I decide to ignore it and power on. ‘All that actually died here is astrategy. Andstrategyis just a bunch of words sewn together on a dodgy PowerPoint, with pictures no one bought the copyright for. What those bastards don’t own is the bones of this place. We’ve still got pots and pans big enough for a king crab, and a cellar big enough for a serial killer. We’ve got talented chefs, and a mostly trained front-of-house. What we lack in skill, we make up for in false bravado. We can pull this back!’
I wait, hoping for some kind of cheer, but there is only silence and a cough.
‘Back to work, everyone,’ James says quietly to his kitchen staff, and off they shuffle.
The waiting staff begin to peel off too, moving slowly and wearily. Defeated.
And so we get on with lunch. Or, rather, we get through it, serving up the menu that we all had such investment in a few days ago, to guests who seem to like it fine – all the while knowing that we fell hopelessly short in every single way.
31.
At the end of service, I can’t get out of there quick enough. James disappeared before the desserts went out, and I want to see him, see if he’s all right. I’m relieved, of course, that it wasn’t just me who got a pasting – but it’s hard to believe that my dreadful performance at the start of the meal didn’t have a knock-on effect on everyone else.
As I get ready to leave I see Irene in the bar area with a large glass of red wine – an immediate red flag, since I’ve never seen her drink at work. She’s got changed into a flamboyant pink, green and gold trouser suit, which is the fashion equivalent of getting drunk to mask your pain.
‘Irene?’ I say, creeping over towards her as she tucks a bunch of paperwork under a magazine and pats the chair next to her. A dreadful attempt at hiding what was clearlythe books.
‘Heather, dear. I want to square up your back-pay, so I’m clear on the books. You never did give me your National Insurance number and whatnot.’
She fishes out a little envelope and hands it to me. It’s cash and I want to hug her.
‘Oh, thank you.’
She rattles her bangles down around her wrist, and I wonder why she’s not saying anything about the review. Surely she’s read it? Though she has been dealing with the deer situation. I wonder if it’s a bad idea to bring it up, but I’m only happy when I have the complete lie of the land, so I plunge in.
‘So is the deer, er … dead?’
‘No. The shot was only for show. Brett opened the door and it walked right out,’ she says, looking up with a wry smile. ‘Christknows, it walked into the wrong bedroom. Can you imagine being locked up with those two?’
‘No, thank you,’ I say. ‘Um, Irene, I’m sorry about the review.’
‘Well, yes. Quite. We all are.’ I can see she can’t even bear to mention her own faux pas.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Russell’s just left.’
‘I know.’ She smiles wearily.
‘Where did he go?’
‘I assume he’s gone to see Mr MacDonald.’
‘Oh. Do you think he’ll get fired? I mean, it was all his vision, wasn’t it?’ You can hope, right?
‘Oh, I’m sure Russell doesn’t think this is his fault, and in truth it isn’t. It’s all our faults. It’s mine for not standing up and speaking what was in my heart. Loch Dorn was never supposed to be this,’ she says, waving her hands around at the pristine new paint job and fancy interiors. ‘But it doesn’t belong to me,’ she says with a practical smile. ‘It’s Mr MacDonald’s.’
‘Can’t you buy it?’
She laughs sadly. ‘Oh dear, no. I’m a single woman of limited means, as Jane Austen would put it.’
‘You have such excellent cultural references.’ I try to make her laugh.
‘We are where we are in life, for better or worse. I’ve done my best.’ And she looks at me through her glasses, in the way a bank clerk might when studying a person’s face upon receipt of their ID.
‘Can’t you go and see Mr MacDonald too, and tell him your vision? It wouldn’t take much to give the place a more authentic feel. We just take down that dreadful hotel art, and some of the more ridiculously ostentatious things, like that book art and the sterling-silver stag’s head over the fireplace. Oh God, and those ridiculous driftwood placemats – I mean, Jesus, those things are seriously stupid. People don’t want to climb a tree to get to their rainbow chard.’
