The Belle Hotel

by Craig Melvin

  Charlie sent Fish home and cooked the hell out of himself with his apprentice. By himself. That meant something more than it had ever done before. He was Roger’s son. Lulu was his what, half-sister. Christ, that was deep shit. Deep, deep shit. Why had Janet never told him, warned him off? What if…? Didn’t bear thinking about. And the Johnny news that kicked the whole thing off. Johnny was nothing to him; water to blood. Dead upstairs on his single bed. And not Franco’s son. No wonder Franco had been a bastard to him. Charlie looked up from the flames and saw a ghost at the porthole. Johnny, back from the dead. He shook his head and went back to the reduction.

  ‘See how it has halved. Now then, we’re going to deglaze it with a knob of butter. A KNOB OF BUTTER, NOW.’

  The apprentice did not flinch, he simply span round and in a flash was back with the fat.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock, death is a comin’ and he won’t knock.

  Janet was well into her fourth lager when she saw him. Not that she could be sure. All that booze and emotion, things were getting a bit blurred. She shook her head… but, no, he was definitely standing there.

  ‘I choked, and now I’ve lost it.’

  ‘You… what?’

  ‘The pill, it stuck in my throat. I choked it up and I’ve just spent the last hour on my hands and knees looking for it. I need your help.’

  Janet looked at her hapless ex, remembered the recently released secret and was already on her way up the stairs.

  ‘Donald, mind the bar for me, I’ve just got to find something for… this guest.’

  Johnny followed a swaying Janet to the top of Belle Hotel. It took her ten minutes to find it, it had flown out of Johnny’s mouth and taken an odd trajectory under the bed. After shaking out every last dirty T-shirt of Charlie’s, she’d eventually resorted to fumbling about under the bed.

  ‘What’s this?’

  She pulled out Charlie’s secret tin and with the lame excuse of searching, opened its hinged lid. Inside, sitting on top, was a blurred photograph dated 1987 in red dots: Charlie, in his fishing gear, beaming out beside Johnny and the other dads.

  ‘Fishing trip. The happiest weekend of my life.’

  ‘Oh, spare me the melodrama, John.’

  Janet made one last desperate sweep under the bed. Her wedding finger touched something hard and wet.

  ‘Here it is.’

  She handed him his exit and went to the bathroom to wash her hands and get him a glass of water. She didn’t want him to have to go through failure a second time. Johnny was shaking silently. She handed him the glass, kissed him on the head and beat a hasty retreat. Halfway along the narrow corridor she stopped. No, that was wrong. Johnny had been a man she had loved. He had no one else. He was here at Belle Hotel, he wanted to be here. She owed him better. Where was the dignity, her decency?

  She tapped on the door.

  ‘You still there?’

  Silence. Then a muffled whimper. He couldn’t do it alone. After some fiddling Janet let herself in with the tricky pass key. Sure enough, Johnny was face down, fist clenched, on the bed. She sat down beside him.

  ‘John. I know we’ve not… well, been there for each other since… since you left. But I want you to know that I am here for you now. Please sit up and look at me.’

  The condemned man raised his trembling, white head and fixed Janet with that stare. Not Franco’s, that much she knew. Whose? His mother’s? Nathan Barrow’s? Janet reached across and took his unclenched hand. She knew full well what the other fist was hiding. They were sitting together, closer than they had been for decades. Janet had to look away.

  Minutes passed. Somewhere on the floor under a pile of Charlie’s kitchen-stained clothes a clock radio hissed white noise. Come on, Johnny. Do it. Now.

  Janet’s gaze took her out of the Velux window – dirty, needed a clean, she noticed – and out to lead-lined clouds scudding across the seafront on their way to the English Channel. She spied a boat, sails flapping black, riding the horizon en route to safe harbour. Still Johnny sat there, his hand limp but alive in her salty grip.

  She remembered their wedding day. Before any of this. Belle Hotel. Just a couple of fellow workers from the Grand, bell-hop and chambermaid, happy with their simple lives, love and work. Cream nylon two-piece for Johnny, white polyester for her. The sparks flew as they hungrily made love in the bridal suite, courtesy of the manager, who needed it back by midday for paying punters due to pitch up at two.

