Even to Theresa, who was used to lawyers’ meetings, the evening’s discussion felt as though it went on for ever. As they discussed all the possibilities left to the owning partners with regard to La Mosaïque, she found herself engaged one moment and the next gazing out of the window at the sea: deep blue, sparkling and tempting. She felt utterly trapped.
She and William had sat in her flat and thrashed everything out all day, with paper, pencils and a calculator. Even as they ate their sandwich lunch, they were noting down figures and drawing up columns of numbers. All day they had dealt only in facts – bank balances, debts, income, tax, licences, gross expenses, net profits.
It was a horrible day. And once all the team were gathered at Sally’s home, suddenly mathematical reality went up in smoke and emotions took over, for Theresa as much as for the others. Carol and Benjamin were still dreaming of a revival, full of hope and future success. Zoe nodded off, then woke up and demanded answers to questions which they had dealt with in minute detail while she was asleep; while Sally seemed to be mentally absent. Theresa had simply hoped that someone might have been able to come up with a magic answer. But that was folly. And this was reality.
So far, the ideas presented had all been idealistic, pie in the sky, mostly depending on a great imagined upsurge of custom, despite the fact that it was already early March, the height of the slow season, with the post-Christmas tightening of the belts in the run-up to Easter.
For what felt like the twentieth time, William laid out the options: ‘One: we sell up the premises and the business as one and move on. Two: we struggle on, hoping for a reprieve. Three: we cut our costs, dramatically. We work without pay and employ no covers until we are out of the red. Four: we reduce the quality and style of our menu, replacing top-end products with cheap and quick convenience food.’
Carol let out another heartfelt sigh. ‘I just want it to be like it was before . . .’
William groaned and lowered his face into his hands, while Theresa had to stop herself throwing up her arms and yelling at Carol to shut up.
‘Sally? What are your opinions?’ William leaned his elbows on the table and scrutinised her face.
Sally sat to attention. ‘Um. Well, er . . . I . . .’
‘Are we boring you?’ William pursed his lips. He was in for the kill. ‘For the last hour you’ve been in another world.’
Sally apologised. In truth her head was back on the beach at Cagnes-sur-Mer and those preposterous Markhams.
‘We’ve been going around and around in circles for hours now.’ Theresa stood up, her chair scraping on the parquet floor with a high squeak. ‘For God’s sake, let’s eat. And, Benjamin, open a bottle of something alcoholic.’
‘There must be a way we can get more people in to La Mosaïque.’ Carol beamed, as though she had had divine inspiration. ‘Couldn’t I walk around with a sandwich board, handing out leaflets?’
‘No.’ William banged his forehead on the table. ‘No, Carol. You cannot. This isn’t Coney Island. Yes, we need more customers. And, yes, we also need more time. But our debtors are pressing and, to be frank, since the dreadful events of the summer before last, we have all been living in cloud-cuckoo-land. That bloody stupid work of art gave us false hope, and an imprudent sense of security. If it hadn’t been for that bloody medallion, we’d have called it a day long ago.’
‘How about if we—’
‘Nooooo!’ shouted William. ‘Don’t you see, Carol. It’s all over.’
Theresa moved to the window and looked out, wishing she was anywhere but in this room. The birds were gathering over the dark sea, as the evening drew in. She watched them swooping and whirling up again from the teal-blue waters. ‘Everybody has to eat,’ she murmured.
‘Including us,’ said Sally, clearing the papers and pens from the table and bustling towards the kitchen. ‘Carol, lay out that salad and bread, while I get the fish going.’
In silence they prepared the food and laid the table. Benjamin handed everyone a glass of rosé, and flopped into an armchair.
‘Perhaps we should all run away to sea,’ he said. ‘And Sally can drive us.’
‘On what?’ said Zoe, already topping up her glass. ‘The raft of the Medusa?’
‘At least none of them had to pay meat suppliers,’ replied Benjamin.
‘No.’ Theresa downed her glass of wine and slumped down at the table. ‘They ate one another.’
By ten o’clock they were all well fed and rather tipsy. Sally put on the latest album by French superstar Calogero, and they sprawled out on the sofas while the music played.
