James reaches his hands up to the back of his neck, and I admire his modestly toned arms; all he needs to do is run his hands through his hair and I will have a huge crush.
‘Management always seem to come with the job,’ I say.
‘That’s the truth,’ he says, standing. ‘Need a hand?’ He stretches out his arm and offers it up.
‘Thanks,’ I say, feeling myself blush as he tugs me and I have to hastily rearrange my clothes, once I’m up. The burn on the pads of my feet is excruciating, and nothing can mask the funky stench coming from my armpits. ‘Sorry, James, I’m a total mess. I’d like to say it gets better than this, but it really doesn’t.’
He laughs. ‘You look just fine.’
Delivered with that soft Scottish accent and quiet confidence, You look just fineis pretty much the best compliment I’ve ever received. I feel my cheeks burn with delight.
Bill comes bursting through the door with an open bottle of champagne in one hand and a red in the other. He staggers a little as he reaches for his coat, clumsily settling the wine down. ‘Oh, my sweet Lord, let’s get the fuck home. You’ll need to drive the cart, James; I can barely stand. Overheard that golden-wedding couple on table nine have gone for a skinny dip in the loch, if anyone fancies a giggle,’ he burps, then looks across and catches my amusement. ‘Occupational hazard.’
James takes the red wine from Bill’s hand. ‘You should have left this one, Bill.’
‘It’s been open for days!’ Bill says with a toothy grin.
As I slip my blazer on, I can feel James looking across at me. I turn to him while we wait for Bill to change, wondering if he has something more to say. I wait a moment and realize he’s not going to speak.
‘Wouldn’t mind some of that,’ I say, nodding towards the bottle in his hand.
‘Sure.’ His eyes are on the wine, before he slowly looks up at me and holds my gaze properly. ‘Are you hungry?’
I sort of don’t hear the words, because all I can see is his eyes. There is that unmistakable spark of connection between us.
I almost jump backwards with the shock of it, then tear myself from the invisible, fragile thread and it snaps. I catch my breath. He looks at the ceiling and then at the floor, and then I remember I’m supposed to answer.
‘Oh, sure, yeah,’ I reply, trying to be relaxed as my heart beats hard in my chest.
‘I’m bloody starved,’ Bill is saying, zipping up a grey hoodie, oblivious.
James has already pulled his coat on and is holding open the door by the time I get my shit together.
I follow them, my feet aching as we make our way outside to the cart, and James jumps in the driver’s seat and turns the key.
‘Get yourself in there, Bill, I’ll ride at the back,’ I say.
‘Oh Christ, thank you,’ he says, slumping down next to James, slapping him on the shoulder. ‘Another stellar day, old boy. Amazing. You’re really nailing it.’
‘You need to get some sleep,’ James replies.
The ride to the cottage is only a few moments, but it gives me enough time to gather my scattered thoughts into one place. This situation I am in here, in Scotland, pretending to be my best friend in a not-at-all-shitty hotel is already precarious. But it’s containable as long as I work hard, keep everyone sweet and make it to the end of the summer. What I cannot afford is to have a crush.Rein it in, Birdy!
A crush would be a distraction, and I have to focus. Tonight the crash course must begin. Time to learn a million wines.
We pull up at the cottage, the motion light springs back on and while James dithers with the key, Bill finds his focus.
‘I’ll show you your room, and you can have a shower at last,’ he says, holding his nose and coughing.
‘Screw you,’ I say, laughing. ‘You stink worse than me.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ he replies, as the door creaks open. He picks up my suitcase and flicks on the hall light. ‘Your room is down here, second on the right. All set up. I’m on the second floor, first door; and James is at the end with his own bathroom, the bastard. I’m about twenty years older than him, but that’s nepotism for you.’
I sense a hint of something in his voice that isn’t entirely jovial. I briefly glance over my shoulder as we make our way down the narrow corridor, and James is still standing by the entrance to the kitchen with the wine in his hand. His brow is in its naturally furrowed state and he looks like he wants to talk again.
‘So, er, what are you making?’ I ask him.
‘Gruyere on sourdough,’ he replies, though the lilt in his voice suggests it’s more of a question.
