The Belle Hotel

by Craig Melvin

  Judith liked the recipes, too, she’d tried them at home on her Aga. Talking of eggs, there was a little too much of them in the manuscript. That’d have to go, forthwith. But Judith liked the anecdotes. Hope knocked lightly and swapped a double macchiato for the coq-au-vin (corr. coq au vin) chapter.

  Lulu’s egg was growing, too. She was putting on weight and finding it harder to nip up to the flat for the odd curtain swatch than she used to. Charlie had been too busy to go with her to the scan, but he’d cried when she’d shown him the photo so that sort of made up for it.

  ‘Beautiful. Can I put this up?’

  So baby Blue spent the next six months pinned up above the deep fat fryer, her thumbsucking profile gently yellowing like chips.

  Things were cooking for Belle Hotel. The bedrooms were set for a refurb, Paul Peters and Hookes Bank not withstanding. Franco’s was doing a bomb. Most of Janet’s barflies had decamped to The Duke of Wellington, her new local. Suddenly a whole slice of Brighton and London life was flowing through the pub’s newly painted doors. Hotel Epicure’s customers, smiled Lulu, as she took in tables of pressed hair and creased slacks.

  Charlie added two new characters to his brigade. He had a new, leaner, Meat and – something unheard of in Franco’s day – Salad. Yes, a whole human being dedicated to vegetables. Charlie had found his handshake a little limp, but he’d come highly recommended from The Savoy, via Johnny’s old mate the night-shift manager. Salad had something of a thing for allotments and Charlie gladly handed over his spade. The ruddy-cheeked fellow was to be found up on Whitehawk Hill most afternoons tilling the soil between shifts. There were rumours he was doing Dawn, too, an arrangement that suited Charlie only too well, though he sometimes missed those chilly afternoons up there in the warm embrace of her railway carriage. It put Dawn out of temptation’s way and that was a good thing. Hey, ho. He’d made his bed and he’d have to lie in it – though with Lulu growing as she was, Charlie increasingly found himself being shoved onto the floor to make room for Mummy and bump.

  The Belle Hotel Cookbook was typeset, sent to proofreading and thence to repro. Judith demanded a signed copy of the proofs from Charlie, added her own mark to the sheets, and filed the shiny block in the cabinet by Hope’s pumps.

  Lulu entered her third trimester and her belly button popped out like it had when she was a kid. Keying of corrections took place on the page proofs, which was now actually a book, no longer a manuscript, and Lulu set about finding a spot to give birth to baby Blue.

  After her lone trips to the clinic, there was no way she was going to have the baby away from Belle Hotel. The big question was; where would a birthing pool fit?

  At London Bridge, Charlie helped Lulu down from the ageing Thameslink. Minutes later they boarded the shiny Bombadier for the short shunt to Charing Cross.

  London somehow felt safer with her and his unborn baby. And with Johnny gone, going down the Strand seemed less loaded too. They hobbled across the compacted traffic and into the brightly lit lobby of Hookes.

  Paul Peters came down ten minutes later, apologising: there had been a misunderstanding at last night’s staff party and he’d just been debriefing the staff member involved. Lulu found it hard to look at Peters, though the Homer Simpson tie fetchingly set against a monogrammed shirt did rather draw the eye.

  Peters led the couple into the lift, all backslaps and bonhomie for Charlie, portly courtesy for Lulu, and whisked the heirs of his favourite client up to his oak-lined office. Generations of venerable bankers, none in anything remotely resembling a novelty tie, glared down at Lulu from their gilt frames. A woman. Running a business. Pah.

  Pah, indeed. Lulu handed Paul Peters the ‘second for and on behalf of Haddon Publishing’ cheque. She held her end for a moment longer than Peters was expecting. He tugged the cheque free.

  ‘Good show! I say, this calls for a sherry.’

  Peters decanted the golden fluid into three small glasses. They duly chinked, chin-chinned and downed their liquid elevenses. Peters had already enjoyed a nip of Scotch for nineses, to ward of the rumours that were creeping under his door.

  ‘So, tell me about your plans.’ He looked at Charlie.

  ‘We’re going for a new golden age at Belle Hotel.’ It was Lulu, self-appointed spokesperson, who spoke, ‘and Charlie is going to win back his star.’

  ‘Sss…’

  ‘Pardon, Charlie? Are you all right? Another amontillado, perhaps?’

