A wedding at cafe lompar, p.1
A Wedding at Café Lompar, page 1
A WEDDING AT CAFÉ LOMPAR
Anna and Jacqui Burns
HONNO MODERN FICTION
You must do the things you think you cannot do.
Eleanor Roosevelt
To all women everywhere − you’re stronger than you think.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One: Kat
Chapter Two: Grace
Chapter Three: Kat
Chapter Four: Grace
Chapter Five: Kat
Chapter Six: Grace
Chapter Seven: Kat
Chapter Eight: Grace
Chapter Nine: Kat
Chapter Ten: Grace
Chapter Eleven: Kat
Chapter Twelve: Grace
Chapter Thirteen: Kat
Part Two
Chapter Fourteen: Grace
Chapter Fifteen: Kat
Chapter Sixteen: Grace
Chapter Seventeen: Kat
Chapter Eighteen: Grace
Chapter Nineteen: Kat
Chapter Twenty: Grace
Chapter Twenty-One: Kat
Chapter Twenty-Two: Grace
Chapter Twenty-Three: Kat
Chapter Twenty-Four: Grace
Chapter Twenty-Five: Kat
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-Six: Grace
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Kat
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Grace
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Kat
Chapter Thirty: Grace
Chapter Thirty-One: Kat
Chapter Thirty-Two: Grace
Chapter Thirty-Three: Kat
Chapter Thirty-Four: Grace
Chapter Thirty-Five: Kat
Chapter Thirty-Six: Grace
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Kat
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Grace
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Kat
Epilogue – Six Months Later: Grace
Acknowledgements
About the Publisher
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
Kat
I caught my reflection in the stainless-steel frying pan and noticed the sheen on my forehead. The lights were so bright and hot, no amount of powder caked on by the make-up artist could stop the beads of sweat showing. I could barely see the audience; they’d dimmed to black shapes behind the glare. I exhaled, trying to keep calm, but I could hear the rush of blood in my ears.
No matter how many times I’d been on TV, it always filled me with nerves.
A cameraman swung the heavy black machine in my direction, paused to look at his screen, then gave me a thumbs up. My segment was next.
‘By now you’d have to be living under a rock not to have heard of Café Lompar. The seaside restaurant in Tivat has been making waves in the food scene since they reopened last year, and I’m very lucky to have head chef Kat Lompar here to talk more about it and give us a demonstration.’ Lena Simovic strolled confidently across the studio, microphone poised in hand. She was such a skilled presenter, host of Montenegrin’s prime-time breakfast show at the age of twenty-five. Her blonde highlights shimmered in the studio lighting, perfectly coifed curls settling at her shoulders. There was no hint of a nervous, shiny forehead on Lena.
Behind her, I saw the studio team rush to clear away the last item, an interview with a politician. The man was shaking hands as he was ushered off set. I hadn’t listened much, my nerves getting the better of me. I’d done a few interviews by now, but it didn’t get easier. I never knew what the interviewer was really interested in: if they’d want to celebrate the food or stick the knife into our family scandals.
We had a moment to get in position while the introduction played. Lena joined my station, a makeshift stand of kitchen units on wheels. She extended a hand in greeting. ‘Hi Kat, nice to meet you.’
‘Nice to meet you too,’ I said, my voice wavering. I shook her hand and noticed she held on a beat longer than necessary. I’d never greeted TV royalty like Lena before. Was I expected to curtsey?
The monitor behind me showed a few pictures of our restaurant, including my favourite shot of our family of four laughing outside on the beach. I smiled, remembering my engagement party last spring.
The cameras panned back to us as Lena said, ‘Welcome, Kat, it’s a pleasure to have you here.’
‘Thank you for having me.’ I hoped I’d absorbed some of her confidence in that hand shake. I tried to keep my shoulders back and just ignore the camera, as Mum had told me a hundred times.
