“So what happened?”
“I just partied all the time, every day. Tried to persuade myself that everything was OK, that it was just a lifestyle. But then one morning I was hung over as usual and found a beer in the fridge, which I opened. So there I was, sitting at the kitchen table with a sandwich and a beer and all of I sudden it was like I could see myself. Drinking beer for breakfast. Alone. I got into such a hell of a panic that I poured the beer down the sink and then just sat there, trembling. I started to count back how many days in a row I’d been drinking. It came to over a month. Jesus, I wasn’t even thirty and I was becoming an lush. So I decided to never drink again at work. Not even as much as a low alcohol beer.”
“And you’ve stuck to that?” Agnes looked impressed at Paolo. What he’d told her changed her image of him. Suddenly it wasn’t the same person sitting there across the table from her. Paolo the alcoholic; no, she’d never have guessed that.
“I have, actually,” he answered with a faint smile. “I’ve craved one, of course, when others have opened up a beer after work and all that, gone out partying, but then I’ve just thought about that morning in my kitchen. And I’ve refrained. Do you understand? I was this close.…”
Paolo pinched together his thumb and index finger in the air. “This close to becoming an alcoholic. And I wasn’t even aware of it myself.”
“You’ve never said.…”
“No, it’s my little secret.” He made a face. “I’d be grateful if you didn’t say anything to the others at work.”
“Of course not.…” They sat in silence for a while. What could she say? She hadn’t had a clue about anything that Paolo had told her. Not to mention what Lussan had been through. She’d been so self-absorbed that she didn’t see how bad her friend was actually feeling. That she’d even been to see a doctor. And gotten medicine. She knew that Lussan drank a lot, too much even, but she’d shut her eyes to the rest. Let Lussan comfort her instead. She felt ashamed.
Paolo reached a hand out across the table. He seemed to read her mind. “Agnes, it’s not your fault Lussan’s depressed,” he said gently.
“Maybe not,” she said desolately, “but I should have seen it. I’m her best friend. Why didn’t I try to put a stop to her drinking at least?”
“How? How would you have stopped it?”
“I don’t know.… Somehow. Done something!”
“It’s not your fault, Agnes. OK?” repeated Paolo.
“So why didn’t I see what was happening?”
“Because you didn’t know what to look for. She hardly looks like someone on a park bench, now, does she?”
“No. She never even gets drunk.” Agnes looked defiantly at Paolo. “Until now.”
“There you are,” he said, throwing his hands out in resignation. “I saw it because I recognized it. And hardly even then. She’s a tough cookie, Lussan is. She’s been standing on her own two feet for so long that she hasn’t realized that the best ploy is not always to keep yourself upright but to learn to land softly.”
They sat in silence for a while. The kitchen clock ticked. It was approaching half past one. “So what do we do now?” asked Agnes finally.
“Let her sleep it off. And then we’ll talk to her tomorrow. This time it’ll be harder for her to get away with it.”
“Do you think we can do enough for her?”
“There’s no such thing as enough. She has to do the difficult bits herself. Hopefully we can help her with them. Otherwise we’ll have to get help. Better help than this shit.” He picked up the bottle that he’d placed on the table. “I’m not leaving this behind,” he said and stood up. Agnes rose, too.
“Do we dare go?” she asked. Paolo shrugged.
“There’s nothing more we can do this evening anyway.” He headed for the door.
“Wait.” Agnes looked around her at the kitchen and caught sight of an empty envelope. She took the pen from Lussan’s bag and wrote her a short note. She wanted to know that they were thinking of her. That they were there for her, that they weren’t intending to let go of her. She ended with a hug and a little heart. Before they left the apartment, she slipped into the bathroom, emerging with an empty bucket. She placed it beside the bed, on which Lussan was still in a deep sleep. And then they crept out.
CHAPTER 41
THE NEXT MORNING, Agnes awoke with an uneasy feeling in her stomach. She hadn’t gotten home before the summer night had started to lighten and her sleep had been fitful. The first thing she thought of was Lussan: should she call her now? She looked at the clock. Twenty past ten. The chances were that Lussan was still sleeping. Just as well to wait a little.