They had unanimously raised their hands to approve the vote that, from now on, they would work twice as hard, adding extramural activities, like home deliveries, to their restaurant schedule. That way they hoped to keep the place afloat. The aim was to make the restaurant seem as attractive as possible to potential buyers. Then, as soon as the time was ripe, and the websites were full of recommendations, they would sell up and go their separate ways.
It was disappointing but at least there was a tiny glimmer of hope. Theresa put her faith in this new optimism.
Meanwhile they tried to think of ways to enhance the restaurant’s profile, and at the same time to make more money through it. Priority number one was to get more five-star reviews on the FaveEats website. They already had many, but, obviously, the more the merrier. By branching out into out-of-house catering, they hoped to fill the financial gap which had been caused by the drop in tourism.
As people fired more ideas into the air, Benjamin uncorked another bottle.
Even William was now laughing at the wild suggestions proffered by Carol.
‘Seriously, though,’ she grabbed one of the petits fours and ate it with flair. ‘Even when we offload the property, we must be able to find a way to make a living out of something related to hospitality. We have the equipment and the expertise.’
‘Equipment?’
‘Pots and pans. Spoons. You know what I mean.’
‘And what expertise do you have, exactly, Carol?’
Carol ignored William’s remark and took another sip of wine.
‘You could always go on the game, Carol,’ quipped Benjamin.
‘You, too, for that matter, sweetie,’ she replied with a tart smile.
‘Poke and Rogers,’ said Theresa, attempting to lighten the atmosphere. ‘You’ve certainly got the right names for it.’
‘I’ll buy fifty per cent of the shares in that one,’ said Zoe, trying to grin through her latest application of Botox. ‘I’m in!’ She pulled out her chequebook. ‘Seriously. I am in. When does the brothel open?’
‘Rogers and Poke sounds better,’ said Theresa, earnestly repeating the name to herself. ‘Rogers and Poke.’
‘We could do sailors.’ Sally sank down on to a leather pouf, her back banging against the wall. ‘Sailors Are Us.’
‘I’m astonished at you, Sally,’ said William. ‘I thought that you, of all people, would take this matter more seriously.’
‘Shouldn’t it be Sailors Are We?’ asked Zoe.
‘I am taking it sherioushly,’ Sally slurred and blinked her eyes a few times. ‘As sherioushly as anything. What I meant was – we could make packed lunches, cater for dinner parties, picnics, all that jazz, for all those vishiting those horrible big gin palaces. I doubt they want to cook themselves. So it would be a sort of meals on wheels . . . only without the wheels.’
‘Mulls on hulls?’ said Zoe. ‘Mails under sails?’
‘But, look, I’ve got the little boat. You lot can cook and pack and I’ll ship it out to them, direct to their boats.’
‘Shore to ship, rather than ship to shore.’ Theresa grabbed a chocolate and popped it in her mouth, savouring every morsel of flavour. ‘That’s a good idea. It could work.’
‘While we’re at it we could all dress up as French maids,’ said Benjamin. ‘They’d love that.’
Theresa snatched the pad which lay in the centre of the table and added ‘Shore-to-Ship Catering’ to the list.
‘Obviously we’ll have to put in extra man-hours in the mornings – I imagine people going out on boats for day trips will need the provisions delivered early. And we’ll have to take someone out of the dining room to pack up the home deliveries during the evening service.’
Benjamin, Carol and Sally raised their hands.
‘A little too keen to wiggle out of dealing with the public, I think.’ William’s face was as pinched as his tone.
‘On the whole, William, as you well know, the public are pure hell.’ Benjamin raised a challenging eyebrow.
‘The customer is always right.’
‘The customer is usually wrong, and not only that but ignorant and rude.’
‘I always drive the van. So I can drive the van and the boat to do the deliveries.’ Sally could see that this was quite a clever way of edging out of the actual restaurant while still being part of the team and doing her bit.
William gazed at her for a few seconds, then agreed that that was a good plan.
Theresa felt rather pleased that she would be in the kitchen, doing what she always did, even though she would be having to provide twice or three times as much.
She was keen to get on, to move things along.
Yawning, she glanced at her watch. ‘Almost the witching hour. Come along, folks. We’ve got to be up early tomorrow to get all these plans started, so I, for one, am heading home to bed. See you early in La Mosaïque.’