Czytaj książkę: «Second Time Around»

Chapter 2

Ben sat behind the desk in the cramped, windowless office at the back of the restaurant. He smiled at the good-looking young man sitting opposite him as he riffled through papers on the desk – and tried to put the image of the raven-haired woman out of his mind. He’d noticed her, sashaying across the floor in those black patent heels and that tight skirt, straight away. He could not believe that he’d had the audacity to stare at her like that, slap bang in the middle of a crowded restaurant. What had possessed him?

Perhaps it had something to do with making the decision about Rebecca. He’d still to act on it, of course, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He glanced anxiously at the mobile lying on the table. He’d texted her earlier to ask if she would meet him tonight for a drink. He’d tell her then.

It wasn’t that he had a wandering eye. Far from it, he thought, pulling a résumé from the pile. He’d always been faithful to girlfriends and he wasn’t in the habit of staring at attractive women. But this one, for some reason, had caught his eye and he couldn’t stop himself. And she had stared back, making his heart race and his mouth go dry.

Pushing these thoughts to one side, he cleared his throat. ‘I’m really sorry, Matt. The Head Chef, Jason McCluskey, should be here for the interview but he’s been called away urgently.’ His three-year-old daughter, Emily, who had a rare blood disorder, had just been rushed into hospital with an asthma attack. ‘So, although this is really unusual, I’ll be doing the interview today.’

‘Okay.’ Matt smiled for the first time. He had an open, pleasing face, the sort that inspired trust in men and admiration in women. If his cooking was as good as his looks, he’d go far.

Ben picked up a blank A4 pad and tried to concentrate on Matt. Initially impressions were not good – his hair was too long and he’d not made much of an effort in his Abercrombie hoodie and skinny jeans. Ben disliked recruiting – he felt uncomfortable with the responsibility; he did not like the fact that he held the power to determine, even to a small extent, other people’s destinies. He worried that he might get it wrong. And if hiring was stressful, firing was even worse.

Only last week he’d sacked one of the waitresses, a single mum to toddler twins, for persistent, poor time-keeping. Three times she’d not turned up for work without so much as a phone call. He’d given her dozens of warnings and more chances than she deserved but in the end, for the sake of morale amongst the other staff, he’d had to let her go. And it had torn him apart. Steeling himself, he resolved to do what he always did – his best – though always mindful that he could never fill the shoes that went before him, so different in every way from his own.

Matt Irwin, he wrote across the top of the page, and settled into the brown leather swivel chair. Aiming to put the candidate at ease, he rested his right foot casually on his left knee. ‘I’ve read your CV, Matt, so I can see you’re qualified for the job. But tell me more about your practical work experience.’

‘I’ve worked in the kitchen of The Marine Hotel in Ballyfergus since I was sixteen. It’s one of the Crawford Group Hotels,’ he needlessly pointed out, keen to show he’d done his homework, to impress.

‘That’s right.’ The Marine, then rundown and in need of refurbishment, was the first hotel his father had bought thirty years ago. Now the Crawford Group had a board of directors and owned a string of top-class hotels across the province – and Alan, having done all he could feasibly do in that arena, had decided to diversify into the restaurant market. Now that The Lemon Tree was successfully established, Alan felt the time was right to establish another restaurant in the nearby thriving port of Ballyfergus. Past success, no matter how great, did not motivate Ben’s father – he was incapable of resting on his laurels. He sought out new challenges – endlessly, exhaustingly. And it had only gotten worse after Ricky. ‘You got a very good reference from the head chef at the Marine. Though you weren’t working as a commis chef, of course.’

‘That’s right. I was a kitchen porter,’ said Matt and added quickly, ‘And there were the college placements too. At The Potted Herring. That was brilliant. They were going to give me a permanent job, you know.’

‘And then they went bust,’ said Ben sadly, with a shake of his head. Restaurant closures in the city had hit an all-time high the year before, and this year hadn’t been much better. ‘That was bad luck.’

It struck him then just how remarkable the success of The Lemon Tree was, given the depressed state of the economy. And how much of that success was down to his father’s vision and business acumen. Very few other restaurateurs were in a position to expand.

