Blue and Green Should Never be Seen! (Or so Mother says)

by Colette Kebell

  “Hello, sweetheart. I understand you’ve had a difficult day.” Rachel was probably the source. We never compared notes, but I was sure Mother kept tabs on her as much as she did on me.

  “Yep. Being evicted.”

  “It’s not that easy any more, starting your own business. I remember Uncle Mick, over thirty years ago. At that time having a shop was easy: just doing the basics, paying your taxes and not much more. Nowadays, with all the laws and complications … Do you have an accountant?”

  Starting my own business? Really? Where’s she been for the past few years?

  “Mum, what has an accountant got to do with eviction?”

  “I was just saying. Keeping the books in order is important; there are so many different things that need professional advice.” She kept going.

  “We have Anna doing our tax and stuff.”

  “Yes, but she’s not working there, is she? I mean, you hire her just for a month or so when you need her. It’s different if you have a real employee doing these things; they’d be more trustworthy.”

  Anna was absolutely fine; she’d done a perfect job all these years and there had been not one single complaint from Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs; where was she going with this?

  “I can’t afford a full-time accountant. Not yet.”

  “But an employee wouldn’t have overlooked such an important matter as paying the rent.”

  “Mother, who said I didn’t pay the rent? The money goes out every month; you know, they invented this system called a standing order.” I was getting even more upset now; it wasn’t enough, what I had to deal with during the day – now I also had to defend myself in front of my own mother.

  “Don’t be snappy, young lady. I’m just saying. So what is the issue, then?”

  “I don’t know what the issue is. I’ve asked a solicitor to look into that.”

  “Solicitors cost a fortune. They only care about their fees. Uncle Mick once had to go through solicitors and between their fees and what it cost going to court, he almost went bankrupt. He never fully recovered after that.” GRRRRR! I started strangling the steering wheel; if someone had cut into my lane at that point, I’d have given a perfect example of road rage, one they’d remember for the rest of their life.

  “I’m using Tom. He’s cheap and he’s a friend.”

  “I’d say that’s a bad choice. If he’s too cheap, surely he won’t have the motivation to work hard enough for you? There was a friend of yours, that Christine, who went to law school – such a brilliant girl. Why didn’t you call her?”

  Christine who? I hadn’t kept track of all my old school friends, apart from Ritchie and a few others, and I definitely didn’t remember a Christine.

  “I might actually do that. I think I have her number here, on my agenda,” I lied.

  “Well, you do that. I’ll make some phone calls; we still have some family friends.”

  “Mother, please don’t do that. Let me see what Tom has to say.” When she started, it was hard to put a stop to her. The result would be that I’d have to call half of my relatives, half of her friends’ friends, and spend the following week not only trying to explain the eviction but also filling them in on what I’d been doing all these years. And believe me, they would want all the details.

  “I was just trying to help, but I see that it isn’t appreciated.”

  “Mother, I really do appreciate it; it’s just that I want to hear what Tom has to say first.” Now she’s sending me straight away through to Guilty Avenue.

  “It would just be a second opinion.”

  “No thanks, Mother. Maybe later.”

  “I see you’re upset now; maybe we should talk when you calm down.”

  “Good idea. Have a nice weekend.”

  “You too.” She wasn’t happy; I could hear it in her voice, but sometimes you have to let go. People sometimes just want to try on their own, before the cavalry gets involved.

  Sainsbury’s was in sight. I turned the car abruptly, causing a bit of a stir in the traffic behind me. I snatched the first parking slot I could find, and ran into the supermarket. The chances that I would be pleasant company this evening were getting slimmer by the second.

  “You’re early,” said Raffaele as soon as I got through the door. He helped me with the groceries and followed me into the kitchen.

  “I’ve had a rough day; I didn’t want to spend one more second in there.”

  “Something you want to tell me?”

  “Not really, apart from that we got an eviction notice.” I really wasn’t in the mood to repeat the whole story, especially after that phone call from Mother. It seemed that Raffaele smelled trouble.

