Butlers

By Gwen Andrews

Something is not quite right about Stephanie's new partner in the restaurant business. Frankie is turning Butlers into London's most frequented venue, but that doesn't stop her worrying. About who he is and the hold he has over the restaurant's owner. About his connection with the Brockenhurst family tragedy. About the bizarre accidents that have started happening in her upscale restaurant,

But most worrying of all is Stephanie's suspicion that Butlers would not survive without Frankie. So why worry about details when this is the only part of her life that's successful.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gwen Andrews
• Release date: Jul 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9780980680928

Gwen Andrews

Born in Canada, Gwen Andrews has also lived in the UK and Australia, where she currently resides. Her first published novel is Butlers, a comedy of manners set in an upscale restaurant in London. It is the first book in the Lacey Trilogy; the second will be published in 2012.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Darling, are you sure this is what you want to do?

Giles Fanshawe watched as his wife pulled a white jumper over her head, his eyes following the lift of her breasts appreciatively. Her thick dark hair emerged from the opening in the neck, followed by her massive brown eyes and generous mouth, set now in a childish pout.

Yes, Giles, said Stephanie, I’m sure. I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss – I’ve done it before, you know.

But that was in Montreal, darling. This is London; the restaurant scene is very competitive here!

She stifled a sigh, wishing he would not look at her like that – fondly, indulgently, a little sceptically. As if thinking that her beauty were enough, wondering why she bothered with ambition. She turned away so that he would not see her impatience, and missed the cynical lift of his eyebrow. The restaurant scene was very competitive in Montreal, she said, picking up a brush and stroking it vigorously through her hair, and I was successful there.

But you didn’t have to sink the equivalent of a life’s wages into the venture, thought Giles. He did not say it aloud, not wanting to remind his wife of his preoccupation with money. Why don’t you open the same sort of restaurant then?

No, Giles, said Stephanie stubbornly. What works in Montreal doesn’t necessarily work in London. I want to open the kind of restaurant that I told you about.

But why? It hasn’t been done before.

Stephanie sighed outright this time; she had given Giles one good reason why she wanted to open Butlers, and he had managed to hit upon another himself. What was his problem with the concept? She knew that she could deliver it profitably. Besides, she was focussed on the type of clientele that she wanted – the English upper classes, international business people, celebrities. London was a city that attracted them and her establishment would become part of that attraction; in her mind, she had already built it into a success.

A restaurant styled on the private club will attract a high class of client, she said. If we make the offering sufficiently exclusive, we can charge whatever we like.

But you’ve been in private clubs, darling – they’re not the same as restaurants! People don’t usually go for the cuisine. And anyway, how are you going to keep a restaurant exclusive? You can’t turn people away at the door.

There are other ways, Giles, Stephanie scolded, wrapping her arms around his waist as he flipped the end of his tie through its knot.

He grunted, unconvinced about her idea of fusing the private club with the public restaurant; the two came from very different traditions. When he had finished with his tie, he dropped his arms and gave her a light hug. Fondness invaded his face as he looked down at her.

This is important to you, isn’t it?

She nodded, biting her lip. I can’t continue to flit around London doing nothing, Giles. It’s been two years now…

And the children hadn’t come. Neither of them said it, but the knowledge hung in the room with them like stale cigarette smoke. When he had plucked her, after a whirlwind romance, from provincial Montreal and taken her home to the life of a broker’s wife in London, she had made no secret of her desire to produce numerous children for him to support with his skill at investment and his generous bonuses. But it had not happened, and he now had on his hands a wife whose dissatisfaction was deepening. It was not the first time that he had been here.

All right, darling. He kissed her hair as she snuggled into his arms, burying her face in the safety of his chest. I’ll think about it, I promise. Over her head, he stared through the window into the leafy square beyond, a calculating look in his eye.

In fact, he had already decided that he was not going to risk a significant part of his personal assets on an untried concept; his pockets might be deep and getting deeper by the year, but they were not yet bottomless. This conclusion was on his mind as he sat opposite his monthly lunch date at the Rowner’s Club later that day. Robin, he said, pounding on his bread roll to break the crust, do you think the trust fund needs a bit of diversification?

