In Search of Love, Money & Revenge

by Hilary Bailey

  At seven they unbolted the doors. Abigail and her helper could be heard having words in the kitchen. Vanessa, in a new rust-coloured top embroidered with gilt flowers sat down at the till. Annie and Melanie, in dark dresses, stood by with their pads, ready to take orders. At eight-thirty, a couple came in, looked startled and left immediately. Shortly after that three boys asked the way to the tube station. By nine Abigail was whispering doubtfully to her fellow cook, who was glancing at her watch.

  Annie stood beside Vanessa at the till. Vanessa was praying, ‘Oh, God. Oh, God. Please send us a customer,’ under her breath. ‘Any customer. Send two. Please, God, just two customers.’ Annie was adding up the cost of the advertisements in her head. At nine-fifteen Madame Katarina came in with a well-dressed, heavily made-up, rather worn-looking woman in dark glasses. Madame Katarina pretended she didn’t know the management and made favourable comments on the décor.

  The worn woman ordered champagne. She insisted Madame Katarina had oysters. Madame Katarina agreed and Annie breathed out, for there is not much you can safely do next day with a large amount of yesterday’s uneaten oysters. At the same time, the excitement of having Madame Katarina and her customer in the corner, discussing the woman’s part in a coming West End play, soon wore off and it was plain to see the woman’s elated mood collapsing as she ate an expensive meal in an empty restaurant with her clairvoyant. At ten Edward had to tell two drunk businessmen and three young men in T-shirts, jeans and large boots they were not welcome at the Arcadia. A little later an older man in a suit and a young woman in a blue work-suit came in and sat in a booth, drinking the house wine, murmuring to each other, and eating only one course. ‘Not just an adulterer but a cheapskate,’ Annie said to Vanessa in a low voice.

  ‘You stop caring what people are up to, don’t you?’ Vanessa murmured. ‘As long as they spend money.’

  They closed the restaurant sourly, having outnumbered the customers all evening. It wasn’t just the money – they felt as if they’d given a party no one had come to. ‘I’ve had more people round to mend the washing machine,’ moaned Vanessa.

  ‘We’ve got ten days before the bank manager starts threatening,’ Annie said.

  Vanessa closed her eyes, ‘To think we’ve got to open the snack bar at eight tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Melanie’s doing it,’ Annie said.

  ‘I don’t know how you’re going to keep your love life going on this basis,’ yawned Vanessa. ‘As for mine – it’s never going to start.’

  ‘When this restaurant becomes successful you’ll meet someone,’ said Annie.

  ‘That doesn’t sound too promising!’

  Abigail and her friend had straightened up the kitchen and went past them, saying a hollow goodnight. Annie and Vanessa got wordlessly into Tom’s van and went home.

  The next night was no better and on Saturday night, when they thought business might pick up, they served only one meal, to a lonely man in a suit, who ate three courses, left a large tip and departed praising the food and the atmosphere. ‘Good suit and a well-fed face,’ Vanessa said. ‘Perhaps he’ll recommend us to his friends.’

  ‘He’d better,’ said Annie.

  On Sunday, their free day, Tom and Annie were sitting in her small paved garden. It was a sunny afternoon and they were eating smoked salmon, a cold chicken and raspberry mousse. Annie looked at her roses. ‘You eat well when you run an unsuccessful restaurant,’ she said. ‘My God. This is a mess. In a fortnight, I’ll have to put the house up for sale, hoping someone buys it. Vanessa’ll struggle on until she can get Alec in a nursery and then get a secretarial job and I’ll have to find a flat and some kind of teaching post.’

  ‘You won’t think like this if business picks up next week,’ said Tom in a practical voice.

  They were both seized by the melancholy of parting, though neither said so. Tom stood up, ‘Better go, I’ve only got a fortnight to complete the screenprinting order. I don’t think I can get back then.’ His long face looked dismal.

  Annie, too, felt unhappy, although her unhappiness was mixed with a certain relief. She had the idea she’d rather face the collapse on her own, without Tom’s sympathy. She also wondered where, if anywhere, the relationship, if you could call it that, was going. She didn’t know if she wanted it to continue, or if Tom did. She certainly felt happier when Tom was with her, but uneasy, too, and she didn’t know precisely the source of the unease. Perhaps it was still some pointless and unavailing commitment to her husband. She shook her head. ‘I’ll miss you.’

