by Craig Melvin
M&C Saatchi quibbled the bill, saying that STOXO had demanded money off from them. Still, two grand was better than a poke in the eye with a blunt stick, or some revolting plastic-tasting dehydrated stock substitute in your gravy. To add insult to injury, Will had sent Charlie for ‘media training’ after receiving feedback from the ad agency. Cost Charlie a bloody grand to have some bald, enthusiastic twat named Richard who’d once been on daytime TV make him read nursery rhymes to camera in a simulated live studio environment.
Spring sprung and summer sang. For the first time in years, by the first week in July Charlie had something serious to bank. Paul Peters seemed unaffected by Lulu’s attack. More chipper than anything. Charlie downed his sherry and mumbled something about getting off, he needed to get back down the track pronto. At seven that evening, Brighton’s B-list would be gathering for the launch of The Belle Hotel Cookbook to the world’s press.
Charlie was fairly unimpressed by the whole circus, but had promised Lulu that he’d go along with it for the sake of the business. Anyway, Judith Langdon had prised a grand out of Haddon for the bash and, as he’d just banked it, Charlie thought he’d better go back and make it look worth it.
Will the publicist promised great things from the Metrop, a star turn from Damien Black, his TV mind-tricking client. Charlie was more excited about the news that Bing, from the fishing trip, and now Brighton’s Rat Pack impersonator, would be bringing the bones of his band and digging up the Ol’ Blue Eyes show he’d wowed Franco with back in ’99.
Charlie sat feet up on the train and thought about the function. He was the happiest he’d felt in years. Since the day he’d won the Michelin star. Only happier, probably, because this happiness included Lulu in his life. Charlie realised he was happier with Lulu and without a star than he’d been the other way round. Both would be great, obviously, and a wonderful gift, but he’d keep what he had over what he had lost any day. He’d ordered the stuff for all twenty signature dishes from the book and was ticking each from a hastily scribbled list:
Kippers
Eggs B
Scallops Sheridan
Omelette AB
B Baisse
C-au-V
Lobster BH
Venison/Beetroot
F & Chips
Spaghetti V
Shep P
Rösti (Salmon)
Baron of B
Bubble & Sq
Tarte Tatin
Trifle
Choc T
Apple C
Ch Souff
Welsh Rbit
What to do about presentation? The recently reupholstered train flew across Franco’s viaduct. He’d serve it on the pages of the book. Yes, but how? On the silver platters with… glass on top. Glass balanced on, yes, the pages underneath. It would take all his author’s copies, but what the hell,
Cab from the station, and Charlie flew in the back door, measured a platter with Franco’s old tape and made a call to Sussex Glaziers for forty shatterproof ovals… pronto.
Fish was already hunched over his puddings, getting most of them prepped and into the walk-in so that the two of them could double hand the mains and starters as Salad worked on the sides.
The restaurant was shut for lunch and Lulu passed most of the morning checking the newly bedded rooms for peeling paper and unsavoury stains on the floor. Moving around was proving difficult, it took her a good twenty minutes to puff her way up to bed. She was weeks off her due date, but no one had told baby Blue that.
‘Thanks, Jean. We’re putting Judith Langdon in here. Thought she’d like the jacuzzi. Have you dealt with that limescale yet?’
Lulu glanced out of the freshly cleaned window and spied the summer sun. She felt the glow of Belle Hotel’s coloured glass windows illuminating the pavement below.
Charlie was on the phone to Sinker. The lobsters were crap. What was he going to do about it? Fobbing him off with crayfish today of all days.
‘Come on, you fish-faced fuck. Get your finger out and get me some proper-sized lobster or I’ll be throwing your scaly ass in the pot when you get here.’
He threw the phone back on its receiver and laughed with Fish. That felt good. Kitchen/supplier etiquette was always paramount. Charlie was a changed man. But not that changed.
Seven o’clock and the place was buzzing. Will, the publicist, had secured a film crew from Living TV and they were interviewing Dame Maud Stephens in the lobby. Lulu had already moved her out of the camera line of the toilets and into view of the oak and lead-glass divide.