She lay for a while in bed, until she suddenly remembered her lunch date. The lump in her stomach contracted another notch. She didn’t have the slightest inclination to go. She had more important things to do. And anyway, what would she say to Lola? Or Lola to her? Was Paolo right? Had she sent out the wrong signals? She got up and walked to the bathroom. Maybe she ought to go anyway, for the restaurant’s sake, for Kalle.
She had a long shower, wishing that the lump in her stomach could be washed away with soap and water, but she felt no less perturbed when she stepped out of the steaming bathroom.
At a quarter to twelve, she called Lussan. No reply. She tried her cell phone. No reply there either. Agnes tapped in a text message and sent it away: Hello? Are you there? She waited for a few minutes, but nothing came back. She should go there, to Sankt Eriksgatan, she thought, but she’d have to leave now if she was to make it in time to her meeting with Beatrice Brunelle. On her way to the subway, she called Paolo. He seemed happy to hear from her, even if he sounded suspiciously awoken.
“Sure,” he said quickly when Agnes had explained the situation. “I’ll head off to Lussan’s this minute.” She felt a little more at ease after the call, but her guilty conscience was still grinding away. What kind of friend was she? As soon as she had that blasted lunch over and done with, she’d call Lussan again.
At five to one, she stepped into the Diplomat Hotel lobby. The receptionist lifted the internal telephone and announced that Agnes had arrived. She asked Agnes to sit down and wait in one of the leather armchairs. Agnes was feeling nervous and when Beatrice Brunelle emerged from the lift she rose quickly and wiped her perspiring palms against her pants. The elder woman was, as usual, impeccably dressed in a skirt and matching jacket. A double-strand pearl necklace hung around her neck, and the pearls in her ears matched the necklace. Her handbag was strewn with the Yves Saint Laurent logo. She greeted Agnes once again with her chilly hand.
“I have reserved a table,” she said, pointing at the entrance to the dining room. Agnes followed behind her like an obedient dog, totally in the dark about what was ahead, what the woman in the suit wanted with her. She sat down stiffly opposite her at the little round table. Beatrice ordered a lobster salad and a Perrier. Agnes did likewise. Not because she felt like eating a lobster salad – she didn’t in fact feel like eating anything – but so as not to prolong this awkward meeting by fussing about with the menu.
Beatrice Brunelle sat back in her wicker chair and steepled her fingertips. She smiled. The intention was probably to appear congenial, but Agnes just found her terrifying in all her almost uncanny perfection. She talked about the weather for a while and how delightful Stockholm was and about the history of the hotel. When the waitress arrived with their salads, she finally leaned forward toward Agnes.
“So, Agnes,” she began. “I imagine you are wondering who I am and what I want.” She looked gravely at Agnes, but there was a twinkle in her eye. The situation seemed to be amusing her.
I know who you are, thought Agnes, but she kept her silence. Better say nothing about the review, as it might make Lola think she’d been given special treatment if she knew that they knew. That wouldn’t be good. The woman across the table from her paused briefly, gesturing to Agnes to start on her salad.
Agnes was starting to feel impatient. She wan
ted to get away. She shouldn’t be here at all, she thought, she should be home with Lussan. Not having a charming lunch with a person who was probably trying to picture what Agnes looked like in panties and bra.
Lola chewed her food slowly and swallowed before continuing. “So I suppose I had better tell you,” she said at last. “I work for a company called Brunelle & Hubert SA.” She paused and looked at Agnes. No reaction. “I am married to Georges Brunelle,” continued Beatrice, as if that explained everything.
“I see.…”
“Maybe you know our company…?”
“I’m sorry.…” Agnes was baffled. Lola worked for a magazine. But she was clearly married, that was something at least; so maybe it wasn’t Agnes’s body that she was after.
