The Belle Hotel

by Craig Melvin

  Special thanks to Steve Kircher, David Melvin & Connie Gartner, Peter Nunn, Ben Stackhouse and Jane Stackhouse for their support of this book

  To Mel, Max & Rosa

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue: Credit Crunch

  1970s: The Kipper Wars

  1980s: Franco Says Relax!

  1990s: Rock ‘n’ Roll Star

  2000s: 0% Interest

  Tick-Tock

  2008–10: The Belle Hotel Cookbook

  Acknowledgements

  A Note on the Author

  Supporters

  Copyright

  A man can become a cook,

  but he has to be born a chef.

  Brillat-Savarin

  Prologue

  Credit Crunch

  Legal Notice of Repossession

  13 October 2008

  Dear Charlie,

  Unless you pay £10,000 by noon today, Belle Hotel will be repossessed under section 21 (4a) of the Property Act.

  This is your final warning, Charlie.

  Yours,

  Paul Peters,

  Banker

  13 October 2008

  9am: Charlie

  Tick-tock, tock-tick, crunch.

  13 October. One day that would not be going down in Charlie Sheridan’s grandfather’s book as a good one. Charlie had three hours to save the two loves of his life. Paul Peters, his exasperated banker, waited with the bailiffs to change Belle Hotel’s locks on the stroke of noon. Charlie had already blown it with his other love, his long-suffering girlfriend Lulu. Lulu had chucked Charlie by text after her new suitor, Graeme, showed her the latest tabloid scandal involving ‘My Night with Belle Hotel Celebrity Chef’.

  Sweating into his chef’s whites, Charlie thumbed a last-ditch attempt from the kitchen of Belle Hotel.

  Give me another chance, Lu, I’ll make it up 2

  The phone company cut Charlie off on U. He slung the knackered Nokia into the sink, where it plunged through a sea of crushed Stella cans, and swung out of the kitchen door and into the alley leading to Ship Street. Charlie left a salty trail of disaster in his wake. Uncollected bins, disconnected water, gas and electric. Fridges bare, broken hearts and plates.

  9am: Lulu

  Lulu sat at her paper-free desk in the hushed surroundings of the Hotel Epicure management office. Time passed. No reply. Not for want of looking. Lulu stood, tucked the stray strands of her long bob behind her ears and let out a slow release of breath. Charlie bloody Sheridan, you’ve really blown it this time. Typical. Just as they were finally getting things right and Lulu was seriously considering going back to him and Belle Hotel. Home. The place they’d done their growing up. Belle Hotel yesterday, the location of the ghastly scene between the two of them when she’d delivered her news and, then, the magazine article. It blared up at her where Graeme had thoughtfully left it, just within view. Charlie had made her decision for her. Lulu looked at Graeme: clean-shaven, neat, reliable. Everything Charlie was not.

  ‘He’s had his last chance. Let’s do this.’

  Graeme clicked the spreadsheet shut. He stood, slipped off his starched ‘Executive Head Chef’ embroidered jacket and eased into the leather Hugo Boss trench coat he deemed more suitable for stealing another man’s work and woman. Paul Peters had been more than receptive when they’d called the banker with the offer for Belle Hotel. Be there with the banker’s draft by nine thirty and we’ll whisk through the inventory together. Peters’ faith in the word of a Sheridan had gone to the grave with Charlie’s grandfather. The public’s faith in Paul Peters’ bank was dead and buried, too. Graeme had read out the headlines to Lulu from the live feed on his computer. Hookes Bank was now publicly owned and Paul Peters would be desperate to sell Belle Hotel to the two of them asap to cover his mismanagement of the account for over three decades.

  Lulu watched the digital clock hit nine thirty, shook her head and stood to take Graeme’s outstretched arm. The brand-new business partners walked arm in arm down the salty shaft of Ship Street to Belle Hotel.

