Thicker Than Soup (3 page)

When Sally slammed the car door without a kiss, a wave, or thanks for driving her to the station, John didn't feel like telling her he'd miss her either. Her short fuse was, at times, a tad too short. After all, it had been
her
mother she was visiting and a weekend shared with Jane Lancing wasn't
his
idea of togetherness. And Sally hadn't been much fun recently either; she'd shown little interest or enthusiasm for something that was going to change their lives! Given the circumstances, it wasn't unreasonable to expect her to see the significance of an auction where catering equipment was being liquidated. He admitted he'd waited until they were on the way to the station before breaking the news but given her fiery temper, he'd been deliberately circumspect.

With his head echoing accusations of
selfish
and
obsessive
he pushed the gearstick into drive and pulled out – only to stop urgently at the blast of a horn. Mouthing
sorry
at the other driver he focused on his driving. “Mirror, signal, and …” He manoeuvred cautiously into the traffic.

Sally's anger, he mused, hadn't masked her pique when he'd told her it was Diane who'd told him of the auction and, declaring it to be a ‘fun day out', had offered to go along. He knew Sally missed her friend and it had been his intention to broker a peace during the day out. It was to be a day of resolution; a repaired friendship, equipment and furnishings secured, and, if he could persuade Diane to work for him too, his front of house vacancy would be filled. A perfect day. Better than creeping around Sally's brother's single bed at her mother's!

*

His thoughts turned to why Alain had asked him to come to work early that evening. For a chat, he'd said, and John's heart had missed a beat. Had he found a replacement already, two months ahead of his departure? It had been seven years since Alain had made him Chef de Cuisine at Le Goût du Goût in Bath, and returning to his home town after the comfort of London's anonymity had been daunting. But with Sally at his side he'd faced his skeletons and grown to know that now, with his inspiration, his dishes, and his cooking, diners came back to Alain's restaurant again and again. Alain didn't cook, but he understood food and how to run a restaurant. ‘
Non madam, we ‘ave no tables, et oui, we arrre foolly booked ce soir.
' Adding a Gallic shrug for authenticity, John chuckled. Alain was his mentor and friend, and Le Goût du Goût had sown seeds of a dream. Leaving would sadden them both.

*

As he parked behind the restaurant he saw Alain emerge from the wine store and felt a flutter of irrational jealousy at the thought of someone else doing his job.

“Hey, Alain.”

“Ah, Jean. You are here. Oui, we will go to my office.” Alain gave no indication as to the forthcoming chat. “We have a nice special for tonight, oui?” John nodded. “My mother used to cook the poulet like this, but with not so much sherry. She used vinaigre more. I have memories of our family lunches in the garden, eating this. Your dish, it has a richer flavour; it is better for here. I hope I can find someone who can cook like this before you go.”

John relaxed; a replacement hadn't been found so easily. Perching on his desk Alain indicated that John should sit in the chair. “Jean, I have been wondering how you are getting on with your new restaurant?”

Tilting his chair on its back legs, John wondered where the conversation was going. “I've signed the contracts and should exchange next week. It's full steam ahead.” Perhaps, he thought, Alain was about to ask him to work on Saturday. “But there's a lot to do. That's why I've booked Saturday off – I know it's difficult, so very sorry, but I'll do as much as I can tomorrow. Hill's are auctioning bankrupt stock on Saturday and I have to see that stuff.”

“Yes, I am sure.” Alain nodded. “In fact, that's what I wanted to talk to you about.”

He couldn't work on Saturday. “If I…”

“I have a proposal. I will be very brief because you are busy and I want you to go away and think about what I have to say and then come back with your thoughts. D'accord? I have been to Bathampton and seen your place.” The front legs of John's chair returned to the floor. “I like it. And also, I know you. I think you will have success. But I also know how hard it is to start a new business. So I offer my interest. For a share in your restaurant I would be happy if you allow me to invest in your project. I have thirty thousand pounds.”

John's mouth dropped open. “You're joking!”

