‘Sir. How are you this afternoon?’
‘Very well, my dear. Tonight should be interesting. I tasted a few of these at the British Wine Awards – were you there?’
‘Yes, I was,’ I reply.
‘Well, I’m sure the Society will find this all very novel indeed. English wines at a Scottish wine event. What a hoot!’
‘We have plenty of Old World wines to compare,’ I assure him. ‘I hope you’ll find it fun, at least.’
‘Oh, look – Nicol!’ he says, waving to a tall, thin gentleman in a three-piece suit with a tartan waistcoat, who is rocking back and forth on his heels. ‘See you later, my dear.’
I head to the restaurant to check everything is in order, as Roxy and another young woman appear with two trays of champagne glasses.
‘Shall I start pouring?’ Roxy says as she slides her tray onto the bar, and Bill puts two bottles of bubbles up on the counter.
‘Yes. Let’s get going, they’re arriving in droves now.’
‘Good luck,’ she whispers at me, and the sweetness in her voice makes me almost tear up for a second. I’m going to miss her.
‘Thanks. Who needs luck when you’re wearing this dress, though?’
‘You look great. But you should take the apron off,’ she says as she glides away with a tray of a dozen glasses of sparkling English wine.
Roxy hands out the fizz, while another three young waiters circle around with large silver trays of iced oysters, placing them on the waiting silver stands that are dotted around the various tables.
Men in suits and kilts, with varying degrees of grey whiskers and wiry hair, chat in thick Scottish accents. The women wear gowns in various shades of bottle-green, navy and burgundy with sashes of tartan, and copious jewels. They drink and mingle animatedly, part of a club that for many years was closed to them.
As the volume of chatter in the bar area reaches a certain pitch, I look across to Irene, who nods my way as Bill rings a small bell.
‘Please make your way through to the marquee, ladies and gentlemen,’ she says.
We slowly follow her over what must have been a hastily erected walkway, across the pebbled path, to the marquee. Although it is still dark overhead, with the threat of more stormy weather, the rain has momentarily ceased.
Once the room is full, I grab a glass of fizz and brace myself. I take the step to the small podium at the top of the dance-floor, where everyone is assembled, and tap once on the microphone.
‘Is this on?’ I say, my voice booming around the marquee, and there is a gentle laughter from the room as more than a hundred people turn to see me speak. By the entrance the waiting staff are watching on, along with Roxy, Bill and Irene. Thankfully, James isn’t here to see me make a tit of myself.
‘We can hear you,’ says a jolly-looking rotund man near the front.
I blush wildly and try to focus. This all went much more smoothly in my head.
‘Well, then. Ladies and gentlemen,’ I say, my voice trembling a little.
I look over towards the entrance to see that James has appeared. Of course he’d bloody turn up now, wouldn’t he? I steel my nerves and carry on.
‘Hello, and welcome to the Wine Society Highland Fling. And today on the menu it’s the invasion of the English,’ I say, and there are a few audible laughs. Shit, I was hoping that would get everyone going! I look at Matthew Hunt, who has his head cocked sideways as if deciding whether to take pity on me or be angry. I feel my cheeks blush a deep crimson, and down the glass of fizz in my hand.
‘Oh, that’s better,’ I say, and there is a murmur akin to a giggle from a few at the back. I know I can do this. I know this speech is funny. I’ve worked so hard to get to this point. ‘Today we take a tour, not of the ancient vines of the Loire or the fertile soils of Bordeaux. No, today we take the M20 from Croydon and drive bumper-to-bumper at a steady ten miles an hour through the Canterbury bottleneck to a completely forgettable part of Kent.’
Laughter. Real laughter. I look at Matthew, who is glancing across at his friend Nicol to share a chuckle.
‘It is here we begin our journey with the cheeky little sparkling wine you are all suffering right now – from an estate called Hush, whose chalky slopes actually provide the same growing conditions as Champagne.’
A small gasp from a few, and others are nodding to confirm my little-known fact.
‘But while the growing conditions may be the same – the name cannot be. As you know, only wines grown in the French region can claim the prestigious title of “champagne”, and so therefore, not to be outdone, the English have gone for the very English name of “Blanc de Blancs”.’ I pronounce the last bit in my most Kentish accent.
This time there are actual bellows of laughter, and one old guy slaps his friend on the back. The room has warmed up, and I feel myself relax.