  ‘What he’s hissing about, Paul, is the fact that this time he wants to make his Michelin plural. Stars.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Well, jolly good luck to you both. I was wondering about popping down for a shopping trip tomorrow and thought I might add an overnight.’

  ‘Of course, you are most welcome. We’re almost full but I can accommodate you in room twenty, on friends and family rates.’

  Charlie hissed once more. Peters paying for his stay, unheard of. The banker fumbled behind his double Windsor.

  ‘Put it this way,’ Lu took the velvet gloves off, ‘you think about dropping your extortionate twenty per cent unsecured lending rate and I’ll think about throwing in a treat tray.’

  They crossed London in a taxi soon after that.

  ‘I can’t believe you said that to Paul Peters. He was one of Franco’s oldest associates.’

  ‘Yes, and he’s been stiffing you ever since Franco died. Screw him. It’s time somebody stood up to him. Don’t worry, Charlie, he’ll bounce back. I might even comp his room for him if he makes it down. So, here we are. How are you feeling?’

  If he was honest, Charlie was quite nervous. This was after all publishing, making public your food and soul. Lulu felt it, too. She’d dragged the bulk of it kicking and screaming out of him. Let him have his day, take the credit.

  Hope came rushing in and was all over Charlie. She offered Lulu a Tiffany-ringed hand.

  ‘Do come through, we’re all terribly excited to be showing it to you. Judith has already taken it up to the MD and they think we might be onto a winner. But I didn’t tell you.’

  Lulu waddled, aware of her saggy behind, after the ra-ra skirted pertness skipping along ahead of them. She watched Charlie’s gaze, but… nothing. He seemed more intent on a locked door up ahead.

  ‘Lu, that’s where they keep all the unpublished fiction. Slush pile, they call it. You should see inside.’

  Judith was on the telephone when they arrived at her glass panel. The window was open behind her, she’d obviously been up having a gasp when the dratted thing had rung.

  She pointed across them. They looked. The Haddon Author hall of fame had a new face. Charlie’s: a crop of the shot taken for the book jacket. He’d arrived, nuzzling between Clarissa Dickson Wright and Peter Gordon.

  ‘Come, come,’ the sound of clapping emitted from Judith’s room. She had finished her telephone conversation.

  ‘That was Marcus Jones, our sales director. Good news, the Waterstones team have bagged you a window in every store and a dedicated table at each of their bigger branches. I can smell success. Sit, please sit. Hope, we’ll have that little bottle of pop now, please. Lulu, darling, you are blooming. When is baby cooked?’

  The half bottle of champagne went off with a muted pop and the three of them toasted the book, Charlie hugging his copy.

  ‘The Belle Hotel Cookbook!’

  The glass of champagne went down like nectar and in a jiffy Charlie and Lulu were toasted, trundled out into the lift and Judith had turned to her next project.

  ‘Christ, that woman works it.’

  Charlie nodded at Lulu and nuzzled her a little closer. The pressing down of baby and the dropping of the lift made her want to pee.

  ‘I gotta go, what time is it? Oh, let’s get a cab straight to Gavvers. We don’t want to keep the publicist waiting.’

  ‘The publicist. Who said anything about a publicist? I thought he was a friend of yours.’

  ‘Yes, a friend of mine whose job is to generate and manage pu
blicity for a public figure, for a work such as a book. The Haddon publicity team are brilliant, but we need to invest in Charlie Sheridan, the celeb chef brand.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Lu, I could do without that kind of gastroporn.’

  ‘Come on, grumpy. His name is William. Will. And he’s very shrewd and good at his job. Kept the Hotel Epicure story sizzling in the press long after its sell-by date.’

  The cab took them to Mayfair and a waiting Will the publicist.

  ‘Charmed, I’m sure. Lulu has told me lots about you, but I know I’ll read more. Is that it?’

  Charlie handed Will The Belle Hotel Cookbook. He weighed the tome in both hands.

  ‘Nice, manages to look both now and then. I like it.’

  He gave it back. Charlie knew he’d read it looking for sizzle. This was a guy who thrived on gossip, anecdote and chat. He’d be hungry for more than the book could offer. Scandalous Hors D’Oeuvre to the £19.99 main menu.

  ‘I’m famished. Shall we eat?’

  Will led the three of them down into Le Gavroche restaurant. It looked as beautiful as it did when he did those two weeks, what, nearly twenty years ago. Charlie had a salut to do.

