by Cocktails
I widened my eyes at her, pausing to find my words before saying, ‘Seriously?’
Mia grinned. ‘I’ve been reading a lot of self-help books, but I’m not wrong.’
‘No, you’re not wrong.’
‘Good! So we’re both going to make an effort to live our lives to the fullest.’ She smiled, taking a large bite of her food. ‘You know, this sea bass really is fab. Light, fluffy, with just a hint of garlic and a beautifully crispy skin… yum.’
I blinked. ‘You’re messing with me.’
‘Of course I’m messing with you, sweetheart. It tastes like fish.’
Chapter Six
I posted my review and photographs on the Bottoms Up! website that night and emailed a photo of the receipt to the admin team, which I had to do in order to receive a reimbursement for the discounted rate to apply. Writing about the meal gave me a sense of achievement. I took my time, describing things in detail – the flavours, textures and aromas. I took pride in trying to capture those experiences in words. It was fun.
I forgot how much I loved thinking about food, considering how things went together. I loved looking at the dishes and assessing the colour, composition and balance. Each dish was a work of art to behold, and a journey in flavour. I loved that my opinion mattered, that someone cared if I thought the caper sauce overpowered the pollock in the dish, or that the scallops had been overcooked by about five seconds. All these little things I used to notice and obsess over, things that used to annoy everyone around me when we went out to eat; they were useful. Plus, I liked the idea of getting more points than NotQuiteBlumenthal who seemed to slate everything and was still top of the leaderboard.
I thought about what I’d told Ricardo when he asked about cookery school. Did I really believe I wouldn’t be able to hack it in a kitchen, that I’d run scared, upset by the sweating intensity and aggressive banter? I must not have at the time, because I’d enrolled, and in those few months I had been so inspired, enjoying learning much more than I ever had before. I had felt like an artist. I wondered when it was that I had started assuming I couldn’t do things.
The next morning I woke and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling I had stared up at for endless years as a happy child, a grumpy teenager and a satisfied 20-something. How did someone get to nearly 30 without dreams? It seemed like no one cared that Rob had cheated, that he’d taken advantage of me for years, and then left me. It was a reflection on me. It was my fault. I was a pushover. I was a dreamless pleaser and I had no one to blame but myself. And that was unfair, but also… it was true.
My phone rang and I looked, paused, and answered it anyway.
‘Rob.’
‘Hey, babe!’ He sounded too cheerful. But his voice was warm, soft. Made me think of those nights when he’d crawl into bed and tell me a story about his day, but tell it like it was a fairy tale or a kids’ story. The man could make going to the corner shop for a pack of Rizlas into an epic adventure. I took a breath and hardened myself. No more doormat.
‘Uh… hi. How’s it going?’
‘Great, great! I’m gonna be at Ministry! How wicked is that?’
‘Yeah. Wicked…’ I paused. ‘So, why are you calling?’
‘Oh.’ He paused. ‘I just wanted to share that with you… check in. I mean… I know we’re not together and that’s on me. But after all these years… you’re kind of like my best friend, you know? And I wanted to tell you.’
I nodded silently, smiling a little into the phone. My eyes watered and I looked up at the ceiling again, feeling an infinite sadness, but also a relief. He felt my loss. He was sad.
‘Also… I got the council tax bill, and I was wondering, you know, because I’m not used to paying it, if you could help me out a little, just until I get on my feet?’
‘Why don’t you ask Leah?’ I asked, my hands shaking with rage, but my voice even and light.
‘Well, it’s early days, babe. That’d be a bit rude, don’t you think?’
He was serious. He was actually serious.
‘Ruder than asking the girl you dumped to pay your bills for you?’
‘Ah, right, yeah, I see.’ He spoke so slowly, like his brain was trying to catch up with his mouth. Had he always spoken so slowly?
‘I saw you in the magazines, with her.’ I don’t know why I said it, what the point was. I was giving in to him, letting him think I cared.