‘You’ve had such great success in the last year. Why don’t you tell us a bit about Café Lompar and how you came to be there?’
‘Well, I used to work as a chef in London, before coming to Montenegro after the death of my father. My mum and I discovered he had another family living here.’ I had told this story before and I started to relax, waiting for the familiar gasp of shock from the audience and their pitying expressions. ‘Call us crazy or not, but we knew we had to meet them, and so we came to visit my half-brother, Luka, and his mother, Rosa. They owned Café Lompar, they needed a chef, and I started cooking at the restaurant. The rest as they say is history. Now, we’re proud of our story and our background; all families are complicated, but love is the most important thing.’
‘And good food, of course.’ Lena gestured to the screen behind us, where photographs of our food were being shown.
‘Of course. I absolutely fell in love with traditional Montenegrin cooking, but wanted to put my own stamp on it. That’s my favourite dish.’ I saw the orada sea bass with a lemon and wild garlic reduction magnified on screen. ‘The flavours are so simple but together they really showcase the amazing fish we have on the Montenegrin coast.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard the fish at Café Lompar is caught locally by a very handsome man.’ Lena gave the camera an over-exaggerated wink.
‘That would be my fiancé, Milo,’ I said, sounding coyer than I’d intended. ‘Our restaurant’s secret ingredient.’
‘From what I hear, you are the secret ingredient to the Café’s success,’ Lena laughed, little dimples appearing in her cheeks.
I was quick to say, ‘That’s not true. We’re a real family-run business. We all listen to each other’s ideas and have our own areas of expertise. I’m in the kitchen, Rosa manages the front of house, and my mother Grace works here half the year and runs the marketing from home in Bath in the UK the other half.’
Lena cocked her head to the side. ‘So, your mother actually works with your father’s mistress? Isn’t that awkward?’
I felt my insides churn, that familiar stab. Would we ever get past these digs at our family structure? Sometimes it seemed to be all people wanted to talk about. I wondered if this was another interview where I’d end up talking more about my dad’s affair than the food I was so passionate about.
‘Not at all. We work very well together, despite our shaky foundations.’ I kept my answer clipped, hoping to convey that this was no longer up for discussion.
‘And how have you found working with a different cuisine to your home country? Was it a difficult adjustment?’ Lena asked.
‘My British training and the traditional Montenegrin cuisine blend together more easily than you’d expect,’ I said, giving my practised answer about the shared focus in both countries on using supreme local produce and keeping flavours simple. ‘Montenegro obviously benefits from the sunshine, though, with beautiful citrus fruit and wine here, and from its location, with the best of both the coast and the mountains.’
Lena was nodding along. I was beginning to feel more relaxed. I’d been on a handful of cooking shows since our restaurant gained popularity, and my cookbook, released over Christmas, had sold really well in Montenegro and across Europe. I still had to pinch myself to believe this was all happening. How much life had changed. I’d gone from being under the thumb of a head chef in London who made Gordon Ramsey look like a kitten, to being head chef myself in a foreign country. I’d also swapped a boyfriend who took me for granted, and was now soon-to-be Mrs. Martinovic.
Would Dad recognise me if he could see me now? It was an unsettling thought.
‘You’re going to be giving us a demonstration today, aren’t you?’ Lena asked. ‘What are you making for us?’
‘My favourite food in the whole country, but with a Café Lompar twist.’ I gave a dramatic pause. ‘Bureks.’
‘I looove bureks,’ Lena laughed, although looking at her toned physique I guessed she didn’t eat them as often as I did. The buttery savoury pastries with meat and smoky paprika had become something of a snacking obsession since I’d moved to Montenegro.
‘Well, I’m going to make sweet versions with white chocolate and pistachio. Utterly beautiful.’ I smiled. The camera zoomed in on my assembled ingredients. ‘I’m going to show you a few shortcuts so that you can make these easily at home, perfect for a lazy Saturday breakfast.’