‘Yeah,’ said Matt, ‘it sucks. But I’m not the only one. No one on my course has got a proper job.’ He rubbed the thighs of his jeans with the palms of his hands. ‘Look, I know I don’t have as much experience as you might like. As you’re looking for.’ He leaned forward with his large hands dangling between his spread-out legs. Ben noticed that they were shaking. ‘But I’m very good. Better than good. Honest. Ask my tutors.’

Ben, doodling a series of light zig-zagged lines across the top of the page, remembered what his father said about employing staff with relevant experience. ‘You don’t want any greenhorns,’ he’d said. ‘Let them cut their teeth on someone else’s time.’ Ben’s hand stilled and he looked at Matt. Alan Crawford would never employ this young man. And even open-minded Jason, who was all for encouraging raw talent, might have reservations. But if no one was prepared to give a lad like him a chance, how would he ever get started?

Aware that Matt had been silent for some moments and was now staring at him, Ben said, ‘So tell me why I should give you the commis chef job?’

Matt took a deep breath, held it, then let it all out in an audible rush. He stared straight at Ben and said, ‘Because I’m different. Because I don’t just follow recipes and do things by rote. I create.’ He raised his hands upwards as if tossing something into the air and his voice, quiet to start with, grew louder, the passion in it swelling like a pot coming to the boil. ‘I use my imagination. I’m not afraid to experiment and try new things. And I care. Everything I do has to be perfect.’

Ben put down his pen and stared at Matt, mesmerised by the lad’s self-belief.

Matt looked at the palms of his hands and a muscle in his jaw twitched. ‘My hands were made to cook. This is what I was born to do. I’ve been fascinated by food and how to cook it ever since I was a child. Ask my Mum.’ He looked directly at Ben then. ‘There’s nothing in the world I would rather do. And one day I’m going to have a chain of restaurants and they’ll be the best in all of Ireland. My food’ll be better than anything Paul Rankin or Rachel Allen or any Irish chef has ever done. You wait and see.’ Then he threw himself back in the chair and blinked back tears.

Ben, slightly stunned, said nothing. He’d never before met a more self-assured nineteen-year-old nor one who seemed so certain of his path in life, his destiny. And he was filled with a rush of bitter regret. If he’d had the confidence, the passion, to fight for what he’d wanted seven years ago, he wouldn’t be sitting here today at the age of twenty-eight, trapped in a job and a lifestyle he hated so much. At the time he thought he’d done the right thing, the only thing. But he’d not been true to himself. He’d sacrificed his lifetime’s ambition to rescue his father, to give him a reason to go on. But with every day that passed, while Alan’s dreams came to fruition, Ben’s became a little more distant, a little harder to recall.

‘I shouldn’t have said that, should I?’ said Matt abruptly and he stood up, his tall frame towering over Ben. ‘Maybe I’m not the guy for this job. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.’

He turned then and started to walk to the door on the balls of his feet, hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans.

‘Wait,’ shouted Ben and Matt turned round.

Ben held out his hands as if presenting this truth in them. ‘I can see you’re passionate and ambitious – and that’s fantastic – but you have to start somewhere. You can’t wade in at the age of nineteen, fresh out of college, and start running a kitchen.’

Matt nodded and said, deflated, ‘I know. And that’s why I’m here. I really need this job.’

Ben imagined what his father would say. But Alan wasn’t here. ‘I’ve read your references, Matt. I believe you’re as good as you say you are. And there’s no doubting your commitment. But there’s a big difference between catering college and hacking it, day in and day out, in a commercial kitchen.’

‘I know that,’ said Matt.

Ben, eyeballing him, went on, ‘You have to be prepared to work harder than you’ve ever done.’

‘I am.’

‘And you have to respect the hierarchy. You have to be able to take orders. If you can’t do that, there’s no place for you in this kitchen, in any commercial kitchen.’

Matt nodded and said hopefully, ‘I haven’t blown it then?’

Ben shook his head and decided there and then, in that moment, that he was going to take a chance on this lad no matter what his father, or Jason, might say. This project was, after all, meant to be his. ‘Not as far as I’m concerned,’ he smiled. ‘You will have to convince Jason as well though.’