How would I know? replied Robin Brockenhurst carelessly. You’re the broker.

Giles put down his knife with an impatient movement. You need to take an interest, Robin! You’re the main trustee of this fund, and you need to be satisfied that it’s being appropriately invested.

But I am satisfied, Giles, protested Robin, staring with alarm at the muddy brown soup that had appeared in front of him. You’ve done a fabulous job with the trust – it’s more than doubled since you took it over.

Giles was aware of this; the amount of money in the Lacey trust staggered even his jaded sensibilities, and the fees that he earned through success with its management accounted for no small part of his income. The trust could afford a risky investment far more easily than he could. I thought we might add another asset class to the portfolio, he said.

Haven’t we got enough of those already? grumbled Robin, picking up his soup spoon. Stocks, bonds, commercial properties, CFD’s – whatever they are. He lifted some liquid on the spoon and let it dribble off thickly. What is this, anyway – concrete mix?

You might enjoy investing in something a little more tangible, Robin – something that you can actually take part in.

Do you want me to buy a race horse, then?

I was thinking of a restaurant.

Robin Brockenhurst stayed the progress of his spoon and looked up at Giles with interest. His uneven eyes brightened and the dead patch of skin on the side of his face stretched as he smiled. That sounds like fun! I enjoy food – when it’s identifiable. He returned his spoon to his soup plate without enthusiasm.

I should reveal an interest here, Robin. It’s Stephanie – she wants to open a new restaurant in Mayfair.

Oh, the lovely Stephanie. Getting bored, is she? I don’t blame her – there are only so many times you can have your hair done.

She does her own, said Giles automatically, having had it impressed on him continually how damaging salon treatments were.

Does she now? How very individual of her. But I believe she’s well versed in the restaurant trade, isn’t she?

Giles nodded. She opened a couple of restaurants in Montreal, the last of which enjoyed considerable success. When she sold out to come to London, I invested the proceeds for her so that she would always have a secure income.

Her future’s in good hands, then. What sort of restaurant is she planning?

Well, that’s where the risk comes in. It’s an untried concept – she wants to open a restaurant that only serves in the evenings from Thursday to Saturday. It would be styled as a sort of time-share private club, with rooms available for dinner parties, and patrons would be able to phone early in the week and order particular menus.

Patrons, said Robin admiringly, I like that. Most restaurants have customers, but we don’t want to mix with those sorts of people, do we? What would she serve?

Whatever the cust… patrons want. She wants it to be very exclusive, with food sourced from around Europe, or the world if need be. And it will be very expensive, of course.

Of course, Robin agreed absently, not interested in the expense to patrons. He seemed to be thinking of something else. How far has she got with this idea?

She’s planned it out pretty well, even identified appropriate premises that are coming up for lease. But that’s as far as it goes at this point – I haven’t said that I’ll put any money into it.

Robin glanced at him keenly. But you’re considering it?

Of course I am, said Giles, whose calculation was that he would invest in the same ratio as his fees from the Lacey trust. If I can find another investor, that is. That’s why I thought of the trust – it can afford to carry some risk, and I have to impress on you that there is a relatively high degree of risk. Whether or not she would find patrons willing to pay for the kind of experience she’s proposing remains to be seen.

Of course she would, Giles! Just look at this place. Robin waved a pristine cuff at the sombre room in which they sat, the little light that filtered through the heavy curtains effectively dissipated by the time it floated up to the high ceilings. There’s hardly anyone in here under sixty, including the serving staff. Entrance to this club is restricted to members, and the rest of the world thinks that makes it something special. They’d soon change their minds if we let them through the door. The private club in London is practically moribund, and if Stephanie can reinvent the concept, she’s got a winner on her hands.

Giles silently accepted Robin’s assessment of the London entertainment scene even though he knew that this club, barely half a mile from Robin’s flat, was the only place that he would venture out to on his own. You’re interested, then, he said, breaking another pebble off his bread roll.

I could be, replied Robin, suddenly cagey. Where is she going to look for staff?

I don’t know. She hasn’t talked about that.

It’s just that I know someone who’s managed restaurants and clubs before. Perhaps he could be considered for a position.