  9.30am: Charlie

  Charlie pushed on along a wind-whipped Ship Street, moments before Graeme and Lulu appeared. Ten grand. That was a lot of lolly to haul in by lunch. Who’d help? Who was still on his side? The bloody bank had got him hook, line and sinker this time. Hook, line and sinker. Sinker, his fishmonger, yes! The old miser always kept cash at his seafront arch. Charlie whooped with delight, racing out across Kingsway to the prom, too drunk on debt to give a damn about traffic lights, pedestrian crossings, all usual warnings of the dangers that lay ahead. He flicked the bird at Hotel Epicure as he passed. Lulu, his love, the one he could not be with, was in there plotting against him with that chef-accountant, Graeme. Go to hell, Graeme. The bailiff’s note, what was left of it, half burnt in Charlie’s pocket. He’d rolled and used it to light his morning fag from the pilot light on the stove, sputtering along on what was left of the disconnected gas.

  The one-man credit crunch slid to a halt on the slippery cobbles outside the flaking paint sign of ‘N. Sinker, Fishmonger. Est 1788’. The heavy wooden door, faded Brighton blue, was firmly shut against the hostile elements. Right, get a grand off Sinker and buy some time. Charlie flicked the butt of his fag in an oily puddle and banged on the door. A radio playing in a nearby arch broke the news that Hookes, Belle Hotel’s bank for four decades, had been bailed out by the government a day late to get Charlie off it. Hookes off the hook; Charlie not. Typical.

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘Sinker, it’s me, Charlie.’

  ‘Definitely go away, then.’

  Charlie banged harder on the heavy door.

  ‘Come on, Sinker, open up. You’ve gotta help me. Save Belle Hotel.’

  Charlie could hear a shuffling behind the door and then the slow slinging of locks. A set of beady eyes glinted out through the gap in the door. The stench of fish assaulted Charlie’s nostrils.

  ‘Save Belle Hotel. What, lend you money? You’re joking, aren’t you. You owe me over nine hundred in unpaid bills. Why would I help you?’

  ‘You’ve been supplying my hotel for thirty-five frigging years, Sinker. And now you’re quibbling about a few hundred quid. Come on, mate. Give us a break, here. If not for me, then for Belle Hotel’s sake.’

  Charlie kicked the bottom of the door to make his point.

  A warm quid coin shot through the narrow gap in the door, struck the cobbles and rolled under a pile of lobster pots.

  ‘There’s my contribution. What you’re worth. Try your luck in the slots on the pier. Then try and live within your means, like your grandfather taught you.’

  Live within yer means, that was Franco’s maxim. But Franco was dead and Charlie was left to live by whatever means necessary without him.

  9.30am: Lulu

  Paul Peters waited at Belle Hotel’s front door to meet them.

  ‘I feel strange to be doing this, Paul, going behind Charlie’s back.’

  ‘Strange times indeed, my dear. I expect you’ve heard our news? Nationalised at noon. Bloody disgrace, Thomas Hooke will be turning in his grave. So, Belle Hotel. It’s not as if you don’t know your way around. Shall we?’

  Graeme stepped back to let Lulu pass. Sort of thing that Charlie would never do. Charlie never did. Past tense. She shuddered at the reality of what she was about to do and then shook it off with the thought of the hundred K of her father’s money Charlie had burned through in less than six months. It had to be done, there was no other way. For the sake of Belle Hotel. Her father was right.

  ‘Lead on, Mr Peters. We aren’t the legal owners yet. I’m guessing you’ve brought all the paperwork with you. Dad said you’d be keen to shore up the Hookes balance sheet today. With the chancellor br
eathing down your neck.’

  Graeme reached out for her hand, but she was reluctant to take it. Not yet. He’d get his way later, Charlie had made sure of that. But take care of business first. Isn’t that what her father always said? Graeme had impressed Roger Hardman when they’d met. Good head for figures, that lad. Polar opposite of that Charlie Sheridan. Looks like he knows how to run a tight ship. Happy to serve frozen cod, keep the margins fresh. Good lad.

  10am: Charlie

  Charlie set off towards the pier with the quid in his pocket. Well, it was a start. Nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine more to go.

  How many times, how many more times would he have to do this? Borrowing from Tom, Dick and Harry to pay Paul Peters. Fucking credit crunch. Fucking Hotel Epicure, Fucking Graeme. Judas. Charlie couldn’t bring himself to curse Lulu. He loved her, but could not be with her. So much had happened to them both over the years. It had always seemed their destiny to be together, yet every time they got close something happened to snatch their happiness away. Recent nuclear bombshells and today’s carnival of chaos were just the last in a long line of lamentable epic love and work fails that killed the chances of them ever being together.