  This. This family business… they hadn’t stood a chance. The boat sailed out of frame and Janet was about to say something, but she felt Johnny move slightly. Nothing more than a flinch, but it was a flutter in the right direction.

  A tap dripped in the dimly lit bathroom. Had she left it on or did it need fixing? Janet pictured Franco’s bag, his tools. The ones he’d never handed on to his son. Still she could not look. Christ, this room was grotty. At least she had some pictures up in her space next door, Chatsworth in Winter and a couple of framed Schweppes posters given her by the rep in the seventies.

  She felt him flick his other wrist towards his mouth and heard the crunch of the pill as it connected with his molars. She did not look. She felt his grip tighten. He was hanging on for dear life. Then, in a moment that had felt like a lifetime, it was over. The hand stayed in shape but seemed to lose its substance. Death came. Johnny was gone.

  She stayed with his slackening body for another half hour. Closed his still, brown eyes and moved him out of his slump and onto the pillow. Time to leave the scene of the crime, the pub was probably in disarray below. What was the law’s position on assisted suicide? Maybe it would be better that she’d missed the grand finale, came down after helping him to find his… key. Key, that was it. Janet stood and looked out to sea. The boat was now lowering its sails, lifeless sheet dropping to the cold deck, turning stern and throttling into still water.

  She’d loved him, once. This still hurt. But she was glad it was over. Relief swept through her like morning lager. Thank God Charlie didn’t see him after, after what she’d just told him. She could hear Franco’s voice in her ears. ‘No, not the window, yer daft ’apeth. Pull yourself together, what’s done is done. You did what was best. Now go down and face Charlie. Make things right with him.’ Like you did, Franco? Not always that easy, though, is it, love?

  Janet took one last look at Johnny, clicked off the hissing clock and left her ex-husband to rest in peace.

  Brighton Constabulary handled them well. The chief of police was an old friend of Franco’s and, although he could have ordered a full investigation, he managed to wave the thing through.

  ‘He was just having a nap. Believe me, this has been a shock to all of us.’

  The body went down the fire exit, minimum fuss for Belle Hotel’s guests, as ever, and things carried on much as before.

  They buried Johnny next to Franco in the caterers’ graveyard and walked down together for the wake. Not much of a do, Charlie had laid on cold lobster in honour, the wake was made up mainly of Belle Hotel staff and friends. Lulu wanted to be there, but was badly sick that morning and had to call Charlie to say she’d not be able to make it. By about four the party was over and Johnny’s two friends from The Savoy, the night manager and a doorman, made their way up to the station to be back in time for their shift.

  Best thing to come out of this latest revelation was, as predicted, the looks on the faces of his anger management cohorts. Shaken heads and mutters of ‘well, that explains it’ reverberated around the woodchip walls. At anger management, Charlie told Ernest he was still confused by the whole experience but yes, he did feel a lot of his negative anger ebbing away as he, yes, came to terms with the lies and half-truths of his life. Ernest nodded and lifted his notepad from twitching corduroy. He made a line of notes and appeared to be ticking something. Charlie clenched his fists in delight. He’d got through anger management with a cast-iron excuse.

  Ernest did say one wise thing. As Charlie was about to leave the s
acred space for ever, Ernest nodded sagely and said,

  ‘You can’t un-tell the fact that the previous generations haven’t. And you do have a chance to put things right with the living.’

  Getting through anger management was one thing. Getting through the twin catastrophes of looming bankruptcy and discovering that the woman he’d loved all his life was, in fact, his sister was a personal crisis that matched the global one in its awfulness. Charlie had felt the credit crunch coming since Franco died. Hell, he’d played his part in causing it. No wonder he could sense the size of it. When it came, on the day he stood to lose the two loves of his life, it surprised even Charlie. Charlie wasn’t the only one in for surprises on that dark October the thirteenth day in 2008.

  Chat Magazine

  MY STEAMY NIGHT WITH CELEBRITY CHEF

  By Daisy Swallows

  Graeme took great pleasure in plonking the article face up on Lulu’s normally paper-free desk. She’d just finished a call with Judith Langdon at Haddon, who wanted to know why Charlie hadn’t shown up for the meeting the other day. Great news, on top of the conformation from Paul Peters, via Roger, that Charlie had defaulted and needed to find ten grand by lunchtime or bye bye Belle Hotel. Graeme waited until she’d glanced at the headline before intoning in his nasal twang.

