‘And I can’t stay with you.’
‘If I had the room—’
‘You still wouldn’t let me,’ I said and, before Tim protested, I added, ‘It’s fine. No big deal.’
‘Birdy, it’s only a hospo job. You could easily do it. Didn’t you work in a bar once? And you said yourself that Heather doesn’t want it. She wasn’t even going to call them, for fuck’s sake.’
‘That’s true.’
‘It’sfreeaccommodation. Probablyfreemeals. Definitely free wine and whisky. Scotland, the summer – what the hell else are you going to do?’
I ruminated on the idea for a moment and it felt weirdly plausible.Heather said it wasn’t anything special. Just an old pub basically, a family-run place in the middle of nowhere. I’ve done a bit of bar and waitressing work. I’m not totally inept. It would be great to see some of Scotland …
‘If you don’t do it, I will!’ And as Tim said this, he threw his arms wide, knocking over a bottle of wine, which in turn knocked into the carefully balanced display of ivy-bound champagne glasses. A moment of teetering suspense, then they shattered one by one as they hit the table and scattered in great jagged shards across the carpet around us.
The room went silent.
Someone next to me gasped, ‘Oh my word, that is vintage crystal.’
‘Andthatis a vintage idiot,’ I said, stepping back slightly as if I didn’t know Tim. Catching the eye of Irene across the room, I did my best embarrassed face, trying to convey all in one look that while I waswithTim, I didn’t endorse his actions in any way. Then the second the waiters bustled over to clear up, I did my thing. I grabbed Tim and we bolted.
5.
May
I’d rather be dead than this tired. The restaurant is full, it’s midway through service, and I am doing an excellent job of hovering by the bar looking efficient, each step causing a searing pain on the balls of my feet. The uniform, supplied in Heather’s size, was two sizes too small for me, but rather than have to explain that one, I squeezed myself into the dreary pencil skirt and white shirt. I have a long black linen apron, which is fixed with thick brown leather straps and does a good job of hiding the bulge at the waistband, but it won’t help my ability to walk normally. The stupid skirt is so tight I’m sort of shuffling like an Eighties TV robot instead of walking.
The staff, whom I briefed as briefly as possible, are five serious young things, all ironed, polished and ready for service.
‘Well, you’ve all been here longer, and therefore all know more than me,’ I say, using vast swathes of flattery and very little else to keep them from suspecting I had no real idea what I was talking about. ‘Tonight I’ll be learning from you.’
A baby-faced red-head with a nose-stud looked at me with the kind of giddy excitement normally reserved for pop stars. She told me her name was Roxanne, but her friends call her Roxy, and gushed that she had been training to be a sommelier and would be thrilled to help me in any way she could. I wanted to hug Roxy for existing.
I can see her now, picking up a silver tray with two glasses of what I learn are Bellinis – champagne with a bit of mushed-up peach, at £18 a pop. She’s the kind of gorgeous that comes with youth: perfect skin and long, lean limbs. Her vibrant red hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail.
The open kitchen gives me a direct view to Anis and, more interestingly, James, who seems to be getting progressively more vexed and sweaty as the service goes on.
‘James doesn’t actually do much cooking,’ I say to Bill, who is polishing glasses behind the bar, as I watch James scold the dessert chef.
‘Well, he makes sure everything is how Russell likes it. He’s kind of the conductor of the orchestra. And Russell owns the orchestra,’ Bill says with a wry smile, polishing yet another glass. ‘But you know all about that. Listen to me. Tellingyouhow a restaurant works.’
‘Ha, yes,’ I murmur, taking a moment to send Heather a quick thank-you message:Thanks for the wine advice on the fancy dinner, I’ll let you know how it goes.
I’m really fucking sore, and really fucking tired, and although this charade is only a few hours into a three-month campaign, I am feeling too exhausted to keep it up.
‘Bill,’ I say, leaning across towards him, as a very tall Dutch waiter strides past me with two plates of what looks like some kind of over-engineered chicken drumstick. ‘What time do we usually wrap?’
‘Wrap?’
‘Wrap up this show.’
‘Ah, I see,’ he says, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s eight forty-five, so I guess – in three or four hours?’
I lie on the staffroom floor, my left foot on the wall, circling the ankle of my right foot and whimpering like a lame dog. The ridiculously too-small pencil skirt is hitched up to my hips and I’ve untucked the bulging cream polyester blouse and unbuttoned it enough to get some cool air onto my skin. The uniform isn’t as fancy as the restaurant, that’s for sure. I yawn and rub my eyes, caring little whether I’ve smeared black eyeliner down my face. I’ve been everything from freezing cold to roasting hot in one day. Every single cell in my body is ruined.
I think I did okay, though. Almost all the guests ordered off the pre-paired tasting menu, so there was little for me to do on the fly, although since the wine list had a couple of descriptions underneath each choice, I was ready enough to bluff, if I had to. But I found out quickly that most people just want you to take the decision away from them.
‘I don’t know about you, but I always say simplest is best,’ I’d whispered to a nervous man who was clearly in near-cardiac arrest over the pricing – giving him permission to order a nice cheap Napa Valley Pinot.
