‘Well, it’s all irrelevant in the end,’ James says plainly. Like he’s practised it in his head. ‘You’ll be moving on soon anyway. I guess we always knew that.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, feeling the tears coming again.
He looks at me, more softly now, and for a moment I think he might reach for me, pull me in, stroke my arm and tell me it will all be okay. But he doesn’t. In a flash, his face shifts back to distant. Like he’s been switched off.
‘It’s fine, Birdy,’ he says, his shoulder brushing past me as he heads down the hall to the stairs. ‘We’ve got the Wine Society pre-planning meeting in the morning, and there’s still so much to get done. You should both get some sleep.’
And then he disappears up the stairs, two at a time.
I turn, eyes streaming, to Bill, who shrugs.
‘Yes, I know,’ I say. ‘I have to finish what I started.’
‘You won’t rush off then, if I go to sleep?’
‘No.’
‘Good,’ he says, looking relieved. ‘Oh, don’t look so upset. You did very well, all things considered. To learn that list the way you did, it was really quite something.’
I drop my head.
‘You were dedicated, and quite brilliant. Anyway. Tomorrow. Up, dressed and back on the horse, eh?’
36.
August
It is the day of the Highland Wine Society event, and there has been a team from Fort William erecting a huge marquee outside all day, with sixteen round white-clothed tables of ten and a parquet dance-floor with disco lights hanging above. I glide through the space, the most important person of the moment.If only they knew. Lightning flashes, followed closely by a tremendous roll of thunder.
‘Mind your head!’ booms Brett, carrying a log on his shoulder.
‘Shit, will this tent withstand the rain?’
‘Oh aye,’ he says, thumping his log to the ground and rolling it to the edge of the tent. ‘We’re weighing it down extra, like.’
It looks impressive, and I feel a little tingle in my stomach as I run over the speech in my head and wander towards the kitchen, bracing myself against the strengthening winds. I’m actually a bit excited.
One last night, I remind myself, then I’m out. My bag is packed and the taxi is booked for later.
James and I have been working with minimum interaction all week, only communicating about the prep we need to do for the event. Now I watch him wrap a surprisingly light black-pudding mixture around a quail’s egg, while I discuss the final pairings with Russell.
Russell’s appearance adds mystery to the future of the place. Why is he here, after a couple of weeks’ absence? None of us have been told anything, and I’ve been too scared to ask Irene. It feels like the captain deciding to stay on a sinking ship, after assessing that the water is too cold to dive into willingly.
‘So we have the Bolney Pinot Noir for the English suggestion, and the Saumur Champigny for the traditional pairing,’ I say, holding both the bottles up so that Irene and Russell can inspect them.
‘Good,’ says Russell, nodding his head, his perfectly groomed hair so full of spray it looks like a Ken doll’s. ‘And for the dessert?’
Before anyone speaks, I jump in, all animated. ‘Oh my God, wait till you see what Anis has done. It’s this fabulous take on Eton mess.’
‘It’s really excellent,’ James agrees, nodding. For the first time ever, Anis looks a little embarrassed and fetches her deconstructed Eton mess from the chiller.
‘It obviously needs to be put together fresh,’ she says, sliding over a plate that looks like it has a St George’s cross made of raspberries, strawberry jelly, soft pillowy marshmallow and meringue, plus quenelles of whipped cream on it. I learned the word ‘quenelle’ from her earlier today, after I complimented her on the pretty ‘blobs’. I have learned so much this summer, but not everything.
Irene and Russell both scrape a spoonful off the plate, and we wait for a moment while they taste.
‘Welcome back to the Great English Menu,’ I say. ‘Anis, will you be cooking for the hundred-and-fiftieth anniversary of the Royal Marines in Blackpool? Have you pushed the boundaries of culinary achievement enough? Is it original? Have you responded to the brief? Side-note: women never make the final.’
James smiles. A small victory.