Matt’s thick black eyebrows moved up a fraction in surprise. Then he grinned and punched the air and cried, ‘Yes!’

‘I’ll put in a good word for you with him.’ He’d have to do more than that – he’d have to persuade Jason to take on a boy who, on paper, was less well qualified than some other applicants. But none had impressed him like Matt. And none of the others had sparked in him the desire to help them.

Matt came over, grasped Ben’s hand in both of his and shook it vigorously. ‘I won’t let you down, Ben. I promise.’

‘Don’t forget that Jason’s the boss. So maybe keep your plans for a culinary take-over of Ireland to yourself for the time being, eh?’

Matt laughed. ‘Okay. I understand.’

Ben got them both a coffee and said, ‘Let me tell you a bit more about our plans. It’ll help when you meet with Jason.’ They talked about the restaurant’s image, the number of covers, the clientele they aimed to attract, the type and quality of food they would serve based on the province’s abundant supply of high-quality produce.

‘That’s definitely the way to go,’ offered Matt. ‘Quality over price. People don’t want to eat cheap rubbish any more. They want to know where the food on their plate comes from.’

Ben smiled and thought of how Matt’s ethos contrasted so markedly with his father’s. Alan had latched on to the ‘finest local produce’ mantra only because he was astute enough to realise it was what people wanted to hear – and that put bums on seats. He knew good food, but his primary interest was in the business side – menu pricing, cost control, cash flow and profit margins. But that focus, thought Ben with a grudging respect, was why he was such a good businessman.

His people skills however, while good, weren’t quite as well honed. Though Ben had never spoken about it, Alan realised that he was unhappy in his job. But, unable to identify with any personality type other than his own competitive and work-obsessed one, Alan assumed Ben was bored. He thought Ben needed a new and exciting challenge and told him so. It did not occur to Alan to ask Ben what he wanted and Ben, in turn, knowing how the truth would wound his father, kept silent.

Hence the new restaurant in Ballyfergus, a start-up venture with no guarantee of success. Ben worried that he would fail, that he simply wouldn’t be able to summon the necessary energy and drive to deliver what his father expected.

So, far from looking forward to it, Ben was dreading it. And not just the long hours. He’d no desire to live in a small-town rural backwater like Ballyfergus. He didn’t want to leave Belfast and his flat full of books that he loved so much. Living near the university had helped him keep his dream of a teaching career alive. The only advantage he could see in moving to Ballyfergus was that it would mean getting away from Rebecca.

A short while later, as Matt and Ben strolled companionably across the pale ash floor of the restaurant towards the exit, they passed close by the dark-haired woman and her friend.

‘Matt!’

Abruptly they both stopped and looked over at the table and Matt’s face broke into a grin. ‘What are you doing here?’ he cried and, peeling away from Ben, went straight over to the table and embraced the sexy woman in black who was now standing with a white napkin dangling from her hand. How did Matt know her, he wondered. When they separated, she said, laughing, ‘I could ask you the same question.’

‘I came to see Ben here,’ he replied, ‘about a commis chef job.’

‘Oh,’ she said and blushed a little.

Ben came forward, not daring to look directly at the woman’s face in case he betrayed his uneasiness. He could smell her sweet, citrusy perfume now and see the gentle rise and fall of her chest, and lower still, the curve of her shapely calves.

‘Ben, this here’s Donna.’

Ben smiled and shook her hand.

‘… and this is my Mum.’

Mum! Startled, he looked straight at her then. This gorgeous creature was Matt’s mother? It was impossible. But then he saw the likeness in the oval shape of her face; the strong jaw line; the wide, pleasing mouth. And he saw, now that he was closer, that she was a little older than he’d assumed. Her skin creased at the corners of her eyes and she had deep laughter lines on both sides of her mouth when she smiled. She was no less beautiful than he’d first thought but disappointment tempered his admiration. She must’ve been very young when she’d had Matt. She looked directly at him, with eyes the same colour as Matt’s, every pretty feature illuminated and enhanced by the warm smile her son had inherited from her. ‘I’m Jennifer. Lovely to meet you, Ben.’

He managed to mumble something in reply and Jennifer said, ‘Well, how did the interview go?’

‘Great,’ said Ben.