‘Hey now.’ His voice was soft and warm, trying to soften the blow. ‘Remember when we used to laugh about those articles, babe. They’re still as full of shit as they always were. That hasn’t changed. And we’ve got history, haven’t we? Years of friendship. That still matters – that will always matter.’
I nodded against the phone, and then cleared my throat. ‘Yeah, I guess you’re right.’
‘So, as friends, do you think you could –’
I hung up.
The first step on the road to no longer being a doormat. Although I did wish I’d shouted, ‘Fuck you!’ down the phone.
The phone rang again, and I answered it immediately. ‘Look, Rob, seriously. I will –’
‘Hello?’ a female voice asked. ‘Is that Savannah Curtis?’
‘Yes?’ Please don’t be Leah. Please don’t be Leah.
‘This is Alba from Bottoms Up! - is now a good time?’
Oh great, this is the part where they get you to try and sign up for something or buy something. Should have known better than to trust Jacques flirting with some dodgy guy for decent information.
‘Oh, um, hi?’
‘Sorry to bother you so early. Have you got five minutes?’ Her voice was clipped and smart, as if she wanted me to know she was just asking out of courtesy.
‘Sure… I’m sorry, did I mess up? Was something wrong with the review?’
She chuckled down the line, and I relaxed.
‘No, not at all. In fact, I was hoping you could come into the office and have a chat with me? We’ve got a sister company with some different opportunities, similar to Bottoms Up! but at a slightly different level. Are you available today?’
This doesn’t sound right.
‘Today?’
‘Yes.’
I looked at my watch.
‘Sure, I start work at seven, but –’
‘Wonderful!’ Alba’s voice was loud and insistent, and I could visualize her clearly in my head, with a razor-sharp bob and dark lipstick, wearing a power suit. ‘Two p.m? I’ll email over the address, but we’re not far from Tottenham Court Road.’
‘Do I need to bring anything?’
‘Like what?’ She sounded amused.
‘I… have no idea.’
‘Just bring yourself, and an open mind.’
Oh God, that sounded worrying.
‘Well, I work in a burlesque bar, so that pretty much comes with the territory.’ I laughed nervously.
‘Ah, fabulous! We’ll see you at two, then, Savannah.’
‘Right, thanks.’
I put down the phone and blinked. Well, things were suddenly happening in my life.
* * *
A few hours later, I was sitting in Alba’s office. Everything I had visualized was completely wrong. She met me in the reception with a grin, sticking out a hand.
‘Hi, Savannah, so good to meet you!’
Her long, straight blonde hair fell over her shoulders, and she was wearing jeans, a striped T-shirt and a royal blue blazer. Her stiletto heels were so thin I wasn’t sure how she was walking as fast as she was.
‘You too,’ I mumbled, standing up.
‘Come on then, let me show you through!’
I followed Alba through to her office, where she gestured at me to take a seat, and offered me a coffee. I assumed she would buzz through and someone would bring it in, but she used a little coffee machine in the corner of her office.
‘I’m addicted.’ She made a face as she placed the cup down in front of me. ‘I’m trying to limit myself, but I’m pretty much 80 per cent caff
eine.’
I nodded, and smiled politely.
‘So,’ she eased into her chair. ‘I guess you’re wondering why you’re here.’
I nodded again.
She smiled widely. ‘We’re impressed, Savannah. Your review was one of the best-written posts we’ve had on the site. It’s rare we get someone who offers so much attention to detail, who can identify flavours and describe them well. The hint of fennel in that salmon dish you had at Cafe Argentine last night? The chef read your review this morning and noticed one of his team was making the dish incorrectly. That’s the effect we can have here. We want restaurants to be the best they can, and for reviews to be helpful, not a way to hold restaurant manager’s hostage.’
I nodded. This all sounded good.
‘Also, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but most people don’t actually taste their food. They gobble it down without realising they’re eating a celeriac mash instead of potato gratin. You know your flavours.’