As I began, I couldn’t help thinking about last Saturday, when I’d sat next to Milo on our balcony with a pot of coffee and two steaming bureks between us. We’d started planning our wedding, and I was in my element flipping through a bridal magazine with my feet up on the railings, the palm trees rustling in the breeze and traffic noise mixing with the gentle lap of the sea. Of course, I’d flipped straight to the food section of the magazine, tutting as the menu ideas looked too simple, like a child’s birthday party.
I knew the whole family would chastise me for it, but I wanted to cook my own menu. I couldn’t have someone else ma
Sometimes I was frightened it was true. Recently, being head chef seemed to get harder, not easier, as if I was losing my focus. I was always worried this would slip through my fingers, that it couldn’t be real.
I shook myself and got to work rolling out the shop-bought filo pastry for the bureks. Making my own pastry would taste better, but I’d been told by the breakfast show’s producers to keep it simple for the viewers. I brushed warm butter along the edge of the dough, before adding my filling and curling it into a snail shape.
‘Here’s one I made earlier.’ I took the tray out of the oven, the smell of pastry and warm nuts filling the studio. I hoped my microphone wouldn’t catch the grumble of hunger from my stomach.
‘While we tuck in to these, I just want to know,’ Lena asked, picking up the tiniest sliver of pastry, ‘what’s next for Café Lompar?’
‘Good question,’ I stalled, having never been asked that before. ‘This last year has been such a whirlwind, I think we need to keep doing what we’re doing. As long as we’re making people happy, then we’re one happy family.’
In all honesty, we hadn’t really thought about what was next. We’d been carried along by the popularity of the restaurant, without much room or time for planning.
‘You’re not hoping to move on somewhere else?’ Lena probed, head tilted to the side. ‘A popular and successful chef like you can’t be staying in little Tivat forever?’
I wondered what her game was; whether she was hoping I’d stumble and spill some exclusive story. I scratched my ear nervously, and tried to think of something diplomatic to say.
‘Café Lompar is my heart and soul. I love working there, we all do. We have big things planned in the future, but my lips are sealed for now.’ My stomach flipped. The cookbook and tv appearances were beyond my wildest dreams, but I knew we had no other plans. The success had taken us all by surprise, and I didn’t want to run before I could walk.
‘You heard it here first, guys, big things planned!’ Lena turned to camera. ‘Join us after the break when we’ll be speaking to a local hero who turned redundancy into triumph when she started a new business selling jewellery.’
I marvelled at how quickly the television presenter façade was lost when the cameras were off. Lena turned to sip water through a straw and simultaneously scrolled through her phone. The mega-watt smile had vanished.
I sighed, glad the heat was off me. I wondered what Mum and Rosa would say about the end of the interview.
As I collected my equipment, a shape emerged from the audience. I grinned, able to make out Luka’s face.
‘So? What did you think?’ I asked my half-brother.
‘Do you think Lena’s single?’ He strode to my side. ‘I’m sure I saw her look my way a few times.’
‘Luka, we can’t see anything from up here.’ I gestured out at the studio audience. A few figures had stood up to stretch their legs.
‘I know what I saw,’ he shrugged, then casually grabbed a burek. ‘You’d better introduce me before we leave, the handsome brother.’
‘I thought you were here in pure support?’
‘Please, I’m just here to ferry you back to work before the lunch time rush begins,’ he grinned. It was true, Luka was helping me out while home from uni for the weekend. He leaned against the counter and coughed, angling his body towards Lena.
‘You’re sickening.’ I grinned, as he ran a hand through his hair, quite possibly the cheesiest move I’d ever seen. ‘Do you have anything to say about my interview at all?’
‘It was good. Very mysterious, though. I’m wondering what these big plans are?’
‘Come on, I’m getting you out of here before you start humping the set.’ I swung my bag over my shoulder, grabbed his arm and dragged him to the door.