  ‘If you’d both excuse me for a mo, I need to go say hi to Michel Roux Jr. We spent some time together once. I want to go ask him what you have to do to get two stars these days. Back in a mo.’

  The French waiter ushered Will and Lulu to their table. Will had fancied his chances with Lulu late one night at Hotel Epicure. Frankly, if she hadn’t been so knackered at the time, she might have given him a crack.

  Michel Roux Jr looked pleased to see Charlie, but busy. Thumbs up, rolling of those eyes and a nod in the direction of the Remanco spewing lunch requests by the dozen. Charlie nodded back, no need to break his focus. Catch you later, ami, keep on cooking. Charlie was nearly knocked over by a chef racing towards the pass with a pot of Bouillabaisse. It was Guillaume, son of L’Épuisette in Marseille. So this is where he’s working. Quick bonjours and that promise of the visit to Belle Hotel for lunch on Charlie gets renewed. Chef Michel jerked his head to get Guillaume back to his station and Charlie ducked back into the restaurant.

  He arrived back at the table in time to see the publicist push the à la carte under his Burberry overcoat and pay deep attention to the set-lunch card. Cheapskate. So that was the way it was going to be. Charlie hoped his fees reflected this fiscal prudence, too.

  The set lunch looked good. Charlie and Lulu had soufflé Suisse to start and sea bream for mains. The publicist looked through his rimless glasses and plumped for terrine of pork and foie gras to start and slowly braised pork cheeks for the trot on. He ordered a bottle of Châteauneuf du Pape, the cheapest of the three, Charlie noticed, perfectly matched to his lunch, the swine, and hopeless with both their choices. Charlie hoped he’d be as single-minded when it came to promoting the book. He looked down at The Belle Hotel Cookbook. Beautiful. Hard embossed back under glossy cover. Scarlet ribbon bookmark dangling down from a hundred, his favourite page. Lobster Belle Hotel.

  ‘So what is our angle?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Our angle. Help me here, Lulu, I’ve got to have a bit of new news to set the press wagging when we launch the book. What you got?’

  Charlie looked at Lulu. No, not that.

  Their starters arrived, they took their time to appreciate the dishes. It gave Charlie time to think. He liked Michel Roux Jr’s cooking. And so did the Michelin inspectors, obviously. It had been a bit of a blow to go from three stars to two, not long after Michel Roux Jr took over from his father, but he’d soon adjusted to the idea and made the point that it suited his lighter interpretations of his father and uncle’s classic French dishes.

  ‘OK, Will. William. I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. English food. No, Sussex food. Food that knows where it’s come from, with a clear idea where it’s going, food that showcases the fabulous, often forgotten fact that we can grow and rear almost everything in this county.’

  ‘Yeees, good for Observer Food. What about the heat, Hello! and OK! factor?’

  ‘Well, he has just discovered—’

  ‘No, Lu. I will not be used in this way. Ouch. I mean. Sorry, Lu, please finish what you were going to say. It’s fine. I’m sorry I snapped.’

  Charlie managed his anger, the kick in the shin from Lulu acting as a remarkably efficient prompt. London’s chattering classes paused for what seemed like an awfully long time.

  ‘If you’d let me finish, Mr Hothead… Will, Charlie is tipped to be getting his Michelin star back next year. How about that?’

  ‘Good… enough,’ the publicist conceded, ‘I’m going to get you a paid gig that will do wonders for publicity. STOXO.’ Will thrummed his fingers on the thick linen tablecloth and dared Charlie to turn this down while he waited for his pig cheeks. They were lunched, closed, coated and booted onto a wind-whipped Park Lane before the hour of two.

  M&C SAATCHI

  CONTRACT

  TALENT: CHARLIE SHERIDAN

  CLIENT: STOXO STOCK CUBES FOR THE FOOD CHANNEL

  AD CAMPAIGN: BELLE HOTEL TASTES BETTER WITH STOXO

  AD DURATION: 30 SECONDS

  SCRIPT: ‘Remember how good homemade gravy used to taste? We do here at Belle Hotel. With real meat juices slowly simmered for that delicious home-cooked taste. Well, gravy tastes better with STOXO. I’m Charlie Sheridan, so take my word for it.’