‘I’ve still got to pass an interview with the Head Chef,’ added Matt.

‘More a formality than anything,’ said Ben boldly, without taking his eyes off Jennifer, realising as he said it, that it was a lie. Yet he was desperate for some reason to impress this woman – and please her.

‘Oh, that’s wonderful, Matt,’ she said and turned her attention to him, leaving Ben feeling as if a shadow had just passed overhead, blocking out the rays of the sun. She placed the flat of her palm on Matt’s cheek momentarily, causing him to redden with embarrassment, and added, ‘I’m so pleased for you. This looks like a great place to work.’ She dropped her hand and scanned the restaurant. ‘And Belfast isn’t so far away, is it?’ she said, as if trying to convince herself of something. ‘You’ll have to move up here, of course. Get your own place.’

‘The job isn’t in Belfast, Mum. It’s in Ballyfergus.’

‘Oh! Where?’ she said, her question directed not at Matt but at Ben.

‘Near the town centre,’ explained Ben, hiding his anxiety behind a smile. If Jason refused to employ Matt, he’d have to tell him that he couldn’t have the job. ‘On the site of an old fish and chip café. Peggy’s Kitchen, I think it was called.’

‘Oh, I know exactly where you mean,’ said Jennifer, her face lighting up. ‘It used to be a mecca for bikers from all round East Antrim. It closed down years ago. I’d heard it’d been sold.’ And turning to Matt she added, her face radiant with joy, ‘Imagine getting a job in Ballyfergus! Isn’t that just wonderful?’

Ben looked at Jennifer’s left hand. There was no band on her ring finger, but that didn’t mean anything. She certainly wouldn’t look at a guy like him. She’d want someone mature, a man who was secure in himself and his place in the world, someone confident and successful.

But even though he knew he had no chance with her, he wanted to know everything about her. Matt had mentioned that he lived with his mother and his résumé listed an address in Ballyfergus. He had not been looking forward to it but, all of a sudden, Ballyfergus seemed like an attractive proposition …

As if he could read Ben’s mind, Matt said, ‘Mum has her own interior design business in Ballyfergus. Just in case you’re looking for someone to design the restaurant.’

So she was both beautiful and smart. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, addressing Jennifer. ‘A company’s already contracted to do the interior. Calico Design. We’ve used them before.’

She waved away his apology with a hand gesture and simply laughed. ‘Good choice. Matt, stop being forward.’

‘Well someone has to be,’ he said good-naturedly and turned to Ben and added, ‘Mum’s not very good at self-promotion.’ Jennifer blushed and Matt went on, ‘I have to help her out now and again.’

‘Oh, don’t listen to him,’ she said, her eyes sparkling with merriment.

Matt pulled his mobile out of his pocket and looked at the screen. ‘I gotta go, everyone.’ He said his goodbyes and held out his hand to Ben. ‘Thanks mate.’

Then he left and Donna went to the ladies’, leaving Ben and Jennifer standing alone together.

‘Well, wasn’t that a coincidence?’ she mused. ‘Us coming here for lunch at the same time Matt turns up for an interview with you.’

‘Serendipity,’ said Ben, unable to stop himself from staring at her. She returned his gaze without so much as a blink and they stood like that for a few frozen seconds.

A loud entrance broke the eye contact. It was Rebecca, bare legged and short skirted. Ben’s heart sank. What was she doing here? She strode across the room, her high heels clipping loudly, her long fake-tanned legs the same colour as the varnished wood floor. She glanced from side to side, making sure everyone in the room was looking at her. And they were. Rebecca was a stunning model, signed with his mother’s modelling agency, Diane Crawford Models.

Rebecca flicked her head and long hair cascaded down like a curtain of spun gold. She wore as much make-up as a geisha – and a smile like a sticky plaster.

‘Ben,’ cried Rebecca, throwing elongated, thin arms around his neck and, to his absolute horror, planting a kiss on his lips. He detached her arms, tentacle-like, and wiped pink, gloopy lipstick from his mouth with the back of his hand. He managed a nervous laugh and she glowered at him from under eyelashes as thick and black as spider’s legs.

‘Rebecca! What are you doing here?’

‘Aren’t you pleased to see your girlfriend?’ she pouted childishly.