The offer lay on the table between the two men like the bill for a meal. Giles Fanshawe toyed with his wine glass, debating whether or not to pick it up. He had an awful feeling that he knew what was coming. What’s this man’s name? he asked.

Robin Brockenhurst’s asymmetrical face filled with an almost holy light. Frankie, he said with gentle awe. His name is Frankie.

Chapter 2

He’s got another one! fumed Giles. When is it all going to end?

It was the next day and he was lunching – at a good restaurant near Whitehall this time – with Richard Grenfell of Grenfell, Gibb and Dawkins. Grenfell was the Brockenhurst family lawyer and the two men met regularly to discuss their common charge. Giles had arranged this date when he realised that Robin’s wheel had come full circle and they had another potential crisis on their hands.

I don’t believe it is going to end, said Grenfell equably, given his past history. What is this – the sixth?

The fifth, replied Giles. The fifth Frankie. Have you met him yet?

Grenfell shook his head, his mouth full of sushi. He must be relatively new; Miranda hasn’t been in touch with me about him.

Miranda was Miranda Brockenhurst, Robin’s mother, also known as Lady Lacey. She had kept the title when she divorced her first husband and, as Lord Lacey had not married again, no one had come along to challenge her for it.

Well, hadn’t you better make it your business to meet him? demanded Giles. He might be a real threat.

Oh, I expect he’s as vacant as the last one, said Grenfell vaguely. Nothing to worry about.

Giles was inclined to worry a lot more easily, especially where money was concerned. You can’t be sure of that, Richard – one of these men is going to go out of his way to get his hands on the trust fund one day.

The rotund little lawyer waved this away airily, poking with interest amongst his nori rolls. Pretty impossible, I would have thought. The trust fund stipulates only one beneficiary, and all these Frankies are going to find that there’s an insuperable hurdle to achieving that status. It’s called DNA. No, he continued complacently, they just hang around Robin getting whatever they can out of him, until he tires of them and tells them to be off.

Giles frowned in annoyance. I’m glad you can be so sanguine about it.

Yes, I understand that you don’t have that option. Grenfell glanced at him. You’re going to have to work with this Frankie whether you like it or not.

Who told you that?

Robin was on the phone, rabid with enthusiasm about your wife’s idea for a new restaurant – and the fact that you’re going to give Frankie a job managing it.

Giles sat back in his chair, silent. What had he unleashed when he asked Robin Brockenhurst to invest in Butlers? Grenfell kept his eyes on his plate, but he was very aware of the other man’s discomfort. So it seems, he said mildly, that if you want your money for the restaurant, you’re going to have to live with Robin’s choice of manager.

Giles digested this along with his raw tuna. That was the problem in a nutshell.

And how is young Matthew, Giles? asked Grenfell, changing the subject.

Fine, replied his companion absently. Samantha’s got him lined up for riding lessons at half term, I believe.

And she’s expecting you to pay the bill, no doubt. After that, there’ll be tennis and sailing lessons – expensive sport, children. Giles Fanshawe nodded in glum agreement, but in truth he thought it a reasonable price to pay to have his son’s care managed by his ex-wife.

At home that evening, he gave Stephanie the news that he had found someone to put up the bulk of the money for the restaurant. Robin Brockenhurst, via the Lacey Trust.

Splendid, said Stephanie, radiant in her pleasure. Is he going to be a silent partner?

Yes. Well, almost.

What do you mean, almost? she asked, the sparkle diminishing a little. He explained that the investment was contingent on a friend of Robin’s being hired as manager. But he can’t be manager! she said indignantly. I’m the manager, it’s my restaurant. It took some discussion to make her accept that the money would not come without this particular string attached; after a time she grudgingly agreed that this friend of Robin’s could be the assistant manager, working under her. As long as he’s suitable - I want to see his references.

They, reflected Giles, would be worth seeing. He set out to put this proposition to Robin, a little piqued to find himself in the position of negotiator between his increasingly demanding wife and his most eccentric client.

Frankie says he’d like to explore the option, reported Robin happily. When can he meet with Stephanie?