  ‘Says that he bonked her a month ago. How long since he stayed over on your boat, that weekend, wasn’t it? You’ve barely seen him since. Been busy, has he? I’d say so.’

  Lulu felt sick. Not just sick in a tabloid sex revelation sort of way, but in a morning sort of way. And when she felt it in a morning sickness sort of way, she meant that she was going to be sick. Right now.

  Lulu barged past Graeme, hand to mouth, frozen parbaked croissant and staff coffee machine spew spuming from between her fingers. She made it to the ladies loo by the time the motherlode came.

  Then, crying and puke-spattered, she staggered down Ship Street and into Moondi’s newsagent. Screw what Fizal would say. Yes, he did have one back there somewhere. A little dusty, perhaps, but very good value at £9.99. Lulu had left her bag at Hotel Epicure, Charlie would be paying for this. Oh, yes, Charlie would be paying for this. And could she use the loo, please?

  The Moondi News loo was as revolting as Lu imagined it would be in the three steps it took her to slip past Fizal and into his own private homage to a Bengal shitter. Once Lulu had emptied her stomach for a third time she was ready to pee on the stick. Sure enough, a thin blue line told Lulu that feelings were not the only things growing inside her that morning.

  Lulu gasped and put the tester down on the loo seat. She flushed and then pulled the handle of the toilet. My God, this was a shock. And Charlie, stupid bloody Charlie, had only been sticking it in some tart behind her back. Again.

  Lulu’s head spun. She needed to see him. To tell him. Then maybe, just maybe, this would make sense to the two of them.

  Lulu blew her nose and pushed through the bead curtain to re-enter Moondi News. Graeme was standing in the middle of the shop flicking through a martial arts magazine.

  ‘There you are. I wondered—’

  ‘Not now, Graeme. Not now. Can’t you see that—’

  Lulu barged past him and out into the cool air of Ship Street. She needed to see Charlie.

  Couple of bangs on the kitchen door got a response.

  ‘Charlie’s not here.’

  ‘Charlie, it’s Lulu. I know it’s you. Stop doing that stupid voice and let me in. I need to talk to you.’

  Charlie looked at Lulu in the dimly lit kitchen. A few greasy pans were all that remained of breakfast. A breakfast that Janet had cooked while Charlie looked at Franco’s book.

  ‘Charlie, I’ve seen the thing in that magazine.’

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘You and that, girl, Daisy something. And after we… Charlie, how could you?’

  Charlie’s eyes widened. Silence, bar the distant ticking of Franco’s clock.

  ‘Well, we weren’t. And I thought you were, y’know, with Graeme. And I, hang on, let me get the time frame straight, I get so tired and confused, Lu. It was before, wasn’t it. Christ, I just don’t know what to say, Lulu, anyway I know some stuff that makes it very difficult. That, er, means we can’t be together. I’m sorry, but—’

  ‘Charlie, shut up. I’m pregnant and the baby is yours.’

  ‘What? Are you sure?’

  ‘I did the test just now.’

  ‘No, I mean, it can’t be mine. Mustn’t be. You sure it isn’t Graeme’s?’

  ‘Charlie, you are digging yourself deeper in your hole. You sure you don’t want to rephrase this before I cry? And for your information I haven’t slept with Graeme. Yet. Some of us are able to restrain ourselves when we’ve just made love to the person we’ve always loved. Oh, my, this is all happening so quick. But I just think, maybe, you know. Maybe this is a sign.’

  Charlie stood and backed away from Lulu. A sheen of sweat broke out across his face.

  ‘Oh my God. Fucking hell. Pregnant. With my child. No. We can’t. Get rid of it. Lu, JUST DO IT.’

  Lulu was shaking her head, letting the tears fall onto the dirty lino.

  ‘I thought you’d be shocked. I hoped it’d be pleasantly shocked. At least a bit. I am. I mean, shocked, but excited. Charlie, why are you being such a bastard?’

  Charlie manhandled Lulu back towards the kitchen door, opening it with his left hand and pushing her through the open hole right into the arms of a bailiff with a raised knocking fist and an envelope in the other. Behind the bailiff stood a photographer and the slapper with the blue eyes, Daisy Swallows, that was it, Lulu recognised her stupid face from the magazine article. Christ, they were queueing up. Lulu fled down Belle Hotel’s back passage, slipping as she sobbed on eight years of accumulated grease.