“Non. I never joke about investing my money. I'm interested in what you are doing and think you are a good investment. My offer is provisional; I need to see your accounts and working plans, but I hope you will like this idea?”

“Wow! What can I say? “John rubbed a hand over his mouth “I like it. I like it a lot.” Investment. What did that mean? “We'll have to agree terms and things; I mean, what do I do if you suddenly need your money back or something?”

Alain nodded. “Jean, for both of us, we need to agree terms, so I have drafted some here.” He passed a brown folder to John. “But I don't want your answer tonight. I want you to read this and to think about it. We will talk again, in more detail I hope?” Alain tapped the folder. “Of course, this is only a draft. By coincidence, I have an arrangement with my accountant next week; perhaps you can give me your preliminary ideas after the weekend? We can talk in detail in the next few weeks if we decide to move forward in this.”

“Yes, of course I can.” John shook the outstretched hand. “Thanks, Alain, thanks a lot.” Leaving the office he almost punched the air. Thirty grand! It would make a huge difference to the start-up. He couldn't wait to see Sally's face. Then his euphoria dipped. Would she be interested? She'd be pleased, but would she really care? Nevertheless, he wanted to share his news with her and he tried to recall where she'd said she'd be staying. It was one of the big hotels, somewhere expensive. He'd thought it insensitive at a time when people were being made redundant and though Sally had said something about corporate rates and budgeted money he'd still thought it extravagant.

*

Work levels in the kitchen increased. Vegetables were scrubbed, washed, chopped and made ready to pre-cook. He set to work on a tray of chickens, quartering and removing skin, fat and bones quickly. Shallots, garlic and tarragon were ready and bottles of Amontillado and sherry vinegar were placed alongside the array of seasonings he kept to hand. Soured cream was missing. A call for
Soured Cream
? brought an immediate response of
Fridge, John
. It looked chaotic, but it worked.

As the first order came in, activity in the kitchen, already vigorous to the casual eye, cranked up a notch. Two Rillette de Tours, one Avocado Mousse with Smoked Salmon, and one Chicken Liver Paté followed by two Normandy Pork à la Crème and two Poulet au Vin de Xérès. Two skillets hit the flaming hobs and John reached for the garlic. He was cooking.

*

The next morning John woke with a dull head. He pushed his tongue round his mouth and recalled the disastrous conversation with Sally. Afterwards, he'd re-dialled, but the receptionist's monotonic voice had got in the way. “Wrong number,” he'd said, and replaced the receiver with the absurd exchange still between them. It wasn't what he'd wanted but she'd sounded as though she was having a good time, and perhaps even a little drunk when he'd been expecting an apology. If she'd been drowning her sorrows, she'd done a good job!

A whisky to drown his own sorrows had turned to several – large ones. And now he regretted both; the whisky and the row. Looking at the clock he saw she'd be at her meetings. And it was Friday; he'd be at work until midnight.

Distracted with strong, sweet coffee and marmalade smothered toast, the first page of Alain's proposed investment demanded his full attention. The restaurant, he read, should be guided by the Partnership Act. Alarm bells sounded; he didn't want a partner! Picking up a pen he marked ‘
1'
and on a clean sheet of paper wrote
Business Agreement
;
1 – query Partner.
Associate?
He read about access to accounts, how the investment would be maintained, and reporting schedules. Alain wanted involvement in decision making and a return on profits. He scribbled ‘
2'
;
what happens if there isn't any profit?
After writing the word
profit
he paused, then added;
need to agree what ‘profit' is
. If Alain was to become involved, his parents' money would need to be formalised. It made sense to clarify their position as much as his own.

