I recall the day when I was summoned to your house.
The cabbage rolls are always superb here, Ian Spencer said, pushing aside the empty plate. Your father found a topnotch head chef. The salads, however, are hit or miss. Todays Caesar is rather mediocre, and the croutons are soggy. Who made them?
Mrs. Margaret Whitaker is in charge of the salads, I replied.
Margaret is long overdue for retirement. Let her bake pies for the grandchildren; Im already hunting a replacement, Ian suggested.
Excuse me? I said, surprised. I never asked you for that, and Im satisfied with Margaret. Patrons travel from the other side of town just for her meatballs.
Well learn the recipe quickly, and well find younger waitstaff
Im not about to replace anyone!
You wont have to. Others will take over the restaurant.
But the place was left to me in the will.
The inheritance is just your flat you can live there, no one will evict you. The bank account is yours, and Three Oranges was a venture not only of your father but of several serious investors. Theyll take the premises into their own hands.
And youre one of them? You were a friend of my father
Ian shrugged. Business. Nothing personal. In fact, we intend to buy the restaurant from you, at a fair price, of course.
Soon it became clear that the fair price was only fair from the buyers side; to the seller it was little more than a token.
My father, Edward Mallory, had been a powerful figure in the hospitality world. He started with modest pubs, later establishing a popular eatery in the heart of London where the old Pasty House once stood. After university, I was given the task of purchasing market produce for salads, while the kitchen remained offlimits, reserved for professionals.
Although my father had long since moved in with another womanan accomplished surgeon who cared little for the restaurant businesshe always kept me close. He rarely saw his new partner. When he fell ill with a terminal disease, he left the Three Oranges solely to me, perhaps knowing that even the best surgeons cannot defeat every ailment.
After his death the restaurant kept running under its manager, but I threw myself into every aspect, dreaming of new dishes and a modern redesign. The staff treated me kindly; after all, we were like one big family.
Then new owners appeared. I expected greedy suitors to eye Three Oranges, but the betrayal was far subtler. Ian Spencer, who had once taken my father and me to amusement rides in the park, turned out to own those rides and several other parks. My fathers network of influential officials and businessmen, once fairygodlike benefactors who never hesitated to spoil a child with expensive gifts, now seemed intent on stripping the restaurant from me, brazenly.
My husband, Thomas, who worked on the railway, regarded the establishment as a surefire criminal enterprise. Sell it for any sum and youll be free, he warned. Open a pie stall at the station; theres always a queue for hot pasties on the platform.
The whole square is already divided, I retorted. Three Oranges is a memory of my father.
We still have the country house, and the flatif you can sort it out. Dont meddle; the waters are full of sharks, he warned.
The sharks never appeared, only Ian, who kept bringing up the sale, eating his beloved cabbage rolls and paying for them with exaggerated delicacy. One day he said, Youre stubborn, girl. Im speaking fatherly. Others will come.
Are you threatening me? I asked.
Me? By Jove, Im looking out for you, not myself.
Is there any interest in this sale? Ill never believe you.
Theres a little. He went on to name powerful industrialists, newspaper owners, and former city officials who could simply take the restaurant without repercussions.
Thus began the trouble. Grim, ganglike men inspected almost every room, overturned the tomato bins, and claimed my father owed them an astronomical sum. Later, evenings in the dining room erupted into fights and drunken brawlsa scene unheard of before. Patrons dwindled, preferring quieter venues for their meals. One morning the staff found the restaurants front door wide open, the dining room in disarray, the kitchen floor littered with the contents of all the refrigerators, though the spirituous drinks remained untouched.
I managed to get the case of the vandalism into the local police precinct, thanks to my old schoolmate, Boris Pratt. He listened to my story, starting with Ian.
Boris shook his head. I doubt hes the mastermind. He was probably used as a gobetween because you know him. We suspect a certain magnate who owns factories, newspapers, and steamships, a former city councilor. Hes the one nudging the real hands.
What about the breakin? I pressed. There were no forcedentry marks, the alarm didnt sound.
It means someone disabled the system and handed over a key. There must be an inside man, a traitor.
I insisted there was none; everyone had been there for years. Boris suggested bribery or intimidation.
The danger soon reached home. Thomas issued an ultimatum: Either you sell the pub, or I leave. Ive been threatened at the doorstep with a knife. If I cant persuade you, Ill take whats mine. I dont want that.
Im not running away, I shot back, recalling his promise to be my rock.
He eventually walked out, taking everything, even the favourite mug he had once given me.
Boris later remarked, A husband like that only occupies space. Im divorced too, earn little, and never at home. Has your restaurant recovered?
Its been years.
Then I invite you to dinner. Ill pay for everything and stand guard, so no one comes with a baton.
I thought he wouldnt flee at the first sign of danger.
Six months later, a former city administrator resurfaced, not only eyeing Three Oranges but also a major shopping centre and an underground car park, which hed already wrested from the owners with the help of a fullblown crime syndicate.
The traitor turned out to be the bartender, Victor, whom Boris quickly uncovered. Victor was deep in debt over cocktail cards, and was forced to disable the alarm and provide a key copy.
One day Ian dropped by for cabbage rolls, inquired about the business, then, with downcast eyes, confessed that his own amusement rides had shady corners, and that hed been blackmailed too. I bore him no ill will and invited him to return.
As he left, he asked, Are you now under police protection? I saw a uniformed man enter your office.
Protected, I smiled, by my future husband, Boris. Were getting married next week right here in the restaurant.
