This is the last trick up my sleeve. I look around the room and watch the guests as they taste their final glass. I watch as they seem confused, then taste again. Their noses screw up and disappointment spreads across their faces, aghast at the wine in front of them. Perfect!
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you are all enjoying this last wine,’ I begin. They try to be polite, and smile and nod my way. A gentleman at the back, showing no such grace, spits his back into his glass.
‘I’d like to hand the floor over to one of you, to appraise and identify this final wine – as you can see, we’ve concealed the label on all the bottles. Do I have a volunteer?’
Almost immediately Mr Hunt raises his hand. ‘I’ll volunteer.’Brilliant.
A smatter of polite applause around the room, and then lightning. We all wait a moment for the thunder that follows and then, with great comic emphasis, Hunt stands and shakes his head. ‘Heather, thank you for a fascinating tour of England, and I’ll admit I have enjoyed some fantastic wines here tonight. But I’m afraid you’ve quite ruined yourself with this final choice, lass.’
I stick out my bottom lip and cock my head, playing along.
‘It tastes like vinegar. Like blackcurrant juice left on a countertop for a month. Atrocious! Now this is what I would typically expect from an English wine.’
Around him faces nod: finally, an English wine they can rely on to disappoint.
‘Well, that’s a real shame, Mr Hunt,’ I say into the microphone.
He stands with his hands out and shrugs.
‘Why don’t you take the sleeve off and reveal the estate please?’
‘Very well,’ says Mr Hunt, as he reaches across the table and plucks up the bottle, slipping the black paper sleeve off, and the rest of the tables follow, eager to see which dreadful English estate the wine is from.
‘Mr Hunt?’ I say.
‘Well,’ he replies as the room begins to bubble with laughter. ‘It seems the joke is on us. The wine comes from Stirlingshire, right here in Scotland.’
The room erupts into gales of laughter. Applause follows, and a few people even rise from their seats. I glance across at the waiting team, who are also clapping. Roxy is red-cheeked and clapping enthusiastically, and even Irene is beaming.
‘Thank you all for a wonderful evening, everyone. Now please welcome the Grant Fraser Band, and I hope you will enjoy yourselves well into the wee hours. Goodnight.’
I briefly close my eyes and soak up the final moments of success. And then my eyes open and catch on something familiar in the room. A face in the crowd that wasn’t there a minute ago, standing by the flapping doors of the marquee. That curly hair pinned to the side, and the big blue eyes wide with shock. It takes a moment, but then it comes.
Heather. Heather is here.
38.
As the band kicks in, I half-fall off the stage and rush towards Heather.
Irene is the first to block my path. ‘Dear, you were wonderful – congratulations.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, yanking up the hem of my gown so that I can move more freely. ‘Sorry I have to—’
‘Heather! Well done,’ says a beaming Roxy. ‘You were amazing. That was so funny! A Scottish wine. When did you order it?’
‘I can’t talk now, Roxy,’ I say, pushing past her.
‘Heather?’ I shout, just as Bill tries to get to me. ‘Not now, Bill.’
I reach her under the fairy lights in the walkway, the light of her phone shining against her face. She hangs up and shoves it into her coat pocket, and my first impulse is to rush across and hug her. I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know what to say.
‘What are you doing here?’ I blurt. My mind is racing. Who told her I was here? Why would she come?
She scoffs, and I want to get her away from the marquee so that we can talk, away from prying ears. Surely there must be some way I can …
‘What amIdoing here?’ she repeats flatly.
‘I can explain. This isn’t as bad as it looks.’