“If I say La Gerbe d’Or, L’escapade, Le Pré Catalan.…”
“Erm.…” Agnes still didn’t understand. She knew, of course, that the restaurants Beatrice had just named were some of the finest in the world – she had, after all, once worked at Le Bateau Bleu. The fact was that Gérard used to travel to France twice a year to eat at L’escapade. To “inspire oneself,” as he’d say. And then he’d hold long lectures for weeks afterward about every little morsel served there. Reverently, as if it had been pieces of the Body of Christ that he’d been munching on.
Beatrice continued. “They are part of our consortium.” She looked at Agnes, who still failed to see what she was getting at. “My husband owns them, you understand,” she added, growing a little touchy. “We have more restaurants, too. In Brussels, London… and now it is time for Stockholm.” She smiled again, as if she’d just presented Agnes with twenty red roses. All that was missing was a “Congratulations!”
“OK.…”
“We’re to acquire Leonardo’s in the Miller Palace. The renovation work has already begun. Le Bec Fin will be opening there on the first of October.” Agnes was staring at her. Indeed, this was interesting news, but what did it have to do with her? Beatrice had the answer. “I have been in Stockholm for two months now looking for staff. The right staff,” she added. “You are one of those whom I have found,” she said pompously as if she’d just produced another beautifully wrapped gift from her silk-lined jacket. Agnes was at a loss for words. Should she cheer? Thank her? Feel honored? Object to being treated like a bottle of cut-price liquid soap, a bargain? She decided on the penultimate option.
“I feel honored,” she said, albeit a little dubiously.
“You are very good at your job, Agnes, and my husband agrees. Perhaps you recall him?” Agnes nodded slowly. The Frenchman in her company. Of course she recalled him. Beatrice continued: “With a little training, you have, we believe, what it takes to reach the standard that we expect of our staff.”
“I see.…”
“Three months training at our establishment in Nice and you will learn more about the restaurant world than you have during your entire career so far. Our training is very thorough. But naturally it requires certain fundamental qualities.…” Beatrice Brunelle was staring so hard at her that Agnes started to wonder what she really meant by “fundamental qualities.” Perhaps it was Agnes’s body she was after. She blinked to erase the image of being tied to the end of a bed with Madame Brunelle towering over her, riding whip in hand.
“But why me?” she said, swallowing nervously.
Beatrice gave a laugh. “I have to confess that it was something of a coincidence. I was enjoying a stroll in the neighborhood one evening – it has become so picturesque there, not at all like it was when I moved from Stockholm in the seventies. Then it was nothing but Palestinian scarves and squatters.” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand as if wanting to shoo away the nasty memories. “And then I caught sight of your restaurant, The Yellow Lemon Tree. Well, I have to say I went in on impulse. You have a charming little restaurant there.” She nodded as if she’d just let a pearl drop from her mouth and was waiting for Agnes to pick it up.
“Thank you.”
“A mite provincial, perhaps, but the food is of a good standard… for being Stockholm. I must admit that I was not completely, what does one say… “sold on you” the first time I saw you, but my husband persuaded me that you were the right person for the job.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to look for staff through the labor exchange?”
“The labor exchange.… The very term makes me shudder. Social democrats, benefits, labor exchange, slush.… Puh, all that I hate about this country!” She fell silent and looked out of the window. Across the road an archipelago ferry was just chugging out from the quay. She let out a little sigh. “But there’s such natural beauty here; indeed, it is absolutely exquisite. At least at this time of the year.” She turned back to Agnes. “Well, what do you say?”
“It’s a very tempting offer,” said Agnes slowly.
“Well, then!” Beatrice raised her glass of mineral water as if to toast her decision.
“But.…” Agnes stopped her. “I have to think about it.”
Beatrice looked disappointed. “I see, all right.…” Agnes almost expected her to withdraw the offer, but nothing followed.
“I will need your answer by next week at the latest,” she said instead.
“Of course, definitely.”
They ate a few mouthfuls of the lobster salad in silence. Agnes was full of questions, but was unable to organize them. Instead, she just munched away tasting neither the lobster nor the endive salad. Beatrice asked her about her background, mostly out of politeness, it seemed. Brunelle & Hubert SA clearly did not employ people on their formal qualifications.