The document seemed to address all eventualities but by the time he'd finished there were two sheets of notes on everything from management to what would happen if one of them died. He retrieved his business plan from the small bedroom that was increasingly an office and added it to the file alongside the Estate Agent's details he no longer needed to read.
Casa Romana
, it said,
Italian Restaurant …. Prime location …. 80 covers plus function room … Scope for development … Two-bedroom apartment above restaurant … Open to offers.
What it didn't describe was the scratched paintwork, the faded wallpaper, the out-of-date style. But redecoration was easy and the shabbiness justified change. He'd sketched and made notes and taken pictures, and ideas had tumbled over ideas. A new bar at the back of the main dining room, with droplights from crossbeams, would soften the cavernous pitched roof, and the smaller room, now battered by stored tables and boxes, would be transformed with moody lights, picture covered walls and intimate seating.

If the dining rooms were the personality of the restaurant; the kitchen was its soul. Here, the black ranges and stainless steel worktables he was to inherit were sound and he already saw himself there, slicing and seasoning, sautéing and flambéing. Two tall glass fronted chillers by the serving door would move to make way for a servery where Sally's foodie friend, Diane (if he could persuade her) would manage the transition between kitchen and eager diners.

Adding his sketches and photos to the growing file, he saw again the final picture he'd snapped – a faux wishing well – and sang to himself; ‘
No well, No well, No well, No well, I'll be the King of…'
What? He still needed a name
.

Lighting a cigarette he inhaled deeply. A voice of reason warned of recession and interest rates and failed businesses. He'd saved some money, and his parents promised to help if – when – he started a business, but it wouldn't be enough. The bank manager had explained about business plans and loans and interest, but until John had something concrete he'd been unwilling to be specific. “Well,” John addressed his snaps, “you can't get more concrete than bricks and mortar.” Alain's money was attractive. But it was
his
dream and he wasn't prepared to give it away.

*

If Alain was impressed when he returned with the draft the next day he passed no comment but responded by sitting down immediately. “So you plan to display work of local artists and sell pictures for a commission? I didn't know about this idea.”

A muscle in John's neck solidified and he circled his head to release it. “That'll be independent, otherwise the figures will be skewed.” John could cook. And he could draw too, but he needed an income and it was cooking that paid. Artistic talent and a couple of scraped ‘A' levels had got him through interviews to art college in his late teens, and once there he'd discovered hippies and psychedelic music and friends like Barrie Bates who'd introduced him to free love and easy drugs. It had been wild until Janine said she was pregnant. He couldn't even be sure it was his child, but she'd said she would prove it. After that he hadn't known if it was the black dog depression that fatigued him or the medication they gave him to relieve it. Days had been spent drifting in and out of the sleep that evaded nights until he hadn't been able to live without medication. They'd locked him up then, in a place where the hell got worse. For a time. More than two years had passed before he'd recovered and during that time he'd heard little about Janine or the baby, other than to be assured it was his.

He hadn't done drugs after that, not even the antidepressants prescribed by the doctors, but babies had become synonymous with depression and he intended never to face either again. His adoptive parents, ever loving Frances and Michael, had supported the child and mother financially until he was well and then he'd taken over. But he kept his distance. The child had her mother. He knew from bitter experience that she didn't need a parent who didn't want her.

He'd found work that paid as a kitchen assistant, discovered a passion for cooking and taken himself to cookery school. Then Sally had come along, and Alain. But art had still been in his soul. When he'd needed to reflect, to think, to work things through, he'd gone to the galleries to connect with the Masters, particularly Rothko, where he'd meditate into the floating planes of the Seagrams murals until nothing else existed. He'd permitted himself a humble empathy with the great man, a bond born from the depths of despair that went beyond life. Rothko had taken his life and John admired him for finding the strength to do so. He hadn't compare his own battles with Rothko's – who could tell what drove such a man – but he knew of the black spaces a mind could reach and had some understanding of the journey that had taken Rothko's mind from creative inspiration to destruction.

Few had the talent of Rothko. John hadn't, and nor had any of the aspiring artists he'd met at College. Some were good and some were special – like Barrie, or Billy Apple as he'd launched himself in New York. David Hockney had been there too and he'd been extra special. But most were just good artists who needed a break, and his restaurant, he'd decided, would do something for the ordinary, good artists.