I think I’d better meet him first, Giles said quickly. I could give him some pointers on how to handle Stephanie.

Good idea. Just a moment while I consult him about a date. Robin came back on the line rapidly. He says anytime, really.

This eagerness did not surprise Giles; the man would be anxious to assess his chances. He arranged to meet Frankie in the lobby of the Savoy the following day and rang off, feeling a little uneasy. Frankies were not, in his experience, people that one would generally want to employ.

Stephanie made a desultory attempt at shopping the next day, trying not to let the excitement of her latest project overwhelm her before the financing was fully secured. She suspected that Giles had no idea how much it meant to her. For thirty years she had been fighting the tendency of people around her to smile indulgently and say that her ambitions did not matter, because she was beautiful and could have whatever she wanted without effort. Except that living without effort was not what she wanted: she wanted an achievement that was her own, something of which she could be proud. And if that could not be a child – she swallowed the lump in her throat and put the thought out of her mind – it would have to be another restaurant. All she needed now was for Giles to tie down the financing with Robin Brockenhurst.

She fought her way up Oxford Street and then turned into New Bond Street, where the pedestrian traffic was lighter because the shops were so much more expensive. She could never have contemplated these price tags when she was growing up on the east coast of Canada. Stopping by one large window, she was momentarily attracted by an orange dress artfully draped on a mannequin, but decided to pass it by without enquiry. The problem with shopping in London was that she could seldom persuade herself to purchase anything; everything that she liked seemed too much of an extravagance. It was not a question of money, as the income generated from the profits of her restaurant sale – what Giles called her pocket money – was sufficient to keep her in small luxuries, especially as he paid for everything else: the town house, their bills, the grocery shopping that she did online, and the occasional present for her. But enough of the Scots Presbyterian survived to prompt her to squirrel away the majority of her funds in a savings account and rely for impact on a small number of classic pieces that she kept in her wardrobe and some jewelry that had been her mother’s.

In any case, she doubted that there was enough room in her closets for anything new, as she had managed to retain practically every piece of clothing that she had ever worn. The cupboards at home were packed with jumpers from her university days, dresses that she had bought for her restaurant in Montreal, even blouses that she had worn to school and long outgrown. Giles had complained about it at the outset of their relationship, telling her that she badly needed to have a clean out. Your feng shui must be awful, with all that clutter stuffed into closets, he pointed out. But he had eventually given up trying to get her to rid herself of personal items, and now simply said, As long as you keep it out of sight, darling.

She lingered for a moment outside an Italian gentleman’s outfitter, thinking that she might buy something for Giles, but soon abandoned the idea. She had insufficient sense of the niceties of City attire to risk buying him anything for his professional wardrobe, and the casual clothes she occasionally bought for him remained unworn. Giles seldom went casual; he was too proud of his appearance, which never varied from that of the sophisticated professional who had immediately drawn her eye when he walked into her restaurant in downtown Montreal. Giles looked good in a suit; his tall form was perfectly proportioned and his aristocratic profile sat brilliantly atop a starched white collar. He was never going to be the sort of man who lounged around the back yard in Bermuda shorts.

Turning from the window, Stephanie tried to ignore the frank stares of a couple of middle-aged women on the footpath. People were always staring at her, as if she were someone they ought to know, had perhaps seen on a film screen. She was aware that most women would have given a great deal to possess the kind of beauty that she possessed. But it had not been an unadulterated blessing; in her adolescence and early adulthood, her beauty had attracted the kind of men she could have done without but did not yet know how to turn away. And her looks had not protected her from the greatest trauma of her life – losing her parents. These experiences had left her feeling awkward about her beauty, and careless of it. She did not dress it up, she did not polish it to perfection, she did not display the kind of proud elegance that people seemed to expect. And yet, she remained stubbornly beautiful.

She walked on, thinking how far she had come since her teenaged years in Nova Scotia – a handsome English broker for a husband, no financial worries, an entrée into the best society in London. When she first arrived, she had been filled with pride as she strolled legendary streets and rubbed shoulders with the elite at parties she attended with Giles. Now she felt a growing sense of puzzlement about where it was all leading. Her sense of disorientation was particularly strong at times like this, when she was in receipt of an insistent reminder of her earlier self.

