‘All yours then. Sorry about the fluorescent DB in luminous yellow Dean thought fit to have monogrammed on the mudguard.’ I laughed. ‘Daft bugger, I always used to reckon it stood for… Anyway, up to you to pump up the tyres, etcetera. OK, eggs? Two slices of toast?’
* * *
By midday, I was ready for the off. Knowing I had to take Lola down to her dad’s garage in Beddingfield village, I called for her once more to get a move on. Joel had left half an hour earlier on an experimental ride along the country lanes beyond the cottages before returning to say all was well with both bike and rider and, if that was OK with me, he was going to cycle into school to do some revision.
‘You look nice, Jess,’ he’d said as he fastened himself back into Dean’s helmet. ‘I thought for a minute it was Robyn who’d come round. You look different…’ He trailed off.
‘Amazing what a bit of make-up can do,’ I said, slightly embarrassed. Iwaslooking good, I knew. My hair was newly washed and, for once, doing just what I wanted it to, and I’d shoehorned myself into a pair of white jeans I’d long since relegated to the back of the wardrobe. Actually, no shoehorning involved: the jeans had slid neatly over my bum without me having to lie on the floor, sucking everything in while I held my breath. I’d even tucked my best white T-shirtintothe jeans’ red belt rather than leaving it to hang outside in my usual attempt to hide what was beneath. Mum’s lovely scarlet – and much coveted – jacket she’d left on the hook behind the door weeks ago went on at a pinch – Mum reallywaspetite compared to me – and I was good to go. Nervous as hell of course, but more than ready to hear what the so-calledopening companythat Kamran had insisted on bringing in were going to be saying.
Lola’s eyes narrowed slightly as she gave Joel a dismissive glance before heading for the van. ‘That’s Granny’s best jacket. It’s far too small foryou. And that’s notDad’sbest bike and helmet you’re letting that boy have, is it?’ she asked as she fastened her seatbelt.
‘Absolutely not,’ I lied as I put Vera into gear and set off. ‘Absolutely not.’
* * *
‘You look fabulous, Jess.’ Fabian smiled down at me, leading me to the bank of huge, recently installed fridges where he helped me offload my five ready-to-be-tasted and discussed puddings. ‘My starters are in there too,’ he added nervously.
‘Tell you what,’ I whispered, ‘you say you like mine and I’ll say I like yours. You know, like you do at infant school when you’re showing your best friend your painting.’ We smiled conspiratorially at each other before Kamran appeared at the door, beckoning us to join the others already seated in what was now the dining area on the second floor of The White House.
This was not the Kamran I’d grown to really like; not the gentle and accommodating man my mum had fallen in love with, was about to marry and, heavens, would soon become my ownstepfather. In his place was this suited, exceptionally successful businessman who had taken over the helm of Frozen from his own father, turning it into the multi-million-pound international business it was today. A businessman, I knew, who wouldn’t suffer fools gladly. My heart sank a little as I pictured my puddings waiting patiently in the fridge. Were they too amateurish? Would they pass muster? Should I bow out now gracefully while I had the chance?
I felt a hand in my own and glanced behind me to see Fabian looking as pale and anxious as I knew myself to be. I gave it a reassuring return squeeze.
‘We can do this,’ he whispered into my hair, close enough that I could take in a minty breath, a subtle hint of citrus aftershave, the instantly recognisable scent of Fabian Mansfield Carrington. Robyn’s man, I reminded myself sternly.
‘Ah, Jess, Fabian,’ Kamran said politely as if he hadn’t just stood at the top of the stairs, giving us a warning look to be at our most professional. ‘Do come in and sit down. We’re very lucky to have Sally Maynard and Richard Abrahams with us this afternoon, experienced consultants to advise on various aspects of the opening process, such as planning, operations and marketing. Over to you, Sally.’
‘Indeed.’ Sally Maynard, a tall, fiery redhead who looked as if she ate potential restaurant owners for breakfast, leaned forward, glanced perfunctorily at her open laptop before launching her narrative at the three of us.
‘My company has specialised knowledge and experience in restaurant openings, helping navigate the complexities of setting up a new business at which, I’m led to believe, the pair of you’ – she offered an on-off smile at Fabian and me – ‘have little or no actual experience?’
‘Well…’ Fabian started, his training and experience as a top London KC barrister obviously not making it easy for him to allow this woman the upper hand.
Sally Maynard held up a beringed and manicured hand, and Fabian held up both his own, momentarily silenced, sitting back in his chair to allow the woman to continue.
‘We can handle the heavy lifting of tasks such as vendor selection, equipment procurement and staff training, allowing restaurant owners such as yourselves to focus on other aspects. Most importantly, in your case, your menus?’
Was this a question? Did the woman want to know what mine and Fabian’s five starters and puddings were going to be?
I cleared my throat, summoning up the courage to speak, but at a look from Kamran as well as the raising once more of the woman’s impatient hand, I retreated into my shell and allowed Ms Maynard to continue speaking. Which she did, non-stop for almost an hour, pausing only to sip at her glass of water, not allowing any interruption of her full-frontal flow.
‘Our professional advice will help identify potential problems early on and allow you to implement strategies to mitigate them, increasing the chances of a smooth and successful opening,’ she concluded.
‘So, can you give us some idea which restaurants you’ve been behind? In the last couple of years?’ Fabian had thrown off his nerves, it seemed, and was leaning forwards. ‘That always helps, if we are to take you on.’
Take you on?I glanced in Kamran’s direction, but nothing in his demeanour told me what he might be thinking.
‘Of course.’ Sally Maynard raised an eye but launched, ticking off on her fingers as she spoke. ‘Mulberry in Leicester, Alain Dupont in West London, The Yorkshire Eatery in Selby as well as Dining in Leeds.’
‘Impressive.’ Fabian smiled his wonderful Fabian smile, and I saw the woman visibly melt.
‘That’s what we want our punters to be saying from the minute they step in,’ Kamran said eagerly.
‘Well, you’ve got great premises here,’ Ms Maynard said, turning to the huge picture windows from which the beautiful Yorkshire countryside rolled and stretched towards the Pennines. ‘Although probably best not to call your guestspunters. Your USP, surely, is this actual building, its history and its fabulous position. You must be able to see over to Lancashire from up here?’
‘Derbyshire and Cheshire as well on a clear day… if you look closely,’ I heard myself waxing lyrical.
‘So, Jess?’ Richard Abrahams spoke for the first time.