  Charlie needed that 10K badly. It was enough to clear the emergency over-overdraft and buy himself another month’s trading and some time to set things straight with Lulu. Although it may already be too late for that. Too many lies and betrayals. If he told her the whole truth, what little chance they had of getting back together would be gone.

  Charlie glanced at the Roman numerals on the pier clock. Hurry up, Charlie, Belle Hotel becomes a pumpkin at noon. Get on with it. At this rate, Charlie’d never get back with enough cash in time.

  Charlie pulled the quid from his pocket, yanking the repossession letter from the bank along with it. What was it with the bits of paper? Notice of repossession, court order, removal from the Michelin Guide. Bring back the old days, when Franco’s book bulged with glowing reviews, drop-top Jag purchase notes and recipes that held the secrets of Belle Hotel’s success.

  Maybe he should take Sinker’s advice and gamble the quid on the pier’s pound waterfall? Charlie cut under the flashing sign and set off across the salty planks for the arcade. Off on yet another wild goose chase, hoping against hope that he could turn a pound into a pot of gold.

  10am: Lulu

  ‘And on this floor, sea-facing doubles, carpet, worn, er, very worn and one fire extinguisher. Last serviced in, er, December nineteen ninety-nine.’

  Lulu looked at the time on her phone. Two hours to go and still no word from Charlie. All it’d take was one word. If his mobile was shot, he could always call her from a payphone. She’d pick up. And it wasn’t as if he’d have any problem remembering the number. It was one digit off his. They’d been to the One-2-One shop together in Churchill Square. Got the phones so that he could call her from Le Gavroche while she was working at Belle Hotel and not have to speak to his mum or grandfather. Lulu shook her head and stuck her phone back in her handbag.

  ‘I think we’ve seen enough of the bedrooms, Mr Peters. We know they need a major refurb. Let’s go and see Belle Hotel Restaurant and do a stock-check.’

  Graeme nodded in agreement and placed a guiding arm around Lulu’s back as they descended the wide flight of stairs. Lulu sidestepped away from him and bent to pick up a plastic cigarette lighter that someone, Charlie probably, had dropped.

  10.30am: Charlie

  Half an hour later, Charlie was on a roll, his blue-and-white checked pockets bulging with golden coins. Then, as was Charlie all over, just when he was on a winning streak, his luck changed and he lost the lot. Quid after quid went back onto the waterfall and not one bastard coin came out.

  Then Charlie had an idea. Time to use a skill he’d learned as a kid. The old arm inside the machine trick. Looking around, checking that none of the polo-shirted pier attendants were about, Charlie dropped to his knees and pulled up the sleeve of his chef ’s jacket to the elbow. He popped his last quid in the slot while holding down the refund button with his left hand. Right, Charlie had thirty seconds to shake as many coins out of the beast before the tilt-tamper alarm was re-activated. In a flash, his right arm was in the hole and into the guts of the machine.

  Charlie felt the sweat bead on his brow as his body took the full weight of the thing, while fishing about with his bent right wrist. Christ, this thing was heavy. Then, just as a wave of coins spilled out onto the patterned carpet, Charlie felt the thing begin to tip.

  11am: Lulu

  ‘This’ll have to be renewed. I want metric calibrated equipment, vac-pacs, water baths.’

  Lulu looked at Graeme looking at Charlie’s kitchen. Her heart hurt. She’d watched Charlie earn his star on those knackered copper pots. Seen Franco, his grandfather and mentor to the two of them, throw most of them at the back door in one decade or another.

  ‘This door will have to be replaced. Looks like it has faced the firing squad. I’ll need a bacteri-seal delivery door like we have at Hotel Epicure.’