  “OK, GiGi; you let me know when you feel the time is right.”

  I opened a bottle and poured white wine into the biggest glass I could find. “Do you want some?” I asked, realising that I wasn’t paying much attention to him.

  “That would be nice.” I served him a more reasonable amount, removed my jacket and started lining up the groceries.

  “You sure you don’t want me to cook? I really don’t mind, and you seem upset.”

  “Not to worry. Go and relax; watch some telly and I’ll call you when I’m ready.” He attempted to answer back, or say something, but I was already at full speed and not in the mood for a conversation. Maybe later.

  I cut the aubergine into the shape of a boat, crumbled the inside on a chopping board and cut the tomatoes. I put everything in a pan and started frying it with a bit of oil, garlic and onions. Maybe I should have done the onion first; that’s what Mother would have said, but at that point I couldn’t have cared less. It didn’t taste of much, so I added salt and pepper. Still not right. I rummaged in the spice cupboard and my hands stopped on the cumin. Why not? – a bit of Asian flavour. I poured a bit in the pan, mixed the lot and, for good measure, added half a glass of wine. I kept stirring until everything seemed soft enough and with a spoon I filled the aubergine boats I’d left on the side. I covered them with parmesan and tossed them into the oven. I then started preparing the risotto and, shit! I’d forgotten to buy the truffle oil. Well, you can do risotto with almost anything; it would be a variation on the theme.

  More onions were chopped. I fried them first this time, put some stock on the boil and started cutting the mergueze sausages into small pieces (should I have skinned them first, maybe?). I added them to the pot to fry off and then I added the rice. As soon as I started adding the stock, I realised I’d also forgotten the saffron. Bummer.

  I had to ransack Raffaele’s spices again. Oregano? No, cinnamon. Maybe marjoram; no, I smelled it and didn’t like it. Then I came across turmeric, rosemary and other stuff I couldn’t name. Shit. Mixed spice – yes, that would do.

  I threw a good amount in and for good measure threw in a bit more, and then added the wine, which should have gone in at least a couple of stages earlier; but hey, when they’re in a pot they all mix together, right?

  I grated some parmesan and left it on the side. That would go in at the last minute, I knew that much. I put everything on a low boil and went to Raffaele in the lounge.

  “Dinner’s done. We can eat when the timer goes off.”

  “Blimey, that was fast; if you want a job in my kitchen, just say so.”

  “Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer.”

  “So, what happened today?”

  I told him the full story and was grateful he didn’t give advice or suggestions. I’d had too much of those for one day.

  “How’s the restaurant going?” I asked. The opening was approaching fast and because I was so busy with my job, coming home tired all the time, I hadn’t had any time to enquire.

  “I’m sorting out the menu these days. The kitchen is ready, so during the day I go there and try the new menu on the staff. We’ve already found the waiters and a manager to run the front. The twenty-third is just around the corner.”

  Shit – I’d forgotten to tell him about Natalie.r />
  “I invited a few people for the opening. I hope you don’t mind,” I said sheepishly.

  “Not at all. Anyone I’d know?”

  “Not really.” I had to tell him the full story; the more I procrastinated the worse the matter would be. “A banker from London, who might bring a customer with him. And Natalie: I told you about her. She’s also bringing a friend.”

  “Four or five people won’t be an issue. The way you were speaking, I feared you’d invited two hundred!”

  I had to spill the beans. “Natalie’s friend is a food critic from the Mail; you might have heard of her – Caroline Porter?”

  “What?? You’ve invited a critic to the opening? Are you out of your mind?” He jumped from the sofa as if he was on springs and turned to face me, giving his best impression of a very pissed-off wolverine. “How could you do that to me? You know how much I care about that restaurant!”

  “Natalie offered, and it was too late to take the invitation back,” I lied. Well, I didn’t lie: I just presented a slightly modified truth. “And then I thought that critics would come anyway, and you’re such a good chef. Surely there would be no harm in that?”

