Chapter 11 #2
I felt my heart plummet once more. God, how the hell did I go about that?
When I’d started up my own little outdoor catering business, ploughing into it all my own savings, as well as financial help from Mum, which I knew she could ill afford, I’d probably always undersold myself – well, according to Dean anyway – sometimes only breaking even when I’d sent the final invoice.
Eighteen months after starting up Jessica Dining, and just as I had begun to make a bit of a name for myself and my new venture, Covid put an end to that little dream.
The crockery, cutlery, tablecloths and all the other paraphernalia needed for a one-woman outside catering business were boxed up and laid to rest in the loft alongside the Christmas decs, the battered suitcases and dreadful mirror which had been Pat Butterworth’s sole contribution to my and Dean’s marriage, the cardboard cartons reproaching me every time I happened to go up there for anything.
‘You come up with ideas for the desserts, Jess,’ Kamran was saying, ‘and then Fabian and whoever we get to be in charge of the food side will work with you on them.’
‘Shouldn’t you have found a head chef by now?’ I pulled a face.
‘Chef de cuisine, please.’ Kamran grinned. ‘Been putting feelers out since we decided to go ahead with all this. But you and Fabian’ll make the final decisions.’
‘Really?’ My attention caught by this new little snippet, I fell over a particularly large tussock of grass. ‘We’re going to have to sort these gardens as well, you know.’
‘All in order. We’re already landscaping a large area beyond The White House to grow the restaurant’s vegetables, herbs and rhubarb. With us being so near the rhubarb triangle over in Wakefield, we should take advantage of it.’
‘That’s forced rhubarb.’ I frowned. ‘The roots are grown in dark, heated sheds where they’re forced to grow really quickly in the darkness.
Then, traditionally, the idea is to harvest the stuff by candlelight, usually in December to February.
Not being a gardener, Kamran, the last thing I want to be doing is freezing my tush off, holding a candle out here at Christmas when I should be getting my sprouts on. ’
‘Oh, right, OK, maybe not then. We can always buy the forced stuff, but Lisa’s getting really excited about having our own garden and gardeners here. It’ll be like going back to how it was when the house was originally built for the Hudsons in the last century…’
‘Don’t have her overdoing things, Kamran. Mum’s been really ill in the past.’
‘I know.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve nothing but Lisa’s welfare – and happiness – at heart.’
‘You have, haven’t you?’ I smiled across at Kamran.
‘Absolutely.’ Kamran hesitated. ‘And you?’
‘Me?’
‘Your mum worries about you, Jess. Says that husband of yours has drained your confidence.’
‘Not sure I ever had any.’
‘Your mum says no one could beat you on the hockey pitch.’
I stopped walking, shaking my head. ‘You’re going back fifteen years. Mum always refers to those halcyon days as some sort of marker of my only achievement. I haven’t played hockey since I was a chippy teenager.’
‘She said you were.’
‘What? Chippy?’
Kamran laughed. ‘Yup.’
‘Yes, well, you fall in love at eighteen with the boy everyone’s after. Get pregnant and that’s it. Stuck in rural bliss for the next fifteen years…’ I trailed off.
‘Well, here’s your chance. Come on, Jess. I tell you what, if the idea of costing it all out is frightening you, why don’t you just put together five puds that we could have on the very first menu when we open? Make them, set them before us and we’ll be totally honest as to what we think.’
‘OK. Will five be enough?’
‘It’s going to be an upmarket place,’ Kamran said earnestly.
‘Less is more and all that. We don’t want to have a menu as long as your arm – smacks of half the stuff being frozen, just ready to defrost if ordered by a customer.
I’ll ask Fabian to do the same with starters.
He’s bloody good at those. Five starters and five puds and then we’ll sit down with them, taste them and pull them apart. ’
‘Not sure I like the idea of that.’ I pulled a face.
‘Get used to it, Jess. There’s always going to be someone being derogatory about The White House. Some punters delight in leaving one-star reviews for the very best restaurants.’
‘I’ll just curl up and die if someone writes something awful about my puddings.’
‘Well, they will.’
‘Oh, thanks very much for that.’
‘You need to get a thicker skin, Jess. Both you and Fabian will have to toughen up a bit. Over the years I’ve had to do the same over what we sell in our Frozen outlets…’
‘That’s not the same, surely? Your frozen chips and lemon meringue pie?’
‘I don’t see why not. My family has made a great success of more than one business, Jess. I’m not prepared for this venture to be anything less…’
Blimey, I thought, had Kamran Sattar been at the same school of business as Sir Alan Sugar?
As if reading my thoughts, Kamran turned and, although he smiled and bent to kiss my cheek before heading for his car, added, ‘…or you’re fired!’