‘Well … yes … of course,’ he stumbled.

‘I had a modelling job in the area – a promotional thing in Castlecourt – and was just passing,’ she said airily. That explained the inappropriate make-up. She placed a proprietorial hand on his arm and lowered her voice. ‘I got your text. Thought I’d pop in rather than wait till tonight.’

She flashed a fixed, professional smile at Jennifer and he said, taking her cue, ‘Well, it’s been very nice meeting you, Jennifer. And I hope to see you and Donna in Ballyfergus when we open.’

‘You can count on it,’ said Donna, who appeared from nowhere.

Rebecca hooked her arm in his and led him away to the bar. ‘Who was that granny you were talking to?’ she giggled, with a cool, cruel glance over her shoulder.

‘Don’t be so rude. And keep your voice down, for heaven’s sake. She’ll hear you.’ He turned his back, like a shield, towards Jennifer’s table, filled with an urge to protect her from Rebecca’s spiteful comments.

What had he ever seen in her? Apart from a pretty face. Of course, when they’d first met six months ago – courtesy of his mother who was always trying to pair Ben off – Rebecca had been perfectly charming. Fun even. It was only fairly recently, when the chemistry between them had worn off and she began to relax around him, that her true personality had emerged.

Rebecca gave him an icy look, planted her bag on the bar and climbed onto a bar stool, her tight skirt barely covering her crotch. She looked at him calmly with almond-shaped, blue eyes. Each dark brown eyebrow was a perfect, thin arch. ‘So who is she?’

‘I just interviewed her son, Matt, for a chef’s job,’ he said, finding it difficult to make eye contact. ‘She happened to be in here with her friend at the same time.’ Ben glanced at the exit just in time to see Jennifer and her friend walking out.

‘So she is old enough to be my mother,’ said Rebecca. When this elicited no reaction from Ben bar a cold look, she smiled, transforming her face to photo-perfection. ‘So what did you want to talk about? Oh, did you get the tickets for the X Factor Live show at the Odyssey?’

‘I don’t want to go, Rebecca. I’ve told you that a hundred times.’

Her face fell, like this was the first time he’d imparted the news. ‘Look, this isn’t the time or the place to talk,’ he said, looking around self-consciously. ‘I’m working.’

He should have finished with Rebecca a long time ago. Lately he’d begun to wonder if her ardour had more to do with what he was – a Crawford – than who he was as a person. Last week she’d given him a price list of everything she wanted, nay expected, for her birthday, a gesture so mercenary it had shocked him. And today, those cruel, unnecessary remarks about Jennifer – well, they only confirmed that he was doing the right thing.

‘No you’re not, you’re talking to me. Anyway,’ she said, casting a careless glance over her shoulder, ‘they can manage without you for a few minutes, can’t they? You’re the boss after all. No one can tell you what to do.’ And she actually snapped her fingers to attract the attention of Chris behind the bar.

Ben’s face reddened with embarrassment. ‘It’s all right, Chris,’ he said, jumping up, as the stony-faced barman approached. ‘I’ll get it.’

He served her drink. She made no offer of payment, not that he’d have taken it. ‘I have to get back to work, Rebecca. Can you meet me later?’

‘You’re going to finish with me, aren’t you?’ she said flatly.

He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Let’s talk tonight, Rebecca.’

‘You are, aren’t you?’ she said fiercely, her eyes glinting with angry tears.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you here. Like this.’

She glared at him and drummed her painted nails like weapons on the granite surface of the bar. ‘Why?’

‘We’re just not suited, Rebecca. You’re a great girl but we’re not very compatible, are we?’

‘Tell me about it,’ she said viciously. ‘You and your stupid books and old black and white movies. And wanting to sit in on a Saturday night like an old fart reading bloody poetry when everyone else is out partying. Jesus, I don’t know how I put up with it.’

Ben felt his face colour. He thought she liked their nights in. Was this how she’d felt all along?

She grabbed her bag and wriggled off the stool, pulling the hem of her skirt down with her right hand. ‘Well, you can go screw yourself, Ben Crawford,’ she shouted, as a hushed silence descended in the room and all the diners strained to hear. ‘I never want to see you again.’