what terms?’
‘The cost of the lease plus 40 per cent of their valuation of die business.’
‘Fifty per cent,’ he said.
‘No. Forty per cent of the business value and 100 per cent of the lease.’
‘How about if I want to buy you out?’ he asked.
‘It would cost you 60 per cent of the business value and I could walk away.’ I wondered how much the value of the business might change if the chef walked away. But, there again, I could think of no circumstances in which he would buy me out.
Mark sat back in his chair and looked at me. ‘You drive a damn hard bargain.’
‘Why not?’ I said. ‘I have to do all the work. All you have to do is sign a big cheque and then sit on your arse and wait for the money to flood in.’ At least, I hoped it would flood in.
‘Do you know how many restaurants in London close within a year with huge losses?’ he said. ‘I’m taking quite a risk with my money.’
‘So?’ I said. ‘You’ve got plenty of it. I’m gambling with my reputation.’
‘For what it’s now worth,’ he laughed.
‘You said to rise above it and have faith in myself. Well, I have. We won’t close within a year, not even in two.’
He looked at me with his head on one side as if thinking. He suddenly leaned forward in his chair. ‘OK, you’re on,’ he said, and stretched out his hand.
‘Just like that?’ I said. ‘We haven’t even found a place and we haven’t started to draw up a budget.’
‘I thought you said that was your job. I just write the cheque, remember?’
‘How big a cheque?’ I asked him.
‘As big as you need,’ he said, again offering his hand.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘You’re on too.’
I shook his hand warmly and we smiled at each other. I liked Mark a lot. Even though his lawyers would have to draw up the contract, his word was his bond, and mine was mine. The deal was done.
I could hardly sit still for the rest of our dinner, such was my excitement. Mark laughed when his cod arrived. I had been absolutely right.
The chef came out of the kitchen and joined the two of us for a glass of port at the end of the evening. The previous year, he and I had been the judges of a cooking contest on daytime television and we now enjoyed catching up on our friendship.
‘How’s that place of yours doing out in the sticks?’ he asked.
‘Very well,’ I said, hoping he didn’t have copies of the Cambridge Evening News delivered daily to his door. I also wondered if he would be quite so friendly if he knew that Mark and I had been sitting in his restaurant planning our move into his territory. ‘How’s business here?’ I asked by way of conversation.
‘Oh, the same,’ he said, without actually explaining what ‘the same’ meant.
The conversation progressed for a while in a similar, noncommittal and vague manner, neither of us wanting to pass on our professional judgement to the other. The world of faute cuisine could be as secretive as any government intelligence service.
The need to catch the last train home finally broke up the dinner at eleven o’clock and Mark and I walked in easy companionship along the Thames embankment towards Waterloo station. We strolled past some of the lively pubs, bistros and pizza parlours that had transformed the South Eank. Late on this Friday evening, loud music and raucous laughter spilled out across the cobblestones towards the river.
‘Where and when will you start looking for a venue?’ asked Mark.
‘I don’t know, and as soon as possible,’ I said, smiling in the dark. ‘I suppose I will contact some commercial property estate agents to see what’s available.’
‘You will keep me informed?’ he said.
‘Of course.’ We walked past an advertising board. A poster read ‘RPO AT THE RFH’ in big bold black letters on a white background. Thanks to Bernard Sims, I knew what RPO stood for - Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. ‘What’s the RFH?’ I asked Mark.
‘What?’ he said.
‘What’s the RFH?’ I repeated, pointing at the poster.
‘Royal Festival Hall,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘No reason, just wondered.’ I looked closely at the poster. The RPO, with, I presumed, Caroline Aston playing the viola, was due to appear next month at the Royal Festival Hall. Perhaps I would go and listen.
Mark and I said our goodbyes outside the National Theatre and he rushed off to get his lonely carriage home while I