Erin Kaye - Second Time Around

‘It always is,’ said Donna authoritatively. ‘It’s one of the best restaurants in town. They get all their fish from Ewing’s on the Shankill Road.’ In response to Jennifer’s blank face, she added, ‘They’re the finest fishmongers in the city. They supply all the Crawfords’ Belfast hotels too.’

‘The Crawfords?’ asked Jennifer, trying not to show too much interest. Everyone but the man behind the bar was dressed entirely in black. It occurred to her that he must be the manager.

‘You know,’ said Donna. ‘They own The Marine Hotel in Ballyfergus.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Jennifer, the name ringing a bell now. The Crawfords were one of the province’s most wealthy, prominent families.

‘It seems they’ve been busy buying up restaurants too,’ went on Donna. ‘They took this place over a year ago and completely transformed it. It was a right dump before.’

Jennifer said casually, ‘Who’s that guy Matt was talking to just now?’ Her eyes were drawn involuntarily to the door through which they’d disappeared.

‘The one in the pink shirt? That’s Ben Crawford. Heir to the Crawford empire.’

Ben. The name suited him, she decided. She liked it.

‘ Ulster Tatler voted him Northern Ireland’s Most Eligible Bachelor last year,’ went on Donna.

Jennifer swallowed. He really was out of her league, but still she could not help herself asking, ‘And is he … is he nice?’

‘I’ve never met him but I met the father, Alan, at a charity dinner once. Godawful man. Loud. Pompous. Full of himself.’

Jennifer bit her lip. Like father, like son? And he had looked so nice.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Donna, placing a reassuring hand on Jennifer’s. ‘Apparently the son’s nothing like the father. So if Matt ends up working for him, I’m sure it’ll be absolutely fine.’

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?’