‘What?’
‘Cheese on toast,’ Bill calls out from the kitchen.
‘Oh, bloody hell, yes please,’ I reply with a grin and catch James’s eyes brighten as I turn away.
The bathroom is small but clean, and after discovering I must have left my soap bag at the public toilets in Inverness, I rummage through the cupboards and borrow the newest-looking toothbrush I can find, the dregs of someone’s Boots own-brand face-wash and plenty of body-wash named Power Clean Big Guy Wash or something.
I dress in the safety of the bathroom, since I now have male flatmates for the first time ever. I pull on my flannel PJs and a sloppy old T-shirt and let my hair fall down around my shoulders. I like the lightness of it. I could definitely get used to having it shorter. With sleep in sight, I am feeling a little less stressed and suddenly very hungry. I pull out my phone, which I realize I haven’t checked since I texted Heather hours ago. It’s 12.15 a.m.
There are no messages. Of course. Tim will be drunk somewhere within a one-mile radius of his office. Perhaps he’s already taken his suit off and jumped in the river, or started singing football songs with his equally drunk mates by the taxi rank outside. I wonder if he’s told his friends what I’m doing. I wonder if he misses me at all. I wonder if I miss him, and for a moment think it would be nice to pine for a lover on the other side of the country. But I don’t. I definitely don’t pine for Tim.
I slip the phone back into my bag and open the bathroom door. I can hear Bill and James in the communal lounge, and the smell of toasted bread and cheese fills the corridor. I am ravenous, and happy to brave drunk Bill and shy James for the sake of a free meal.
‘Hi,’ I say simply, as I enter. Now it’s me who feels a bit shy, which is slightly unusual for me, but drunk Bill looks so comically delighted to see me, and James offers a less uptight smile. I wish he wouldn’t smile. It is a very, very nice smile.
The lounge is big enough. There is a small galley kitchen at the far end that clearly hasn’t been updated since the Eighties – lots of veneer and Bakelite, overly customized for a generation that was no more. Tiny drawers for herbs, a terracotta brick floor and floral hand-painted fittings. There is also a microwave the size of a dishwasher. In front of me, a large leather chesterfield-esque sofa and two armchairs are positioned around a coffee table and a huge flat-screen TV is mounted up on the wall. There’s a cork board on the far wall, withwhat looks like the staff roster pinned to it, alongside a few photos of people I don’t recognize, and a flyer for something called ‘The Wine Society Highland Fling’.
‘What’s this?’ I ask, walking over and pulling it off its pin. ‘Highland Fling? Sounds fun. Well, actually, it sounds like a swingers’ club.’
Bill bellows with laughter, as he pulls three small wine goblets from the shelf and pours out a glass of red. ‘It’s the Glastonbury of west-coast hospitality.’
‘Ooh, all-you-can-swallow haggis, with a side of ecstasy?’
‘And rain,’ says James, and I giggle, mostly out of shock that he’s almost made a joke.
‘Where’s the champagne?’ I ask. ‘If that’s still going, I’d love a fizz.’
This is about the most authentic my wine talk could get. I do love fizz. I love feeling posh when I drink it. I love cava and Prosecco and champagne at weddings. I love it with all my drunken, flirtatious heart.
‘I just learned about champagne and Gruyere.’ James appears from behind the counter. Now relaxed, he looks even more handsome, and I am surprised to see he is wearing reading glasses, which he swiftly takes off. ‘Apparently it’s a good match?’
‘All right, nerd, I’m off-duty,’ I say, smiling at him, and he returns the smile, ducking back down to inspect the grill.
‘Come on, James, you don’t always want to talk molecular foam of pig semen. Here you go – in a goblet, though, I’m afraid,’ Bill says, pulling the silver stopper out of the bottle.
‘Exactly,’ I say, climbing up onto the stool next to Bill as James slides the tray of cheese toasties out of the oven. ‘Christ, that smells incredible. What do you put in it?’
‘Gruyere, mustard – whatever works,’ he says, shrugging and seemingly blushing ever so slightly.
‘Cooking is a mystery to me,’ I say. ‘I once tried to freestyle beef bourguignon using pork and lemonade.’
‘They’re not even remotely related,’ James frowns. ‘Though pork and Coke work surprisingly well. But neither of those things is beef bourguignon.’
‘You have to wait for it to cool,’ Bill is saying, ignoring his own advice and picking a slice up by the crust. ‘So, if you don’t mind me saying, Heather, you are not like other sommeliers. From your CV, I would have thought – well …’ He trails off.
I don’t want to think about where Bill is going with this, so I take another sip of my champagne, the bubbles dancing on my tongue. It’s heavier and almost bitter, compared to the Proseccos I’d spent the winter drinking at the local pub where, conveniently, it came on tap.
Bill glances over at James. ‘Don’tyouthink, James?’
‘What do you mean?’ I reply, feigning indignation as I reach for a slice myself. It’s just cool enough and I take a bite, and, unprepared for the nutty sweet-and-saltiness that envelops my tongue, I gasp. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, this is better than—’
‘Sex, yes, which is why I don’t bother with it any more,’ Bill says, nodding his head in agreement.
‘I was going to say it’s better than a Greggs toastie.’
James laughs like I’m joking, and so does Bill.
‘See. That’s what I mean. You’re funny, which wine folk never are,’ he says.