  Graeme was beginning to sound like he knew who was about to be boss, which he didn’t. Whatever funds Lulu had scraped together to buy Belle Hotel back from the bank had come from her own years of hard graft in the catering business. Belle Hotel, Quaglino’s, The Wolseley and Hotel Epicure. Sure, her father was wealthy, the self-made carpet king had made most of his loot outfitting Brighton’s hotels. But what wealth Roger now had was sunk into his new Academy school and any surplus he had squirrelled away in an Icelandic bank, off the thin ice of Britain’s credit crunch. Graeme, for all his fancy certificates, had little more in savings than she did. Lulu chided herself for not having the guts to go Belle Hotel alone. Shame that Janet, Charlie’s mother, was a sozzled wreck. It would have been good to keep her on with the business. Paul Peters had popped in to see Janet at the Belle Hotel pub and exchanged a few salty tales for old times’ sake before nipping back through the adjoining door and making sure he’d locked it from their side.

  Lulu looked from Graeme to Paul Peters and gave them both her young-restaurant-manager-of-the-year award-winning smile.

  ‘Righto, that’s quite enough time in here. There’ll be no new pans till we turn a profit, but I can promise you a deep clean, just to get rid of the smell of him, I mean, grease.’

  11am: Charlie

  Charlie eased his head from side to side and tried to lift the machine off himself. The pain in his right wrist, trapped and snapped inside the machine, was unbearable. But he had to bear it. Had to pick up the mound of pounds that he’d been covered in when the thing came over on him. Then, Charlie’s thirty seconds of grace were gone, the tilt alarm sounded and four burly polo-shirted pier attendants exploded from the change booth. Charlie screamed blue murder from the scene of the crime and promptly passed out from the pain in his broken wrist.

  11.15am: Lulu

  ‘I think we can safely conclude that we’ll not be seeing Charlie this side of noon. Mr Peters, can we proceed with the contracts? I’ve got the banker’s draft, here. How about we get everything ready then sign at noon? He has to be back at Belle Hotel before noon with funds, right, or it’s yours to repossess?’

  Lulu felt sick inside.

  11.15am: Charlie

  Charlie came to on a bench outside the arcade, the sound of heavy seas singing in his shell-likes, and waited for whatever mess he was in to come clanging back to him. Belle Hotel. Lulu. Midday. Christ. What time was it? Charlie struggled to sit up. As his eyes began to focus, Charlie noticed two policemen walking towards the arcade.

  The failed quid machine heist. His wrist, limp at his side, spiked pain when he tried to move it. The pier attendants must have called the cops. Explaining things to plod was not an option. Charlie had been too much of a regular down the cop shop of late for all that. There was only one thing for it.

  11.30am: Lulu

  ‘So we sign here and here, yes?’

  Lulu’s hand shook a little as she held the paperw
ork. This was painful. Damn Charlie for pushing her to it.

  11.30am: Charlie

  Charlie crawled up the shingle on the nudist beach. The swim had been horrific, trying to keep his head up above the churning water. Hoping like hell that the cops didn’t spot him. Charlie shook his soaking head and looked up, trying to ascertain from the height of the watery sun above what time it was. He picked up the track that wove from the beach and up onto Whitehawk Hill. The pathways of his youth, walked in happier circumstances, pathways that led down to Charlie’s home, Belle Hotel.

  It’d be a good half-hour walk and his wrist was killing him, but he had to get the money. Charlie needed a friend right now. And preferably a friend with funds to lend. As he crossed onto Whitehawk Hill, Charlie looked back to take in Brighton, the city by the sea. Arcs of pastel-hued terraces ran down to the pier, blue light of the cop car still flashing, and, hidden behind the rock shops, the briny slit of Ship Street and Belle Hotel.

  Charlie walked and the adrenalin ebbed away with the salty water. It was replaced by an overwhelming feeling that it was all his fault. If he’d not been so fucked, he’d never have had to go near the pier. If he’d not gone on such a bender after Franco’s death, and if all those secrets hadn’t come out, his right wrist would still be straight. What had Lulu shouted at him down the phone? Walking disaster. That was it. He’d better walk a bit quicker, or it really would be a disaster.

  The pain in his wrist was excruciating, but two hours in A&E was not an option. He had to get back, needed an alibi that placed him away from the scene of the pier incident, something to keep him out of the cop shop. Last thing Charlie needed was another night in the cells.