‘I was choked when I read The Belle Hotel Cookbook – so many memories. I knew Franco, and Larry, of course – spent many hours on the Brighton Belle talking, eating, drinking and learning lines, and quite a few here at the hotel, too.’
The ground floor was filling up. Guests poured down from their bedrooms: Faye Mentor and Mimi, Judith Langdon and Hope. Parvez chatted up Claire. Damien Black descended the outside of the building but the film crew, too busy with the Dame, missed it and he had to do the stunt over again. Charlie popped out of the kitchen to a smatter of applause – not yet folks, later – and spotted a sea of London A-list and the odd Brighton B-lister he knew and liked. Hey, Fatboy, how’s it going? He was pleased to see the crowd from the allotment talking to Peter André, and went over to hug his mum. Janet, newly slimmed down, was with Jack, who had washed his hair. Lulu had told Charlie that afternoon about the two of them being an item and now he was over the shock, Charlie, with some surprise, discovered that he felt kind of pleased.
Lulu waded through the crowd, hair and face dripping water.
‘The tap in the bar has just exploded.’
Janet laughed and fetched Franco’s bag.
‘Now then, love, isn’t it time you sorted yourself out with a plumber? I don’t think you can afford my rates.’
Bing swang from the chandelier and crooned Sinatra from the Sands, food flowed by on funky book-framed trays and Belle Hotel was the happiest she’d felt since Franco passed away. Tom arrived in a cab from Worthing, the senior citizens show came down early, and treated the crowd to a brace of Irish boyband numbers.
At nine the double bass was silenced with the clanging of ladle on pot and a bloodied Brampton crashed through the porthole doors.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. It gives me great pleasure to introduce you to Charlie Sheridan. Your chef, author and host.’
Charlie entered to riotous applause, mostly from Will the publicist, to say a few words about food, Franco and his book. As Will had told him that he would.
Charlie stood in the middle of the room and took in the faces looking at him. No words came. It didn’t matter. They smiled at him anyway. Charlie looked up at the ceiling of Belle Hotel, down at the floor of Belle Hotel and gave a glance around each of the four walls. In spite of his absolute self-destructive best efforts, the love of his life was still standing. And despite his other best efforts the other, most important love of his life was standing beside him. They’d done their growing up at Belle Hotel. Well, Lulu had. And now, finally, Charlie had grown up, too. He looked at Lulu, tears brimming over. Instead of giving the speech he’d prepared, Charlie simply went down on one knee.
‘Will you marry me?’
Then Sinker staggered in with Franco’s clock on his shoulder. He and Brampton had had a whip-round and got the clock out of hock. Couldn’t have the Belle Hotel Cookbook launch without the old tick-tock back in its rightful place. Tom did a couple of their old busking numbers and Charlie joined in with the hand claps and la, la, la’s.
They partied until Dawn spewed on the carpet and Lulu flung the lights on.
The London A-List and press caught the last train, the Brighton B-Listers poured out to waiting cabs and Judith Langdon et al rolled up to bed. As Franco’s clock bonged midnight, Lulu flopped next to Charlie on the banquette and her waters broke.
5 July 2009
Baby Blue Brunch!
Eggs Benedict
Kippers
Lemon meringue pie
Krug & Coffee
Charlie took the menu through to the restaurant and asked Emma, laying up the tables, for ten more.
‘And wake up Bing, this calls for Sinatra.’
Charlie slipped down to the cellar for a bottle of Franco’s finest.
Autumn was in the air as Granny and Blue moved eastwards along the seafront. Janet had taken her for the morning, to give Mummy a break. To let her take care of business, more like. Janet pushed the buggy, a present from the Bramptons, and hummed a little tune.
‘The wheels on the bus go round and round.’
All day long. She’d be happy to have her all day long, but Blue needed to be back to Mummy by twelve for her feed. Two hours, just time for Janet to do what she needed to do.
She’d checked with Jeremy Beaker first thing. Nice man. Old school, bit like Franco. Janet had enjoyed talking to him at the book launch. Amazing how much the man knew about their painting. Now Franco, Janet and the Mouse Catcher was hanging in Brighton Museum and she hoped she and Blue would be the first to see it. Blue went off to sleep and Janet cut back across the traffic through the Lanes and into Pavilion Gardens.