There had been another letter from Ethel Joyce. Ethel Joyce was the only person she knew who still wrote letters. Stephanie had implored her to explore email, but Ethel Joyce just laughed and asked how would I know what to do with a computer? Apparently such skills were not required in the Margaree Valley. We talk to each other, said Ethel Joyce. What would we need email for, eh?

It had been a few years since Stephanie had been back to the Margaree to visit her second family, and there was a broad hint in Ethel Joyce’s letter that it was past time she returned. Or perhaps I could come and see you in London, wrote Ethel Joyce. Wouldn’t that be something, what?

It certainly would, thought Stephanie, wondering what Giles would make of her. He knew the outline of the story already – how Stephanie’s parents had sent her from Halifax to the girl’s college in the Annapolis Valley and how Ethel Joyce had been in the same class as her. Ethel Joyce was still calling it a finishing school, and as far as she was concerned she was there to find out how the other half lived and wasn’t it something, eh? Stephanie could not recall how she had become friendly with Ethel Joyce, but she remembered well how the friendship had deepened. When she was thirteen, in her second year at the boarding school, her parents were killed in an automobile accident, leaving her alone in the world with her dog Billy. At the funeral, organised by the college and attended by all her classmates and many of their parents, she could not stop crying. When someone tried to comfort her she cried harder, because she was not permitted to keep Billy with her at the school and there was nowhere else for him to go. He might have to be put down. Ethel Joyce plucked anxiously at her mother’s sleeve, a plea on her face, and Maggie and Gordie – stern looks belying their essentially kind natures – had made Stephanie an offer. They had a farm in the Margaree Valley on Cape Breton Island. Billy was a border collie; he would be happy there and Stephanie could visit him during the school holidays. And so it was that Stephanie inherited her second family as an adjunct to the Department of Social Services, which was now her legal guardian, and Ethel Joyce became almost her sister, the two of them sharing confidences along with a bedroom and trading views on which boys in the Margaree were handsomest.

That period had lasted until they graduated from finishing school and Stephanie went off to university in Montreal. Ethel Joyce took a training course to be a teacher’s assistant and returned to the Margaree. There were visits back and forth during breaks from university study and the school calendar, though Stephanie preferred her visits to the Margaree to Ethel Joyce’s sojourns in Montreal. With her unsophisticated approach to everything – reflected in the constant refrain of ‘isn’t that something, eh?’ – Ethel Joyce had become a bit of an embarrassment. When Stephanie launched herself in the restaurant business, she convinced her friend not to make any more visits to Montreal on the grounds that she was too busy to spend time with her, which was very nearly true. But she still made the pilgrimage to the Margaree Valley every summer to see Maggie and Gordie, and Ethel Joyce and her little brother Robert Claude.

Remembering herself as she had been, Stephanie Sampson Fanshawe turned away with a sigh from the gold baubles in a jeweler’s window in New Bond Street. She would call Ethel Joyce tonight and invite her old friend to London; it was the least she could do for all the kindness the McKinnon family had shown her.

Giles was in for a shock, she thought with a rueful smile.

Chapter 3

It was just as well that Giles did not know he was in for a shock, or he might have walked out of the Savoy and scotched the idea of the restaurant once and for all. As it was, he just looked at his Rolex and fumed; Frankie was late.

Giles was sitting in the large and luxurious room off the foyer of the hotel, in the midst of tourists taking tea. The buzz of conversation was subdued; raucousness would have been out of place here, even for tourists. Staring across the expanse of floor at the vaguely Mediterranean scene painted on the far wall, Giles alternated between drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair and sucking at his teeth, his inner calm rapidly deserting him. His eyes roamed from the marble pillars and screens at the back of the room, past the white baby grand piano and out to the revolving door at the head of the stairway. He pulled at the cuffs of his shirt and straightened his suit jacket several times, brushing imaginary specks off the lightweight wool. Did the man think he had nothing better to do than sit here waiting for an appointment that he would much rather have avoided?