‘Well, I love food.’
‘You’re a cook?’ she asked, pausing with the espresso cup close to her lips.
‘A bartender,’ I said warily. ‘A damn good bartender.’
‘Well, I’d imagine so, the way you described those cocktails. You really have a gift.’
I thought about Ricardo’s comment about my magic mouth, and smiled to myself.
‘So, the thing I’m really excited to talk to you about is one of our offshoots – The Restaurateur Club. It’s an exclusive members club that is only available to absolute foodies and we don’t advertise its existence. Like a secret society. Any one who wants to join must be recommended by at least two existing members. We currently highlight some of the best restaurants in the world.’
‘Wow.’ I couldn’t even imagine what that might be like. Being so rich you were a member of a club just to find new places to eat.
‘Yeah. It’s pretty cool. It was my concept,’ Alba grinned at me. ‘People like to feel like they know about things other people don’t know about.’
‘But what stops them just telling people about these restaurants?’
‘Oh, they can absolutely tell people – the existence of them isn’t a secret – but our members pay a substantial fee to get priority reservations and lots of other perks. Non-members could be waiting up to a year. Everyone loves something they can’t have. Cafe Argentine was one of them, but they’ve grown and expanded, become more about a wider audience. Some of other restaurants owned by the same group are on the list, and are more exclusive.’
It was genius.
‘Where...would I fit into this?’
‘Well, I’ve been concerned for a while now that we have no way to check on the quality of our recommendations. They were initially selected by the top food critics we work with, but the staff get to know their faces and expect that they’re probably going to write a review, so we can’t send those people back to check that the standard are being upheld. Restaurants want to be on the list, obviously, and they pay well to be on there, but if they’re not providing a great experience I’m going to have unhappy customers. And seeing as this project is my baby, I want to ensure quality control. We need someone who appears to be a normal member but is in fact reporting back to us. And I think you’re the best person to do that.’
I froze, ‘But NotQuiteBlumenthal has the highest rating on the site.’
Alba snorted, ‘Ah you’ve noticed that? That guy is a hack, a total moaner who takes joy out of giving negative reviews. I need someone who can be balanced and...’
‘And what?’
‘Someone who seems like they might belong on The Restaurateur Club’s list.’
‘Yeah, I’m sure there’s lots of bartenders on that list.’ I snorted.
‘Well yes, that is one of the issues.’
‘I’m not quitting my job.’ I was surprised by how much strength was in my voice, how much I cared about working at the Martini Club. Or maybe I just needed a bit of stability when everything else in my life had changed so rapidly.
Alba smiled. ‘You don’t have to quit your job. Our members are discerning when it comes to quality dining so it would just be good if you had a background that it would make you a foodie. Even though you’d eat for free at any places on the Restaurateur Club list there is the issue of explaining how a bartender would afford a membership. We need something that means when they make your reservations, it won’t be surprising that you’re a Restaurateur Club member.’
‘I’m an absolute nobody, sorry. Last night was the first time I’ve been out to dinner in months.’
‘You mean you’ve got no industry connections? Previous jobs or projects?’ She watched as I shook my head. ‘Family members?’
Ah, of course.
‘You know.’
‘Of course I know, you’ve done nothing to hide who you are or protect yourself from the media, except by living a very normal life.’
‘Well, that’s done me well so far,’ I replied. ‘So would that be enough, my mum being famous?’
‘Enough to explain away a very expensive membership, sure.’
‘I wouldn’t have to… answer questions about her, or anything like that?’ I felt suddenly sick at the thought, but Alba shook her head.
‘No, it just… builds a backstory. The staff sometimes check the names of the Restaurateur Club members coming, to make sure they know who needs special treatment. Knowing you’re Persephone Black’s daughter should ensure you get the star treatment. And if you don’t, I want to know that too.’
‘Would we still be sitting here if I didn’t have a famous mum?’