Charlie was in the kitchen working on a new dish. He had some fantastic fresh turbot flat on the deck and was looking at a crate of earthy veg Salad had brought down from the allotment. Charlie had always had a thing for tarragon and fish. Time to try it out. But he’d need to flash in some lardons to support the flavour of the turbot.
Lulu was outside, supervising the painting of her name over Charlie’s, which had in turn been painted over Franco’s
Lulu Sheridan: Licensed to Sell Intoxicating Liquor
The Belle Hotel Cookbook was now in its second printing. Everyone at Haddon was delighted. It stayed two weeks at the top of non-fiction hardbacks thanks, in part, to Will the publicist’s leaking of the magician and the miracle birth story to the red tops. Lulu smiled at the memory. Charlie was talking about writing a memoir, the full story of Belle Hotel. Lulu knew who’d be writing the bloody thing. As much as she protested, Lulu rather liked the idea.
*
Janet pushed Blue into the museum lift and caught sight of her ancient features in the mirror. Not so bad, for a granny. She loved her new life, its new purpose, and had no intention of moving up north. She was delighted with her houseboat and thought it ample compensation for her lifetime’s labours. That, and the monthly allowance Charlie and Lulu paid her tax free, for ‘plumbing services’. She spent most of it on Bluebell, anyway, apart from the odd night at the pub with Jack and the barfly crowd when the drinks were, as ever, on Janet.
She thought Lulu was making a good go of it at Belle Hotel. Not that she approved of everything, mind, the new flowers were a bit way out for Janet, but a lot of the girl’s gumption reminded her of Franco. Can-do attitude, they called it in her paper. It seemed to be working for Charlie. Faye Mentor had been back and was full of praise for the front-of-house staff. The Michelin inspectors were due again this winter and Janet hoped they’d take to Charlie’s new Sussex fad.
She’d joined them for the occasional family Monday lunch and, as far as her peanut pitted taste buds could tell, the food was fantastic. Charlie had been on telly recently advertising his stock cubes and for the Great British Menu. Sussex were beating the crap out of the Northerners, which cheered Charlie greatly. Not that Charlie fancied any of that TV celeb chef crap. But it was good for business, as Lulu said. Will the publicist was cooking up something new to do with reality TV and magic, but Charlie said he’d wait and see. And anyway, he’d do none of it until he got his star back.
‘Here we are.’
The lift shuddered to a halt on the museum’s second floor, the doors parted and Janet backed out. She had a moment’s panic as they threatened to cut baby Blue in two, but then a sensor called them off at the last moment.
Janet turned and pushed Blue out onto the balcony.
There it was.
Baby Blue let out a gurgle of joy. Janet cooed in delight. Blue had probably just filled her nappy, but it’s the thought that counts. Janet looked up, through brimming eyes, at the spot-lit watercolour.
‘Look, Blue. That’s your grandad. Franco. And that’s me. And that’s a little kitty cat. Meow. Do you see? Your grandfather fought in the kipper wars. They changed our fortunes for ever.’
Janet stood a while longer under her younger self, then turned the buggy back towards Belle Hotel.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Mel Melvin for her love, support and ideas. Nick Sayers for years of advice and guidance. David Shrigley for the snappy cover. All at Unbound: Scott Pack, John Mitchinson, DeAndra Lupu, Jimmy Leach, Georgia Odd and Julian Mash.
The epigraph of this book is from Brillat-Savarin, The Philosopher in the Kitchen, a book I read at catering college and did a show about with a pillow stuffed up my shirt. We were lucky to have Albert Roux as our visiting professor.
I am grateful to my Creative Writing MA tutors at Sussex: Dr Sue Roe and Irving Weinman. Also to you, dear Belle Hotel reader, your table awaits…
A Note on the Author
Craig Melvin holds an MA in Creative Writing from Sussex University and is a restaurant consultant in London and Brighton. He was mentored by Albert Roux at catering college and has worked in the restaurant and hotel business ever since. He also runs www.lunarlemonproductions.com with his wife Mel.
[email protected]
Twitter: @ccmelvin
Instagram: @melvincraig
Facebook: Craig Melvin Brighton
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