Had he realised that his impatient fidgeting was being watched he would have been more annoyed than he already was, but the regard that was directed at him was not the sort to attract his attention. Finally, having formed a sufficient impression of his potential business partner, Frankie stepped out from the shadows.

Giles looked up with a start as the man materialised beside his chair. He bit back the sarcastic remark that occurred to him and rose stiffly, sticking out his hand. Giles Fanshawe, he said. The other man nodded and clasped his hand firmly; when he tried to remove his grasp, Giles held on. Your name?

There was only the slightest of hesitations. John Lindon.

Giles nodded back, immediately christening his new acquaintance Johnny Rotten in his mind. He gestured at a chair on the other side of the low table where his drink stood, and John Lindon sat. Would you like something to drink? Giles asked.

No, thank you, said Lindon politely. His voice was light and pleasant, with no discernible accent.

Well, Mr Lindon, Giles began, lowering himself into his chair.

You’d better call me Frankie, the other man said. Robin does.

Giles Fanshawe regarded his companion with distaste. John Lindon was the right age for a Frankie at this point in time, which was to say pushing forty, but not too hard. He was also dark and slim, and of medium height, but that was where the resemblance ended to the two other, more flamboyant, Frankies whom Giles had met. There was nothing of the metrosexual about this man; he looked competent in a middle class way, and quietly determined. May I see some identification, please? Giles asked.

Without saying anything, Frankie reached into the pocket of his well-cut jacket and pulled out a British passport, which he handed to Giles. Opening it to the identification page, Giles saw that John Montgomery Lindon had been born in Canterbury in 1970. He flipped through the remaining pages of the passport; there seemed to be rather a lot of immigration stamps in it. Passing it back to Frankie, he asked, How long have you known Robin?

A little time, Frankie replied, holding his gaze. Giles could make out no particular expression in the brown eyes, and no clue on the face as to his truthfulness or otherwise.

He tells me that you’ve managed restaurants before. Where?

Frankie had been leaning towards him, his forearms resting on his knees and one hand clasped over the other. Sitting back now, he waved a well-shaped hand in a vague direction and said, Asia, South Africa … Houston.

Do you have references?

Frankie reached for his inner pocket again and brought out a couple of pieces of folded paper. One was from Buffalo Bill’s Steak House in Houston, Texas, and told anyone whom it might concern that John Lindon had worked at the establishment in 1998 and could be recommended for similar employment. The other was in Chinese.

This doesn’t tell me much, said Giles.

Frankie pointed a manicured finger at the second letter and said, That’s from Singapore – a club that I managed there. There’s a phone number if you want to follow up.

Hmmm, said Giles. This was getting him no further. If Stephanie wanted the money for her restaurant, she was going to have to hire this man; all she really needed to know was whether or not he could do the job. Do you know what sort of restaurant my wife wants to open?

A little smile appeared on Frankie’s face. Yes – a very exclusive one, catering only to the best clientele.

He made it sound faintly ridiculous, and Giles was affronted. Do you think you can handle that?

Of course. Watch.

Without further warning, Frankie rose to his feet and padded across the thick carpet of the Savoy tearoom. He disappeared behind a screen leaning against one of the marble columns and reappeared with a round tray in one hand. Carrying it past the throng of tourists, he stopped at a table of Americans who had eaten their way through a high tea and began unobtrusively to collect their plates and teacups. In his dark suit, with his carefully anonymous looks, he was indistinguishable from a real waiter. Thanks very much, said the American paterfamilias heartily as the last cup was cleared, and handed him a ten pound note. Frankie folded it with a quick, practiced flip of his fingers and it disappeared inside his jacket. My pleasure, sir, he murmured with just the right mix of gratitude and condescension. Balancing the loaded tray on one hand, he disappeared behind the screen again. He waited until the American family got up to leave before rejoining Giles at his table. I didn’t want to confuse them, he said, watching the Americans disappear out the door towards the Strand.

All right, Giles allowed, I guess you have done this sort of thing before. But Stephanie will want to know that you can do a whole lot more.

Will I be meeting your wife then, sir? asked Frankie, slipping into waiter mode again.

Giles took out one of his cards and wrote his home number on the back of it. He handed it to Frankie. "Ring this number – make