an effort willed herself to smile.

  ‘Got my own chain of graphic design agencies in Sydney, as a matter of fact, and boy, are they successful.’ He winked at Tara-Louise. ‘Oh yes. Very successful indeed.’

  Tara-Louise giggled obligingly.