  “I don’t mind critics, but not at the opening. They can make or break a business, and if she gives me a bad review, I’m finished even before I’ve had a chance to start.” He walked up and down in the lounge like a caged tiger, trying to think what to do next, how to save the day.

  “Sorry; I didn’t think it would be that bad.”

  “The opening is pretty soon; I’ll have to make everything perfect. Flipping Nora, that was a surprise.”

  At that moment the timer buzzed to save me from a further tirade. I left my glass on the dining table and took the aubergines out of the oven, placing them on two plates. I looked at the risotto and it appeared on the dry side, so I added more stock.

  “Et voilà: my interpretation of jambalaya.”

  We sat at the table and as soon as Raffaele tasted the aubergine, I knew something had gone deeply wrong. He almost choked, but out of respect he swallowed the bite. Maybe that was just his way of demonstrating he was upset; it couldn’t possibly be that bad. I tasted mine and it wasn’t bad at all. It was DISGUSTING!

  “How many times you have prepared this dish before?” he asked, as if he was John Torode judging one of the Masterchef contestants, possibly a less talented one.

  “Well, with these very ingredients, this is the first time.”

  “So you decided to cook, and you prepared something you’ve never done before?”

  “I thought it would test my creativity.”

  “Yes, and my taste buds. You could start a career in the rat-poisoning industry if you carry on like that,” he laughed. I laughed as well: it was that bad. Or, it could be a new dieting craze! Cook something that tastes so disgusting that people just can’t eat it. So, by making them completely lose their appetite, they lose weight! He looked set to come out with more along the same lines, so I quickly said, “Mind if we skip to the main course?” I took his plate, not giving him a chance for further criticism.

  “What’s next?” A worried look was painted on his face.

  “I’ve made a risotto; you can’t go wrong with that.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  The main course was no better than the starter. I tried it first, to avoid being influenced by such a severe judge, but the dish was a total disaster. If I’d wanted to cook something horrible on purpose, I couldn’t have achieved a better result. I tried to stop Raffaele, but it was too late; the fork was already in his mouth. He spat out the lot, screaming

  “What the hell? What did you actually put in this concoction of yours? I can’t even recognise the flavours.”

  “It’s a simple risotto; I don’t understand. I just added some spices.”

  “Which ones?” he asked, inquisitively. He was now in full Hercule Poirot mode, trying to find the murder weapon.

  “I just added some mixed herbs,” I said innocently.

  “There are no mixed herbs in here. Show me.”

  I went to the kitchen, found the jar and brought it back to the table “Here, see for yourself.”

  “GiGi, that is mixed spice, used for cakes, not for savoury dishes.”

  “Oh!”

  We looked at each other and started laughing. “I take back my offer to employ you in my kitchen.”

  “I don’t blame you.” Shit, I had completely ruined dinner. “What now?”

  “We can order a pizza if you like.”

  “Yes please. A pepperoni one for me.” I excused myself and went to the bathroom. The surprises weren’t finished for the day yet: I’d just found out I had my period.

  CHAPTER 35

  “Any news from Tom?” asked Ritchie as soon as I entered the room.

  “He thinks it’s all bullshit and they have no grounds to evict us, but we might have to go to court if they insist.” I hung up my jacket, tossed my bag onto a chair nearby and went straight over to the coffee machine. Once I had a hot cup in my hands, the world appeared less grim than it had been; it always worked. I sat on a chair nearby and started sipping.

  “How was the weekend?” he asked

  “Paintball tournament with Raffaele, Tom and Lillian and another couple. Apparently I got a new nickname: Xena.”

  “Like the warrior princess in the series. It suits you.” He was still looking at the computer and I could see some interesting items. He was browsing a shoe manufacturer in Italy – shoes that sold at six hundred pounds a pair. Wow.

  “Yeah, I was so upset I almost killed everybody. What did they say? – that I was trigger-happy. What about yours?”