  FEE: £4,000 buy out

  *

  Charlie had enjoyed his day at Shepperton Studios. The car turned up at 6am, as scheduled, he had a nice kip in the back. Then a little flirt with the make-up girl, nothing too heavy, he was a taken man now. She’d fucked up his barnet, good and proper back-combing it so he looked like that prat Russell Brand. And then they brought out the STOXO chef’s jacket and checked trousers. Red and black, Charlie looked like a giant STOXO cube. Thank God this was only going out on the Food Channel. Nobody watched the Food Channel, right? Four grand for a day’s work, silly money. If only Franco could see him now. Charlie texted Lulu all morning from his dressing room.

  Hi Lu, I’m in my dressing room now.

  Still in my dressing room.

  About to leave my dressing room and go on set.

  Wish me luck, break a leg or something.

  Oh, btw, we need to give Brampton £1800 by midday

  ‘Mr Sheridan, if we can have you on set now.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Are we done here, darling?’

  Charlie allowed himself a small peck on the cheek for the make-up girl, this was show business, and let himself be led across the dark sound stage to the ring of lighting holding a kitchen set. Made that Gary Rhodes Supertheatre from the Good Food Exhibition in the nineties look posh. As soon as Charlie stepped onto the platform the cupboards wobbled. The pans looked like they’d come from Argos and none of the hobs worked.

  ‘None of the hobs work.’

  ‘Er, we’ll put that in after, Jerry can we put that in after? Yes, good. Right-oh, er, Mr Sheridan, shall we have a go at a take?’

  ‘Charlie, call me Charlie. Can I have a drink please?’

  ‘Of course, what would you like, we’ll send a runner.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind. Lager, brandy, whatever. Something to, y’know calm me down.’

  Charlie stared out into darkness. One of the silhouettes spoke.

  ‘Charlie, hi, I’m Doug Duboeuf, brand manager STOXO Europe. Hi.’

  ‘Er, hi, Doug.’

  ‘Just before you give us your performance I wanted to let you know that we’ve invested in a creative treatment that will build to an advert to communicate the strong taste and flavour credentials of the STOXO cube. I don’t know if you are aware of this, Charlie, but the stock-cube sector is currently worth over £129 million, er, Charlie, and is in strong growth at five point one per cent. Isn’t that amazing? We’re confident that our innovative advert will bring double-digit growth to the stock-cube market, as consumer interest in stock cubes that
offer strong taste credentials remains strong.’

  ‘Right… good. My drink, thanks. Port. Yum. Thank you.’

  ‘Okay, Charlie. This is your director, Yan, speaking. Now, I’ve worked with the best of you guys: Jamie, Delia, Ainsley. Let’s see what you’ve got. How do you like to do these gigs? Wanna run a few off and we’ll just keep the camera rolling, or do you want me to action and cut each take you do?’

  Charlie could feel his breakfast sink rapidly into his bowels. He put the port down.

  ‘Er, can I take a quick look at the script again, please.’

  By 5pm the agency account director had calmed Doug Dubeouf down sufficiently to allow Charlie off set. He’d forced Yan to assure him that Charlie delivering his speech in three-word bursts that had to be read out to him before each take, with a new camera angle in between each burst, would give the STOXO ad a fresh, jump-cut feel that would very much appeal to the younger demographic that STOXO were seeking to attract. It made Franco’s ‘Goes down well at the Belle’ seem like a monologue.

  What hadn’t helped, Charlie reflected the next day, was that he’d had a word with himself, as Lulu had told him to do when he started being a dick. That meant putting the bottle of port back under the non-working sink and getting on with the job in hand. Charlie did his best with the nerves. Franco had been wooden, Charlie was concrete, but it was getting increasingly difficult to concentrate, what with the heat, the lights, the bad-tempered clients and Yan’s bad attitude.

  Still, the journey back in the car had been good. Charlie had slept the whole way, arriving back at Belle Hotel refreshed for evening service. His fingers stunk of those revolting stock cubes for days.

  His loyal staff had insisted on a ‘premiere’ in ‘Franco’s’ and pissed themselves laughing at Charlie’s wooden performance until he threw his clog at the telly, thus robbing them of the last ten seconds of the advert. The bit that Charlie had to confess, once he’d calmed down later, was probably the best bit. It was the bit where Charlie had to stay schtum and stir looking moody, ‘like you want to stab somebody’, Yan had helpfully offered Charlie as motivation. That was the bit, Charlie told the whole of Franco’s, where I got to show my ‘Born a Chef’ tattoo. ‘Born a Cock’ quipped Lulu, not for the first time, and the whole bar fell about.