‘Well, there’s only one choice, right?’ I say, freestyling. ‘A Merlot?’
Russell’s forehead creases and he looks over at James, whose mouth is slightly ajar. A silence hangs in the air, broken by the clang of a saucepan hitting the floor in the kitchen.
Behind me, Bill starts to giggle, and then a moment later Russell begins to chortle, and I join in with a round, deep cackle, eyeing everyone to assess the perfect moment to stop laughing.
‘Kidding,’ I say, tapping Russell on the hand. I vow never to guess again.
‘She means the Chardonnay,’ says Bill firmly, wagging his finger at me as his cheeks begin to redden. ‘Oh, that’s funny. The Merlot. Golly gosh, you really had me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Just keeping you guys on your toes.’
‘Excellent work, Heather,’ Russell says, wrapping things up.
‘Oh, it’s not that clever,’ I reply, blushing. ‘We’re all winging it, aren’t we?’
‘Nonsense,’ he says, touching my arm again, but this time he gives it a little squeeze. ‘You are one of the youngest, brightest sommeliers in the country.’
I continue, ‘I am the lucky one. To be under a chef with such an incredible reputation, it really is a dream come true.’
I can tell that Russell wants me to like him. Torespecthim. To fancy him. And the greatest thing about a deeply insecure and narcissistic man? Make them think you do, and you can get away with almost anything.
‘I actually have a thought about tonight,’ I say with some trepidation. ‘I’d love to play more of an observation role, so I can get to know how you do things here.’
Russell looks at me, cocks his head and strokes his chin with his finger and thumb, before adjusting his pocket handkerchief.
‘I suppose that makes sense. Of course you’ll need to step in, if anyone goes off-menu. But yes, good idea.’
‘I think it would be best,’ I say simply, smiling up at Russell, relief washing over me. I start toying lightly with the collar of my shirt. It’s such an obvious move and I hate myself for doing it, but I’m in survival mode, so I don’t stop.
‘Perhaps, Bill, we could show Heather where she can brief the staff on the wines, while James and I do the new plates, and then Heather can freshen up?’ he says, more pointedly.
‘Sure thing,’ Bill replies, wiping his hands on his black apron and nodding towards a door at the end of the bar. ‘If you could come with me, Heather?’
‘Thank you, Russell,’ I mumble, as I squeeze past him and a full hit of sandalwood and pepper tickles my nose. So much cologne, it almost makes me gag – although I can hardly complain about bad odours.
I give Bill a sheepish grin and we head down through the bar.
‘Talk to me about the presentation of the damned dessert, and then we can talk about this fucking turbot dish,’ Russell is saying to James, in a voice far less soothing than the one he used with me.
‘God, he’s fancy. I bet he has a summeranda winter duvet,’ I whisper to Bill, glancing back to see James animatedly explaining the premise behind the balloon set of the chocolate casing on the ganache. James cracks it unceremoniously with a teaspoon, and Russell frowns. Then Anis appears with that sample plate I was supposed to get forty-five minutes ago.
I turn back to Bill, as he opens the door to the staffroom.
‘Where is Irene?’
‘You’ll probably see her tomorrow. She said you were an absolute scream at the Wine Awards, by the way. What a coincidence that she met you there!’ he added.
‘Yes. A wonderful coincidence,’ I reply. And then, realizing I should probably appear more dazzled by everything, I add, ‘It’s a real dream come true to be here.’
4.
Two weeks earlier
‘Heather Jones,’ I said confidently as Tim and I arrived at the Ritz’s reception. ‘We’re here for the British Wine Awards?’
The doorman ran his finger down a guest list, and I watched as his pen struck through Heather’s name.
I was wearing Heather’s black trapeze dress, which fitted, but only because it’s one of those dresses that you could smuggle a crate of beer under. Heather used to tie it round the middle with a pink sash, which I tried to do, but it made me look like two silk-organza rubbish bags instead of one. Tim was wearing black jeans and a velvet blazer that he borrowed from his favourite drinking buddy, Damon – or ‘Damo’, as he was known. He actually looked quite dashing.
