‘Hello, Heather,’ he says.
‘Listen, about the other night …’
‘We’ll do a debrief later,’ Russell says dismissively, ‘but in the meantime an order’s come in. It’s by the back door.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. And then I have a memory of the wines in Bill’s wardrobe. I haven’t thought about it again. That day, with Roxy, the Facebook request, my first night with James … it just slipped my mind. ‘I wanted to ask you,’ I say, pausing to make sure I word it carefully. ‘The wine orders for the film premiere, who put them in?’
‘Is this a joke?’ he replies.
‘Um, no …’ I say carefully.
‘Surely you put the fucking order in? It’s your job?’
‘Oh,’ I say, confused. What the hell is going on? Bill told me that Russell got the order in from a friend. I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as the puzzle begins to come together. It’s one thing to take the odd nip at the bar or an after-work pint – it’s a bit of a perk on the side. It’s quite another to siphon off a few cases of wine. I am relieved, somewhat, that Bill has not taken winefrom the main cellar. But he has seen an opportunity and taken it. I wonder if I should speak with Irene and James about it at some point, or just let it go.
I glance over at James in the kitchen and we smile at each other. In that look, a thousand million secrets scroll between us. The cottage. The coffee. The seagulls diving for fish. Fishing. French toast.
‘The Wallaces are wanting to see the manager in reception. Heather, can you go? We can’t find Irene,’ Anis says, sticking her head out of the kitchen.
‘Christ, what now?’ says Russell, slamming his hand on the bar.
‘No problem,’ I say quickly. There is a large man, at least in his fifties, gesticulating furiously in his dressing gown, which is on the precipice of spilling open. His wife – I guess – is standing in front of him, wrapped in a towel with her hands over her mouth, looking terrified.
‘Hello, sir, madam. Whatever seems to be the matter?’ I ask, genuinely nervous. Have they been fighting? Why are they naked? Why are his legs covered in mud and grass stains?’
‘There’s a deer in our room! A big deer with big horns,’ cries Mrs Wallace.
‘Antlers,’ Mr Wallace interjects, as if he’s already corrected her a dozen times.
‘Okay, well—’ I start to respond.
‘Antlers! On our anniversary we like to have a bath, with champagne, together. We’ve always done it.’
‘Everyone loves a good, relaxing soak,’ I say, looking round and hoping Irene will appear soon.
‘It pushed open the door of the bathroom!’ Mrs Wallace says, her voice starting to rise again. ‘We both ran, and then the door to the annexe closed behind us.’
‘I didn’t run,’ Mr Wallace corrects.
‘Yes, you did. You ran right out and down that muddy bank. You didn’t look back to see if I was even alive! Look at the mud up your leg, you absolute coward.’
‘I beg your pardon, Karen, I don’t think that’s quite what happened.’
‘Off he went. Like Forrest Gump.’
‘That’s quite enough,’ he says, eyes darting towards me. ‘I was clearly running for help.’
Mercifully, this is when Irene arrives.
‘Hello, Karen. Gregory. As I understand it, a stag has wandered into your room?’ Irene says calmly. I marvel at the way her soothing tone quietens them. ‘I’m sure we can get that fixed right away. Heather, could you call Brett, dear, and have him come up with the shotgun?’
‘A shotgun?’ I say, gulping.
Irene turns to me and gives me a reassuring nod. ‘Yes, Brett will know exactly what to do. Now, Mr Wallace, can I get you something stiff to drink? We’ll have this taken care of immediately, and of course there will be no charge on your room this evening.’
‘Christ, how did a deer get into their bedroom?’ I whisper to her, as she ushers the couple towards the library, handing Mrs Wallace a throw blanket.
‘Can I get you something, Mrs Wallace, a whisky perhaps – you look like you could do with it?’ Irene continues loudly.