  *

  Hookes Bank

  NOTICE OF INTENDED REPOSSESSION

  Charlie Sheridan

  Belle Hotel

  Ship Street

  Brighton

  12 October 2008

  Delivered by Bailiff

  9am

  Dear Charlie,

  If we have not heard from you by noon tomorrow then we will have no option other than to use our bailiff team to repossess Belle Hotel. We require £10,000 in cash paying to Paul Peters by noon tomorrow, or we will repossess the hotel immediately. Please ensure that you respond to this letter as a matter of absolute urgency [rest of letter burnt]

  Tick-tock,

  tick, tick,

  tock, tock,

  crunch.

  Tick-Tock

  14 October 2008

  Day One: –£5,000

  Lulu woke up on her houseboat and crept from the bedroom so as not to wake him. She made herself a coffee on the stove and sat at the big window looking out onto the mudflats.

  She wondered what surprises today would be offering. Take a lot to top yesterday. Betrayal, pregnancy, a bare-knuckle fight at Belle Hotel. Charlie’s credit had well and truly crunched. She checked her phone. One voicemail from her dad. Nothing from Charlie. Bastard.

  Lulu put the phone on speaker to hear what her dad wanted.

  First the sound of sobbing, then a heavily drawn breath.

  ‘Lulabell. It’s Dad. I’ve lost everything. All my carpet cash. The Iceland bank I had it all in. Gone. Nothing left. And Tina’s left me.’

  More sobbing. Lulu shook her head.

  ‘Poor Roger.’

  Graeme, wearing Lulu’s satin robe and looking as bed-ugly as Lulu could ever have imagined.

  ‘Oh, he’ll get over it. When he says he’s lost everything, he means his liquid assets. And his silicone ones. Don’t worry about Roger. Do worry about my half of the cash he was putting up against this.’

  Lulu patted the bulkhead of her houseboat. Her life’s savings and now the only asset she had in the world. Apart from the little bit of Charlie growing inside her.

  She looked at Graeme.

  ‘Thank you. And thank you for
being there last night and not trying anything. I’ll always remember that.’

  ‘That’s okay, Lulu. Seems I’m always destined to get bested by Charlie. What do you want to do about Belle Hotel?’

  ‘Let me think about it. My mind’s all over the place. Charlie’s got five days to pay the other five grand and you can bet your bottom dollar he’ll take it to the wire again. Then there’ll be another five grand five days later, until he gets the debt down. He’ll never do that on his own.’

  Graeme went to get his clothes from where he’d optimistically stowed them in Lulu’s locker.

  ‘Bye then, Lulu. Shall I tell them you’re, er, unwell, at work.’

  Lulu nodded and welled up. She kissed her hand and pressed it gently over the executive head chef embroidery covering Graeme’s heart.

  Then, when he was gone, Lulu went back to bed to decide what to do with the rest of her life.

  Charlie slept well, considering the broken wrist, bankruptcy, impending fatherhood and incest. Rebinding Franco’s book had calmed him. As he worked his way back to the present from 1973, he started to see a pattern emerging.

  ‘Oh my God.’

  Franco. Built Belle Hotel up from nothing. All there to see in bills, recipes and receipts. Even the Dulux paint colour cards for the two-tone effect in the lobby. When had Charlie last painted the lobby? Franco’s book had the answer: 1999, the year the old man died. Then a steady decline that, if he’d only bothered to reflect, to look back in Franco’s book, would have saved Charlie a boat load of bother.

  This sudden self-awareness, and perhaps a bit of the anger management course rubbing off, calmed Charlie the morning of 14 October 2008, the first of his five days to save Belle Hotel from bankruptcy. That and the couple of blue V, Valiums Janet had palmed him when she’d helped him up to room 20.

  Charlie roused himself from bed, slipped into his bloody chef’s jacket and took Franco’s book back down to its rightful place on the shelf above the pass. He wanted to be a better man, or at least get back to the guy he’d been at catering college. In love with food, in love with Lulu, in love with Belle Hotel. But it was all so complicated. Now what?