Come over, its on you, Ian Spencer said, pushing an empty plate aside. Your dads a brilliant chef, he found a great head cook for us. Salads, though, are another story. Todays Caesar is rather mediocre. The croutons are soggy. Who made them?
Zoe Bennett runs the salads, replied Blythe.
I think its high time we retire Zoe. Let her bake pies for the grandkids. Im already looking for her replacement.
What? I never asked you to do that. Im happy with Zoe. Her meatballs draw patrons from the other side of town.
Well get the recipe quickly, and well find younger waiters
Im not hiring anyone! Blythe snapped.
You wont have to. Soon other people will run the place.
But the restaurant was left to me in the will.
The will includes the flat you can live there, no one will evict you. The bank account is yours too. Three Oranges wasnt just your fathers project; serious investors are eyeing it. Theyll take it over.
And youre one of them? You were his friend
Ian shrugged. Business, nothing personal. In fact, well buy the restaurant from you at a reasonable price, of course.
It turned out the price was only reasonable from the buyers point of view. From Blythes side it was barely a symbolic sum.
Blythes father had been a wellconnected fellow. Hed started with a few modest pubs before turning a former fishandchips shop in the city centre into a bustling restaurant. After university he handed Blythe the task of buying market produce for the salads, but he never let her step into the kitchen, insisting they needed professionals there.
Although hed long ceased living with Blythes mother a new partner, a successful surgeon, showed little enthusiasm for the restaurant he kept Blythe close. The surgeon, who barely featured in his life, was the reason the will left only the restaurant to Blythe.
Hed drawn up that will when he realised his illness was incurable some ailments even the best surgeons cant beat.
After her fathers death the restaurant kept running under a manager, but Blythe threw herself into every aspect, dreaming up new dishes and a modern redesign. The staff liked her; after all, theyd been a sort of family for years.
Then new owners arrived. Blythe expected greedy interest in Three Oranges, but not the outright, backstabbing type she got from Ian, who had once taken her and her father to amusementpark rides rides he owned, by the way.
Her fathers network of influential councillors and businessmen had always seemed like kindly uncles in her childhood, generous with expensive gifts whenever she mentioned a toy. Now those kindly uncles were snatching the restaurant away, brazenly.
Her husband, Kevin, a railway worker far removed from the restaurant world, gave his own take:
Ive told you this place smells of criminal activity. Sell it for any sum and were done. Open a pie stall by the station theres always a queue for hot pasties on Station Square.
Every inch of that square is already claimed. And Three Oranges is a memory of my father.
We still have the cottage thats a memory too. And the flat, if you sort it out. Dont go near it, there are sharks swimming there, he warned, halfjoking.
The sharks never appeared, only Ian kept showing up, politely nudging the idea of a sale while polishing his favourite cabbage rolls and pretending to pay for them with meticulous precision. One day he said:
Its a pity youre so stubborn, love. Im just looking out for you, like a father. Others might show up
Threatening me?
No, heavens no! Im concerned for you, not myself.
Is there any interest in buying? I wont believe anything you say.
Some, but the people eyeing Three Oranges are far more powerful. They could simply take the place from you without any repercussions.
And so it began. First, a band of grimlooking thugs swaggered through almost every room, overturned the tomato crate and claimed Blythes father owed them an astronomical sum.
Later, evenings that used to be lively turned into brawls and drunken scandals, a rarity in the establishment. Customers dwindled, preferring quieter venues for dinner parties. One morning the staff found the dining room in chaos tables overturned, kitchen floors littered with mixedup fridge contents. Miraculously, the alcohol store remained untouched.
Blythe managed to get the case of the ransack into the local police department, where it landed on the desk of her old schoolmate, Boris Byers. She told him everything, starting with Ian.
Boris shook his head. He probably isnt the mastermind. They probably picked him as a gobetween because you know him. We suspect someone else is pulling the strings. Itll take solid evidence.
Who?
Theres a magnate with factories, newspapers and a ferry line. He used to work for the council. Hes the one scheming behind the scenes. Funny thing, the breakin left no lock marks, no alarm triggered someone must have switched the system off and handed over a key. Theres a mole in your team, a traitor.
No mole. Everyones been here for ages.
Then someone was bought or intimidated
Soon the trouble reached home. Kevin laid down an ultimatum:
Either you sell the pub, or I walk out. Ive already been threatened with a knife at the front door twice. If I cant convince you, Ill take what I can. I dont want that. I just want to live.
Youre running away Remember you promised to be my rock.
Only a decent wife does that, not a fool who throws spoons and forks at the enemy.
A few weeks later Kevin actually left, taking everything even the favourite mug hed once given Blythe.
Boris commented philosophically, A husband who just occupies space. I split from my partner a year ago, earn little, never home. Your restaurant recovered after the smash, right?
Its been a while.
Then Ill invite you over for dinner. Ill pay for everything, and Ill stand guard so no one comes in with a bat.
Blythe thought, perhaps this man wouldnt bolt at the first sign of danger after all, shed never paid much attention to him in class.
Six months later, a former council employee resurfaced, not only eyeing Three Oranges but also a massive shopping centre and an underground car park hed already managed to wrestle away, backed by an entire organised crime group. Thats another story.
The mole turned out to be the barback, Victor, whom Boris quickly identified. Victor had a sizeable tab on cocktail cards and was pressured into disabling the alarm and providing a key copy.
One day Ian dropped by for his cabbage rolls, asked how things were going, and, lowering his eyes, confessed that his own amusementpark ventures had a weak spot not everything was above board. Hed been blackmailed into the whole mess.
Blythe decided not to hold a grudge and invited him back in.
As he left, Ian asked, Are you now under police protection? I saw an officer in your office earlier.
Its my future husband, Boris, keeping watch, Blythe smiled. Our weddings next week right here in the restaurant.