  They kissed and he left through the house. She sat down sadly, feeling confused. She said to herself, ‘I don’t know what he wants. I don’t know what I want.’

  She heard his van start up outside and realised she was already beginning to miss him.

  11

  A Meeting at Bedford Square

  Jasmine sat neatly on a chair by the marble fireplace in the long first-floor drawing room of the Fellows house in Bedford Square, her feet, in expensive shoes, together, pointing forward to the grate. A matching handbag lay in her lap. She was very still. Behind her, standing round the table at the other end of the room, from which the plane trees of a London square could be seen through long windows, three men spoke softly. She could barely hear them and was not trying to listen. Her smooth face revealed none of her thoughts. She and Nigel had been in London since the day before, staying at their mews house in Kensington. Nigel had had meetings since they arrived and Jasmine had taken advantage of his absence to phone Timothy Ray, the thirty-year-old bob-sleighist, hang-glider, water-skier, good shot, man about town and lady killer. She’d asked him to give her lunch, during which, by a certain amount of knee-nudging, hand touching and eye contact, she’d conveyed to him her desire. After a long lunch, they’d gone back to his flat, a short walk from the restaurant, Timothy quite delighted by his conquest of the unapproachable Jasmine Fellows, Jasmine less delighted but bent on an affair which would end on the day her pregnancy test proved positive.

  Tanned and naked he had bent over her – she recalled the scene, as the three men by the window bent over the model on the table, showing a park, with plastic trees, low buildings on two sides, on a third a taller red-brick arcade, with arches and domes, and all cunningly arranged round a fountain. The whole charming complex looked down over an open area of landscaped garden, in greens and blues, towards a blue-painted river.

  ‘We could have put flats over the shopping arcade,’ explained Nigel Fellows to his father, a tall, heavy, tanned man, with a head of thick, pale brown hair, streaked with silver. ‘We decided, on balance, to increase the facilities with two restaurants, and a cinema, even if the profits come in more slowly – I think that was wise.’

  ‘It’s a very intelligent plan, Nigel,’ said Sir Bernard, ‘and brilliantly executed. George – I must congratulate you.’

  Jasmine, staring blankly at an arrangement of lilies and roses in front of the empty grate, sat motionless. What a waste of time! As Timothy Ray, all blue eyes in a tanned face and about as much going on inside his head as a large bass drum on an empty bandstand, had leaned over her on the satin sheets, he’d murmured, ‘Don’t feel anxious. I’ve had a little snip – no more babies for Timmy.’ Phew, thought Jasmine, what a waste! She hoped he hadn’t noticed her reduced enthusiasm when she’d heard the unwelcome news. On the other hand, who’d want to have his baby anyway? Another few notches down from Timothy Ray on the IQ scale and you could be faced with real problems at school. Perhaps his vasectomy was a blessing in disguise. Not that it was a crime to be thick in Fellows circles, a welcome change, she always thought, from her own family, the Brownings, Cunninghams, Seymours and Knights, authors, university dons and civil service mandarins for four or five generations. Nevertheless, there were limits. She prevented herself from sighing. With half the world vasectomised and the other half nervously using condoms what was a poor woman to do? At fifteen she’d been horrified to find herself pregnant. Now she wanted to
be, nothing happened. At the other end of the room the men’s voices were still murmuring.

  ‘A small nursery school here,’ George Kelly, head of the architectural team, said, pointing. ‘Only enough room for ten or fifteen children over a year old, but a boon to mothers and nannies stuck in London for some reason. They share that building with the gymnasium and pool, slightly separated from the houses and flats, since there’s a noise factor in both cases. Ladies in the gym, baby in the nursery. We have to consider the ladies these days,’ he explained to Sir Bernard, who nodded. ‘That’s why we’ve left extra space in the car park – a school bus can collect and deliver. The area isn’t well served with suitable schools, but with a private bus the problem dissolves. Our aim’s been to take care of the needs of all our potential residents.’

  ‘Security?’ questioned Sir Bernard.

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Nigel. ‘Perimeter fences, basically, all in nice wrought iron. Bringing in a design firm from stage one has been an excellent idea, saves time and money. Vane’s designed the fencing and the lighting in consultation with the electrical firm etc. There’ll be three gates, a man on each twenty-four hours a day, no one but residents gets through without a phone check. It’s all pleasant and discreet, of course. Not your Johannesburg white enclave effect – barking dogs, heavy lighting effects. That’s intimidating, not what we’re after at all.’

