‘Excuse me?’ I say, laughing, since it is impossible to take offence at something that isn’t technically directed at me. I take a big swig of my champagne, which I can just taste, thanks to the coating of cheesy fat in my mouth. And, my word, it’s good.
‘I dunno. You’re obviously not a foodie. And you look like you work in a record store.’
‘Bill,’ James says seriously, ‘don’t say that.’
‘What’s wrong with working in a record store?’ I ask James teasingly. I know he meant to be kind, but it’s too good an opportunity to wrong-foot him and see if I can make him blush again.
I don’t tell them that my third job after school was working at the local HMV, just before it went under. My entire record collection was formed from staff discounts during the final closing-down sale. My collection was enormous and varied, and probably the thing I was most proud of. Unfortunately, I sold the whole lot to a wedding DJ from Hull, to pay off my credit-card bill in 2015. I kind of own nothing.
‘Sorry, I don’t mean anything by that. It’s just that most wine students are kind of posh, you know. It costs a lot of money to study wine and …’ Bill stops himself, grins and bites his lip, looking sheepishly at the ground. ‘I realize I’ve just walked perilously into a very deep hole and I can’t climb out. Forgive me.’
He bows his head in faux shame, and I giggle, topping my glass up again.
‘It’s okay. I know I’m not the Heather you were expecting. Everyone thinks I’m going to be far more sophisticated, but at the end of the day I’m just a wino with a pay cheque.’
As Bill chortles again, I suddenly feel a bit grim. Even when I’mplayingsomeone as accomplished as Heather, I fall short. I gaze down at my glass, feeling a sudden urge to sleep. James must have sensed my hurt, because he pushes the board of cheese toasties towards me.
‘Have some more,’ he says, turning to wash his hands at the sink behind him.
‘But really, I mean it,’ says Bill, like a dog with a bone. ‘Like, think about Manuel, with his pinstripe suits and snobby bloody French accent …’
‘Was it a snobby French accent, or just a normal French one that you think sounds snobby?’ I say, toying with him.
‘What?’
‘Because one answer makes him a prick, and the other makesyouone.’ I take another swig of my wine, tossing my head back, feeling rather pleased.
‘Ignore Bill, he’s drunk …’ James says, shooting him a glance.
‘Look. All I’m saying, Heather m’dear,’ continues Bill, ignoring him, ‘is that I can tell already that you are a scream, and the other ones were not.’ He slaps me on the back and almost slips off his stool in the process. ‘I just can’t imagine you as a Master of Wine – they’re usually so stuffy. Don’t you agree, James?’
James looks at me and, with the confidence of a couple of drinks, I can hold his gaze.
‘I think you’re a breath of fresh air,’ James says, before looking down and wiping the blade of a cooking knife with a tartan tea towel. He turns the blade over in his hand to inspect it, and it catches thelight above him. Then he unrolls a large knife bag and slips it into the empty slot in the middle. There is something undeniably hot and sexy-dangerous about his bag of knives, though I did just finish bingeingDexteron the train. James pauses to glance briefly at me, before sliding the knife bag back in the drawer.
A breath of fresh air.
I’ve been called many things in my life, but this is the first time I’ve ever been calleda breath of fresh air. My mum used to call meboisterous. My dad called mea little attention-seeker. My first flatmate, an uptight cow who worked in HR, called me alying, thieving little cuntbecause she thought I stole her MAC make-up pen. (I borrowed it and lost it, so I technically didn’t steal it, but either way, she couldn’t have known it was me.) I’ve been called afucking loserenough times for it to feel normal. Heather mostly calls mewonderful, but then I have always saved the best of myself for Heather.
I look over at James and my heart flutters.
We both reach for the champagne. He gets there first and I deliberately ‘accidentally’ touch his fingers. I can’t help myself. Even I can’t have misread the signals. Plus, I’m this fancy protégée sommelier, and everybody knowsnewnessis 80 per cent of attraction. Surely I am fanciable in this scenario?
I try to push the thought out of my head, suddenly embarrassed.
‘Sorry,’ I say, feeling a bit daft and pulling my fingers away. ‘You pour.’
Bill finally slides off his stool and, using his free hand to steady himself, salutes James and slaps me gently on the back again. He burps, his eyes starting to lose their direction as he shakes his head and knocks his wine over onto the floor.
‘That’s my cue,’ he says, tipping over to pick it up, catching himself on the bar before he falls too far forward. ‘Goodnight, you guys. I’m pooped!’
‘Pooped?’ I say under my breath, suppressing a grin. ‘Who says “pooped”?’
James tops up my glass and stands for a moment, looking at his own. He picks it up and then puts it down. Then he puts his hands on his hips and I realize he’s feeling weird that we’re alone in ourkitchen together. New housemates. Colleagues of only a few hours. Consenting adults. The sexual tension rises. Or is that just me?
‘I should go, too. I have some work to do tomorrow,’ he explains. ‘Sorry to leave you.’
‘No need to explain,’ I say, a little disappointed but equally relieved. ‘I’m so tired I could sleep right here on this kitchen counter.’