  “Jonathan and I went to see ‘La Bohème’ on Saturday. We’d never been to the opera before and thought of giving it a try.”

  I wasn’t passionate about that kind of music. There had been a period when I was stuck in the eighties, because that was what my parents had listened to, and then I went straight into the new century.

  “Was it good?”

  “Oh, darling, I’ve never cried so much in my life! The beginning is very cheerful, and they give you this book with the translation and all, so you can follow what they’re singing. So you’re always reading, looking, and reading. When Mimi died at the end, I was in full Bublé mode, ‘Cry me a River’.”

  “Sounds fun.” Ritchie was always able to surprise me, coming out with something totally different all the time. Once he had a wristwatch period and studied every possible brand that was out there. Then he had the Japanese literature period. Every week he had a different book – Mishima, Tanizaki, you name it – and then the South American period started: literature, Brazilian music and so on. I guess that was his personal way of developing: picking random things, becoming almost an expert, and then moving on to something new. Probably that was the secret of how he always got along well with everybody. No matter what your interest was, Richie had been there and read something about it.

  “Oh it was, darling, believe me. And then we had a night at the Dorchester.”

  “A what?”

  “Well, we thought it would be nice having dinner and something to drink before the opera, and not be in a mad rush to go home. So we booked a night at the Dorchester, just to pamper ourselves a bit. We are working our socks off, you know.”

  I knew exactly what he was saying; we spent hours and hours every day working hard and we needed some quality time with our partners. I thought I would nick the Dorchester idea for Raffaele.

  “And then Sunday morning,” he continued, “we went wandering in Camden Market and had some street food. We went home at six-ish, but it was a good break. I feel energised.”

  I told him about my disastrous dinner on Friday night, and fortunately he didn’t rub salt in my wounds. He’d experienced some of my cooking; something he was still probably trying to forget. We went quiet for a moment, and then Ritchie asked, “So what do we do?”, obviously referring to the eviction notice.
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  “We carry on as if nothing is happening. Tom says not to worry and I trust him. If indeed we have to spend money on going to court, well, that’s the right motivation to bring in even more business.”

  “Hmm: risky.” Ritchie wasn’t fully convinced. Fortunately, Osheena and Jacob also came in at that time, so I filled them in about the eviction and the plan to go full steam ahead. They were enthusiastic.

  Osheena in particular was pushing on the website where our office was and she had decided to have “visiting times”, like when you go to the doctor. Make an appointment, come to us and we’ll assess your needs and give you direction. It was a risky move, because people would have to pass phase one alone, admitting they had a wardrobe problem; but my doubts vanished a few minutes later.

  “You won’t believe it,” she said showing me her phone. “During the weekend we got at least a hundred emails asking for an appointment here at the office. OK, they’re all Advanced offerings, so we won’t make a huge amount of money, but still – a hundred customers coming through the door … If we do our job right, we could go viral.”

  Oh, the power of the internet. I was barely in my thirties and already felt like a dinosaur, considering how fast things were moving online compared to my old-fashioned approach. But I guess there might be some talent in having the ability to surround yourself with people that will help you grow. I had something there: the ability of giving the right people a chance, and if I’d made mistakes in the past, it was true that I was now in the black and people worked hard for that single opportunity I gave them. It made me proud. They made me proud.

  We decided that Ritchie and Jacob would go out and continue their job with the Platinum customers (and they loved it anyway), while Osheena and I would take care of the office and the “visitors”. I quickly checked my emails and got an even bigger surprise: at least twenty bloggers were ready to collaborate with us. A few of them even thought they could bring in their followers, as a portfolio of customers.

  That was a biggie, so I called all the guys into the meeting room before they disappeared on the road. Ritchie and I usually had the final word on how to manage the business; however, we’d grown accustomed to trusting our two new companions, to the point where they were allowed to make their own decisions in their respective sectors. Osheena, in particular, was a machine. She had more ideas than she could even put into practice and, because of her work alone, the business was thriving and a wider audience had become aware of us. I would remember that at bonus time.