Alba patted my hand. ‘I’m sure you’ve been burnt before, but really, I just do my research. Consider it the outcome of a career in marketing – you have talent, but you’ve also got a backstory that makes you easy to sell. No one will ask you about your mother. There’s got to be loads of people wandering around London with famous parents.’
She saw me hesitate, and added, ‘We’ll pay for your time, too, of course.’
I secretly hated the idea of my mother being responsible for anything of mine. I wanted Alba to tell me that regardless of that tiny piece of pointless fame, it was my skill, my way with food and flavours that was getting me noticed. But I just had to get over it.
‘Okay, sign me up.’
* * *
My Restaurateur Club card arrived a week later, sat in a velvet box, with gilded letters on rose gold. It was ridiculously ostentatious, and made me feel special. The yearly membership to The Restaurateur Club was in the thousands, just for getting priority reservations and some other perks. But when I logged on to their website and saw what restaurants they had on their list, and how easy it would be for me to get a reservation, I started to see the point. Every famous person must be a member, an easier, simpler way than needing to name drop to get what you wanted. I could almost taste Chef Romero’s famous charred artichoke hearts with spiced hollandaise at Parisienne, or the gold-dipped churros with salted caramel from La Borra. I grinned to myself and waited patiently for Alba to email me, letting me know where she wanted me to go.
A few days later, Alba got in touch to ask if I wanted to visit Razamataz, the latest hip ‘coffee bar experience’ around Leicester Square. It was on the ground floor of The Grand Hotel, and I was pretty sure it had won some sort of award for doing something brilliant with avocados.
The hotel matched its name, the gilded letters and ancient brick somehow shocking down a side road from Leicester Square. I suddenly regretted wearing jeans, and walked past the doorman with a sense of being fraudulent. If in doubt, I would pretend to be a lost tourist. Surely I had retained enough of my GCSE Spanish for that.
The inside was just as beautiful. High ceilings, marble floors and beautiful people standing behind the reception desk as young professionals with MacBooks and beanies seemed to lounge on every available surface. Seeing their scruffy jeans as they sat on velvet sofas, I wondered who the hell had come up with this
concept. And then I figured the jeans were designer, and it probably cost a lot of money to look like you were poor. It made me feel better about my jeans, though.
’Hi there, can we help?’ The shiny haired receptionists had matching white smiles.
‘I was just looking for Razamataz. Savannah Curtis. Am I in the wrong place?’ God, I’d screwed this up already.
She checked her tablet, looked up and smiled, ‘Ah Miss Curtis, we’re excited to be one of the first places on your Restaurateur Club journey. Let me show you through!’
The high heeled woman in the dark suit led me through the wide hotel lobby, and around a corner to a small staircase. ‘Just down there. Try the smashed avocado with quail’s eggs! It’s to die for!’ She paused then looked back, ‘I’ve got to say, I love your mum! Is she performing in London any time soon?’
So much for not answering questions.
‘Uh, no, I don’t think so.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ the girl blushed. ‘Okay, have a lovely time!’
And then she was gone. I blinked in the face of such enthusiasm, and went down the dark staircase. What kind of weird concept was this? Why put a hidden cafe in a posh hotel? It was like things only mattered when they were secret, and only the select few knew about them.
The coffee shop was so far removed from the high street variety it seemed like some sort of joke. It was indoor, but the bright lights and glass walls, interspersed with growing vines and low, wooden seating, gave the impression of being a rooftop garden. It was halfway between a tiki bar and a well-organized allotment. The knives and forks sat in tin cans, there was a huge bowl of fruit on the table. All around, there were people on computers, reading papers, having design meetings. They all looked vaguely familiar, like I’d seen them in a magazine once, or they were in the background when the TV was on. Everyone looked normal, but attractive. They looked as if they could be famous, and they were just waiting for people to realize. There was a slightly rowdier group in the corner, already on the Champagne, and I settled myself further away from them, opposite the bar.
