I yank up the reception phone and Brett answers in three rings. ‘Irene says you need to come with your shotgun,’ I whisper, before quickly clarifying, ‘because of a deer in a bedroom. You’re not going to kill it, are you?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he says plainly and hangs up.
‘He pulled my handbag off the bed,’ Mrs Wallace is saying now, pitifully. ‘He was going through it with his nose. I hope he doesn’t find my Xanax.’
‘It will all be over soon. We’ll have you moved to the main house,’ soothes Irene.
‘Do you need anything else from me?’ I ask her.
She shakes her head and I catch a hint of an eye-roll. ‘No, dear, just get yourself ready for service.’
When I return to the restaurant, everyone is huddled around a laptop and Russell is reading something out to the gathered team. He looks up briefly and there it is, right on his face: the review. The review has been published, and the review is dreadful.
‘Ah, Heather, let me start again, so you can hear it from the beginning,’ he says. James is pale.
‘No one wants to write a takedown piece on a place as iconic as Loch Dorn, but sometimes the entire experience is so woefully lacking that one must be completely honest.
‘I arrive at Loch Dorn, recently renovated – although for whom, I cannot be sure. Every shade of grey has been displayed, to dull effect, giving the immediate impression that no one here wanted to take a single chance to be brilliant.
‘Upon arrival at our table, the so-called sommelier, a perky, sharp-tongued Englishwoman, forgot the water and appeared completely out of her depth when we asked to change out a wine. I wonder if she’d tasted the chemically enhanced Gimlet served as an aperitif? The small shot of nuclear waste would be more at home cleansing a sink than a palate. The sea bream arrives and it is a tired, overworked slice of chewy sponge, sitting on – credit where it’s due – some spectacular locally grown salsify.’
I glance up at Bill, who looks mortified; and then across to Anis, who looks like she might cry. Wow! We’reallgetting crucified.
It’s the most part of a team I’ve ever felt.
‘But here is my favourite part,’ says Russell:
‘I long for something dark and punchy to go with my divine venison, but the maître d’, who has spent five courses hovering like a police helicopter, drops the bottle all over the dreary carpet.
‘It’s all I can do to keep from screaming for the old place, where the haggis, neeps and tatties came with a huge side of relaxed Scottish charm.
‘Quite what Loch Dorn is aiming for, with its watery foams and exhausting wine list, one can only try to imagine. Has that recluse Michael MacDonald seen what’s become of his once-grand old place? Does he even care?
‘Desperate to end on a good note, I eventually find it, in the generous glass of local whisky I receive just before I call for the bill, which, at £265, is the final steak knife in the eyeball of this tasteless embarrassment to Scottish tourism.’
It’s so bad, I can’t help but giggle, then quickly bite my lip, because Russell isn’t laughing and neither is anyone else.
‘Well, it could not have gone worse,’ says Russell, frowning, and the circle of staff all drop their heads in shame.
Roxy, who returned just in time to hear about the dropped wine bottle, is the only one who looks vaguely amused.Fair enough, I think. Truth is, she would have done a better job than me.
‘I turned down a fucking judge’s spot onIron Cheffor this. What a fucking joke! This place is a fucking joke. You’re ALL A FUCKING JOKE.’ Russell’s so angry he’s panting. ‘Where thehellis Irene?’ he says, craning his neck.
‘She’s dealing with a deer running amok in the annexe,’ I reply, and then I really do have to work hard not to giggle.
Russell doesn’t even justify that with a reply. He turns to James.
‘We need to sit down and rethink the menu. Perhaps we need to rethink the entire set-up of this place. Some people have been a little distracted lately, haven’t they? We’ll talk later.’
James looks at the ground, as Russell slips on his glasses and stomps out through the swinging kitchen doors.Damn it. Was it that obvious?
I look round at the staff, but no one is looking at us. They’re all still staring at their feet, with faces like they’ve been stabbed through the heart.
‘Come on,’ I say, trying to bolster the mood. ‘Look, it’s just one review. And I arguably came off the worst. And I’m sorry about that – I should never have let him get to me. But you’re all amazing. Who gives a flying fuck what some floppy-haired tosser thinks?’
‘Everybody! Fucking everybody does,’ shouts Anis – and then, showing an unexpected degree of raw emotion, her eyes turn glassy and she storms into the kitchen while the others shuffle about on their spots.
Right at that moment an almighty BANG! comes from outside and everyone jumps, including me.