  Sir Bernard nodded.

  ‘Privacy, a civilised atmosphere – everything you might want, or need, to hand.’

  ‘Except a brothel,’ said Sir Bernard. The men laughed.

  ‘Got to think of the ladies,’ said George Kelly. ‘There’s a red light district up the road in the badlands, in Foxwell, if anyone wants to try it. Here’s a plan of the whole area … I must say, this chap Vane’s been a godsend. Very talented man.’

  ‘I hear we’re getting enquiries already,’ said Nigel. ‘But we’re going to have to give priority to people who look as if they’re going to live there at least part of the time. We don’t want to turn round and find the whole place sold to Japs and small oriental businessmen from Honkers.’

  ‘Or arms dealers and drug barons,’ added his father.

  Jasmine wasn’t listening. She was wondering if she could still blackmail Tom into becoming the father of her child. She could threaten to tell Annie what had really happened that spring, before he went away. She was sure he still didn’t want her to know. Small wonder, she thought, if he wanted her to commit herself.

  ‘Well, as to that, no problem,’ Nigel was continuing, ‘they badly need seven million and we’ll be happy to supply it. We’re prepared for a protest, of course. We’re planning a three-month campaign to deal with it so it doesn’t cut into the time when we’ll actually be starting work, around September, we hope. Stir it up and win that fight early, I thought, get it over with. Councillor Banks is with us every step of the way on that. Very co-operative chap. Then we start. Given a mild winter and a workforce going night and day, we’ll be open by next spring – of course, we’ll be selling earlier to keep the finances even. Not that that’s too much of a worry at present. I’m fairly sure the Jap banker is coming in.’

  Sir Bernard nodded. ‘Very good. Very good all round. I’ll take it all away to brood over, but I think it’s an excellent project. Well handled. Whatever happens, I’ll speak to you in a few days’ time. I’d like to get back to Barbados next week, if all seems well. Come on, let’s get some lunch – Jasmine,’ he called, ‘you’ve been waiting so patiently. At last we’re off to lunch.’

  Jasmine stood up. ‘You’re a beautiful woman,’ Sir Bernard said. ‘Every time I see you, I think Nigel’s a lucky chap to have you.’

  Jasmine smiled, ‘You’re very kind,’ She decided she couldn’t face blackmailing Tom and smiled at Nigel. It would be worth it, whatever it took to get pregnant, but there wasn’t much time before they went to Portugal on holiday.

  12

  Mr Abbott Makes an Offer

  By July, a month after the opening of the Arcadia, business had picked up at least to the point where profits almost covered the interest on the loan, which had encouraged the bank manager to extend credit, on a fortnight by fortnight basis, in the hopes of better times. Nevertheless, to Annie, living with the Arcadia felt like having some wasting disease, which didn’t kill you but left you a little weaker every day. With business still comparatively slack there’d been no reason for Vanessa to refuse her parents’ offer of a much-needed fortnight in a villa in Portugal. Joanne’s school was about to break up, and Alec would benefit from a fortnight on a beach with his mother and grandparents. Melanie was now perfectly capable of running the snack bar alone from time to time, and in recognition of this Annie gave her and her friend Viv £30 a week each, although she was sure she was breaking the law by employing two thirteen-year-olds eight hours a day. Viv’s parents, who both worked, were pleased, saying it was better for her than hanging about the house alone in the holidays.

  While Vanessa was away a small plump man, with greying hair and a small black moustache, had come into the restaurant and sat alone, eating Abigail’s steak and kidney pie, drinking a glass of red wine and staring round mistrustfully. Melanie, who had popped in to see what was happening, said, ‘Looks like a typical DSS snoop to me.’ A few days later, with a booking for two in the name of Abbott, the same man came into the Arcádia, accompanied, to Annie’s horror, by Geoff Doyle. He nodded, giving her a hard stare and saying, ‘Nice place. But you’ve had a leak up there, I see.’

  ‘The old man upstairs let his bath overflow,’ Annie told him.

  ‘Unfortunate. You don’t need too much of that in a place like this.’

  There was menace in his tone, she thought. She couldn’t imagine why he and Abbott, who she assumed must be connected with Doyle’s girlfriend, Cindy Abbott, had chosen to come to the Arcadia. Were they just spying? Or was Doyle planning to cause trouble? She got Melanie to go outside and warn Edward there might be trouble. She suggested a side table.

