‘What kind of man doesn’t buy his date the vintage champagne?’ I said loudly to an elderly gent, who chuckled, glanced across at his smirking wife, folded up the wine list and replied, ‘Well, I have to now, don’t I?’
‘I’m having the guinea fowl, with a glass of white,’ a Very Confident American Tourist had said. ‘Which would you recommend?’
‘Oh gosh, I hate recommending wines,’ I’d joked, scanning the list in a panic.
He chuckled. ‘Sounds to me like you’re in the wrong business.’
‘Quite,’ I quickly replied, grinning, as a memory of Heather complaining about how Americans only ever drink bloody Chardonnay flashed before me.
‘Take the Chardonnay,’ I said firmly.
‘Oh, I love Chardonnay,’ his partner said, in one of those perfect little Texan accents. ‘Can I have an ice cube in that?’
‘Yes. Yes, you can,’ I confirmed, marching back to Bill, feeling jubilant.
‘It’s like they’ll believe anything I say,’ I blurted out. ‘I’m the Donald Trump of wine.’
‘Well, I agree we’ve not quite got the sophisticated clientele of Claridge’s,’ Bill said. ‘They do need some guidance.’
‘Quite,’ I said again, resting once more on the word. I’m the kind of person who says ‘quite’ now, it seems.
After that, I mostly stood around looking very busy and important, which involved a lot of nodding at the junior staff and watching as they elegantly poured the wine, served gracefully and swiftly cleared. I also necked a couple of samples from Bill, ‘for research purposes’.
As I stare up at the staffroom ceiling and wait for Bill to tidy the bar and show me my bed, I marvel that I’m actually here, in Scotland, and that I really did do this. In my delirious haze, I start to giggle to myself.
‘Hi, Heather.’ James looks confused by the state of me on the floor. And no wonder – I look a right mess. I pull down my skirt and readjust my blouse, but sitting up is beyond me, I’m so knackered.
‘I haven’t felt this exhausted since Ibiza, August 2014. No. That’s a lie. The night I did a twenty-four-hour Nicolas Cage movie marathon. What’s weird is, I barely even scratched the surface of his back-catalogue. He’s prolific. I wonder how many hours of my life it would take to do every movie.Con Airwaslong. He doesn’t do a lot of sub-two-hour films. I’m going to google it. Actually, fuck that – my fingers are too tired.’
Why am I still talking?
James actually laughs fully – at me or with me, I don’t care – then removes his black hat and unbuttons his chef’s jacket. A white T-shirt is underneath, everything stained. He sighs, and I get the sense that a great weight has been lifted from him.
‘Glad you got an easyish first shift,’ he says with a yawn. He must be kidding, although there are no signs of it. He moves towards his locker and pulls the door back to shield his body from view, though he needn’t have bothered. I am far too tired to perv.
‘Yeah, a total breeze,’ I reply.
Finally, about three seconds later, the desire to perv overwhelms me, so I sneak a quick glance, but James has already changed into a black T-shirt. His shoulders are rolled forward as he spends a few moments on his phone. Then he leans over to pick up his bag, practically waving his bum in my face. I can’t help but notice how nice it is. It’s not one of those little bums that disappear into a pair of sagging skinny jeans, but a good, rounded proper bum.
Mentally scolding myself, I focus again on my phone and wait for him to close the locker before I turn my head fully towards him. For the next three months James will be my closest work person, and I need to find a way to connect with things other than his very nice bum. I need to get him squarely on my side. If anyone is going to spot my shortcomings, it’s him.
‘So, how long have you worked here, James?’ I ask, concealing a yawn. ‘Sorry, a very long day. I was at St Pancras at the crack of dawn. Poor old Dawn. Everyone’s always at her crack.’
He chuckles again, even though it’s the lamest joke ever. His laugh is sweet – warm and from the belly. ‘Yeah, of course,’ he says, tossing his worn whites into a big laundry basket by the door. ‘I’ve been here for ever.’ He collapses into the chair opposite me, rubbing his face with a white towel. His dark hair falls forward across his face, hopelessly unruly once out of that hat, and slightly damp with sweat.
‘Really?’
‘Apart from a brief stint in Dunvegan.’
‘Dunvegan?’
‘Yes, you know – Dunvegan, on Skye.’
‘Oh yeah, of course.’ I make a mental note to check out a map of the area later. ‘Are you from the west coast then?’
‘Yes,’ he says shortly, tossing the white towel into the laundry basket and flicking his head back to remove the hair from his eyes. ‘Sorry. I’m not a good welcome party. Today was pretty long for me too. Russell needed … something.’
He stops himself and shakes his head. It’s obvious he wanted to have a moan about the boss – something I could easily relate to. No one in history has moaned about bosses as much as me. I am the king of moaners actually. Almost every boss I’ve ever had has fallen short in every conceivable way and, as talented as he may be, Russell seems to be a bit of a classic prick.