Beatrice declined a coffee when the waitress appeared to remove their plates. Agnes, too. Then they rose and Beatrice produced a card from her handbag. “Call me as soon as you have made your decision,” she said, and dropped her voice slightly. “You do understand that we have people in reserve.” Then she smiled to indicate that the conversation was over. Agnes took the card without a word and slipped it into her pocket.
Beatrice had already walked away to the elevator and pressed the button when Agnes finally opened her mouth.
“And Lola?” she said, as if she’d only just managed to word the question that had been whirling around inside her head.
“I beg your pardon?” said Beatrice, turning.
“Lola?” Agnes stared at the woman in the suit, as if the answer was written there somewhere between the dust-free suede high heels and the indubitably genuine pearls. “So who’s Lola?”
Beatrice turned and raised an eyebrow before stepping into the elevator, which had just arrived. “Lola who?”
CHAPTER 42
KALLE LOOKED DISBELIEVINGLY at her. “What do you mean, not Lola?”
“It wasn’t her,” repeated Agnes. “Lola wasn’t Lola. She’s called Beatrice Brunelle and is.���”
Kalle interrupted her.“Stop! Stop! What did you say her surname was?”
“Brunelle.”
Kalle stared at her. “Does she by any chance have anything to do with Georges Brunelle?”
“He’s her husband.”
“Oh, my God!” Kalle covered his face with his hands. “Has Georges Brunelle’s wife been dining here…?”
Agnes coughed. “Georges Brunelle himself, too.”
“What?”
“Remember the Frenchman who was with her? That was him.”
“Oh, my God…,” repeated Kalle, placing his hand on the worktop for support.
“They thought that The Yellow Lemon Tree was a nice restaurant.”
“Did she say that?”
“Yes. She said she thought the food was of a good standard.”
“Oh, my God,” mumbled Kalle for the third time. “Good standard.…” He smiled stupidly.
“But what did she want?”
Agnes wasn’t quite sure how to put it. She felt foolish at it being about her rather than the restaurant. “Well.…” She wavered.
“Tell me!”
“She offered me a job.”
Kalle looked at her to see if she was pulling his leg. “She offered you a job?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of job?”
“They’re going to open a restaurant here in Stockholm and.…”
“Hold up. Are Brunelle & Hubert going to open a restaurant in Stockholm?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s wonderful!”
“Yes, it is.” Agnes didn’t quite know if she thought it was wonderful or whether she was just getting carried away by Kalle’s enthusiasm. “They’re renovating Leonardo’s old restaurant in the Miller Palace.”
“And now they want you to work there?” Kalle stared wide-eyed at her. Agnes blushed.
“Yes. But I haven’t said yes,” she added quickly.
“Why not?”
“Well.…” Agnes was thrown by the question. “I work here, don’t I?”
Kalle smiled. “You’re fantastic, Agnes, do you know that?” he said and hugged her. “But you realize, don’t you, that you can’t turn down an offer like that?”
“Can’t I?”
“No. Especially if.…” He fell silent and his smile vanished. “… I have to close the restaurant,” he said after a pause.
“But.…”
“That’s great news for you, Agnes. I really mean that, but.…” Kalle hesitated before continuing. “This means that there won’t be any review. And without a review.…” He shrugged. “I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, but we’re not getting enough guests. You know that. And I’m broke. It’s just not possible any more.”
Agnes wanted to protest. She didn’t want The Yellow Lemon Tree to close. It felt as if it were her restaurant as much as it was Kalle’s. And besides, it was a good restaurant. Jesus, even Georges Brunelle had eaten there! And come back! With a client list like that they could receive the Royal Family without shame.
“But your friend said that Lola was going to review us.…”
“I guess he was wrong. Or maybe she changed her mind.” They stood in silence for a while looking at each other. “We’ll open today, tomorrow, and Sunday,” said Kalle at last, his voice sounding strangely thick. “And then it’s all over.”
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