‘But Lena? We have time,’ Luka protested, clearly loving the limelight on set.
I groaned. ‘You know we’ve got to get back. It’s a special night tonight.’
CHAPTER TWO
Grace
It was only nine thirty and I could already feel the sun burning my shoulders. I was trying to hold the cobra position when a fly landed on my nose.
‘Inhale for a count of seven. Feel your shoulders expand as the air fills your lungs. Hold it, hold it.’ Milena, the yoga instructor, was incredibly bendy, swapping positions and holding poses as if it were the easiest thing in the world. I had all the grace of a grey seal on a particularly slippery rock. She frowned as she saw me wrinkle my nose. ‘And rel-eeease.’
I sneezed. Oh, dear Lord, I’d leaked again. I crossed my legs quickly. Milena darted me a disapproving look.
At last, my favourite bit, lying on my fuchsia rubber mat as we wound down and meditated. God bless corpse pose. I could hear the swishing of the Adriatic to my right. Not bad for a Monday morning. No fighting the traffic in Bath, no exhaust fumes. Just me – well, and twelve others – on a beach in Tivat, Montenegro. A place I’d only really become familiar with about a year and a half ago, when Dan died and Kat and I came out here to find his ‘secret’ family. It still seemed unreal that I had a home out here, a business too.
I picked up my towel, rolled the mat under my arm and headed along the promenade. A few of the locals nodded and greeted me as I passed. A fifty-metre stroll brought me to Café Lompar. I paused. Mine and Kat’s restaurant. And Rosa’s too.
Most of the time I didn’t think about it, but hearing Kat’s interview earlier, everyone’s fascination with how Rosa and me could work together, had reminded me how I felt when I saw this place for the first time. The business owned by Dan’s mistress. When Dan died and I saw those photos… It still had the power to take my breath away. I’m not sure you ever get over a betrayal like that.
It had been more café than restaurant in those days, rustic and rough around the edges. Popular, though, with the locals and passing tourists. Now it was a destination place.
It was already open, and I allowed myself a minute to take it in. Stylish. Classy. The huge bifold windows at the front, offering uninterrupted views of the shimmering Adriatic, were the star of the show. Inside, the thick, maple-wood tables, locally sourced, kept things relaxed in the day and elegant at night, with ivory candelabras and white gardenias on each table. The pale grey granite flooring had cost us a fortune, but had been worth it. We all agreed the impression we wanted to make: a place to enjoy amazing cuisine in laid-back surroundings. My heart skipped a beat. I was proud of it and what we had achieved.
Inside, our staff were working hard. Davor was polishing glasses at the bar, Ana was serving early breakfasters, and Lovro was holding the fort in the kitchen while Kat was away for the morning. Ticking over like a well-oiled machine. Rosa would be in soon, front of house. I wasn’t sure how many women would work with their husband’s mistress, leave alone invest in her business, as my sister Claire kept reminding me.
‘I’d want to throttle her,’ she told me only last night when I’d moaned about Rosa changing table decorations again.
‘It’s water under the bridge now,’ I said, which was how I wanted to feel, though it wasn’t always easy. I thought about her brush with breast cancer last year. ‘She’s okay,’ I said. ‘The restaurant means a lot to her.’
‘Ah, yoga,’ Mila said, sidling next to me and making me jump out of my skin. She pointed to the mat under my arm. ‘It is good for you, no? Help you relax. You are so busy busy busy.’ She made a scurrying movement with her hands.
Mila owned Boutique Borozan, a few doors down from Café Lompar. She stocked expensive brands, Emilio Pucci, Cividini and Alberta Ferretti. The clothes she sold were all silk and linen in whites, beiges, ivories and fawns, the palest end of the Dulux Colour Chart. I’d gone in a few weeks ago and the prices were eye-watering. They were all in sizes for minuscule women with microscopic waists, who existed on poppy seeds and celery. I couldn’t get a pair of linen trousers past my knees.