  ‘No,’ Geoff said, ‘we’ll sit in the middle and look about us.’ They sat down quietly. She gave them menus and got Abigail’s assistant to take their orders. Geoff, obviously paying, ordered generously – avocados, peppered steak, two bottles of wine. Annie, busy with seven other customers, took as little notice of them as possible. The two men, for their part, were friendly, but engrossed in discussing a topic of importance to them in low voices. Annie overheard the name of the Mayor, Mrs Roxanne Fuller. She studied them from the kitchen door as they sat, heads bent towards each other, talking. Geoff Doyle, with his mop of dark hair, bright blue eyes, wide shoulders in a well-made jacket, was the original handsome brute of a romance novel. With the emphasis very much on the brute, Annie thought, remembering his pushing Vanessa back from her front door and the blow he’d struck her. Abbott wore an anxious, fussy expression, giving the impression of being a small businessman or a minor executive somewhere. Annie looked away quickly as she felt Geoff beginning to sense her gaze. Two of the other customers, she suspected, had been sent along by Jasmine. They seemed somewhat appalled to find themselves in Foxwell and anxious about the welfare of the Porsche they had arrived in. They were unlikely to return, she considered, although they were plainly enjoying the food. The Arcadia was now making a straight loss of £50 a day, a situation which could not be allowed to go on for more than one more month, until August; Annie knew, even if the bank would go on carrying them, that the deficit would be too terrifying. The restaurant would have to be sold, and her house, too, in order to cover the loan. Vanessa’s father would lose the money he’d put in. At least the snack bar was making money, but the snack bar, of course, didn’t belong to them. It still belonged to George Kypragoras.

  They closed early. Annie went home, heavy-hearted.

  At four the next afternoon Annie arrived at the Arcadia to let in some deliveries and found that someone had sprayed ‘This is NOT a yuppie-free zone’ across one of the plate-glass windows. She bought some
white spirit and started to rub and scrape it off, pushed by the shoppers trying to get at the stalls in the street. The man in front, selling from his fruit stall, was sympathetic, but she’d been aware for some time that the restaurant was not popular locally. She’d defaced, but not obliterated the message an hour later, interrupted by the deliveries, when Abbott came up beside her. ‘Could we go inside?’ he asked. ‘I’d like to talk to you.’

  Annie offered him tea or coffee, then realised he expected better entertainment than that. He agreed to a whisky. She put ice in it. He moved to a booth where they were out of sight of the street. ‘I’ll come to the point,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some money to invest. I’m planning to open a restaurant, rather like this one, something a little better than you find round here, and it crossed my mind that since neither of us need competition, and I’ve looked at this place – well, have you ever considered selling it? I’m talking about a fair price.’

  She stared at him, feeling uneasy, a little sick, almost as if he were trying to bully her. And yet here was an answer to the problem of debt that was plaguing her. She and Vanessa could get out of a worrying situation, might even make a small profit, if Abbott took over the Arcadia. No more debt, no more exhaustion, no more having to accept, each day, that their activities were being reported back by Edward to the terrifying Andy Campbell…

  ‘I like the restaurant,’ said Abbott, looking round. ‘It has character, atmosphere.’

  A thought struck her. She remembered something Vanessa had said. ‘You work with the council planning department?’

  He nodded. ‘That’s right. Of course, this has nothing to do with my council activities. I’ve some money coming to me from a legacy and I’m keen to start a business against the time I retire. I’m aware your partner might be prejudiced against me, for personal reasons, but I’m hoping you’ll be able to point out to her that Mr Doyle’s relationship with my daughter has nothing to do with me. And Mr Doyle will have no interest in the restaurant, I tell you that quite candidly. To be even more candid,’ he said, leaning forward, ‘and strictly between you and me, I don’t like the situation. He’s a man with two children and I think people should take their family responsibilities seriously. It’s old-fashioned these days, I know that, but it happens to be what I believe. I’ve no objection to Mr Doyle personally, but I don’t like what he’s doing. That’s by the way. What I’m here to say really is, I’ll take the lease, all the fixtures, goodwill, etc. lock, stock and barrel for £100,000. You go on running the snack bar, of course. We’ll be good neighbours. My wife’ll be running the restaurant for the time being.’