‘Right this minute?’ I reply, desperate for a hot cup of tea and a shower.
‘Our emergency cover fell into the River Ayr while taking a tinkle,’ booms a posh English accent, as a much older, shorter man in a dark suit with a bulging belly arrives, dragging one of those fancy bellhop trollies behind him. The light shines onto his reddish face, which is heavily lined but jolly. ‘Hospitalized with exposure.’
‘Double exposure,’ I reply, with a giggle – I can’t resist – and he shoots me a wicked grin.
‘I’m William. But everyone calls me Bill. And this is James, here to welcome you on behalf of the kitchen,’ he continues, glancing down at my bag. ‘Well, I won’t need the trolley. You travel light. Goodness gracious me. You should have seen last night’s late arrival – poor night porter had to make a dozen trips up and down the stairs.Andhe’s got a dicky leg.’
‘I don’t like having more than I can manage on my own,’ I say, smiling at him.
‘Well, I hope you bought some wellies,’ he says, glancing down at my shoes.
‘No. I’ll need to get some. And a coat. Didn’t anyone notify Scotland it’s May, for God’s sake?’ I say, clutching at my arms.
‘Northerly. They’re bitter, even in summer,’ says Bill, as he sticks the key into the lock of the cottage, and it makes a heavythunkas he turns the old lock. He pushes the door open, but instead of showing me in, he pops my suitcase just inside and pulls the door shut. ‘Couldn’t grow a Pinot in this wind-chill, eh?’
I stutter, then scramble for a quick reply. ‘Yes. Certainly it needs to be warmer. Except when there’s a frost. You also sometimes need frost.’ He’s staring at me, so obviously I continue my verbal drivel. ‘For the grapes, because sometimes they need frost. To make the wine, er, better.’
‘We need you to start tonight,’ James says again, cutting through the chatter. He and his tense shoulders are looking back towards the main house as if he’s left a pan of hot fat on full.
I start to feel a little panicked. ‘I’m not dressed,’ is all I can think to say. ‘I thought there would be some kind of formal orientation first? Watch one of thoseWelcome to the companyfilms. Spend hours getting your email set up? Meet the boss? Go for a welcome drink?’
‘My kinda girl,’ Bill chortles again.
‘We’ve got you a uniform.’ James furrows his heavy brow my way, then turns sharply away to do more brooding.
Bill turns to me with an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, this is all very sudden. But I’m sure you’ll take to it just fine, with your incredible experience. Oh, don’t look so sheepish – I was the one who hired you, remember? I’ve seen your CV.’
‘Right. Of course. Okay, let’s go,’ I say, as confidently as I can. No need to discuss my CV in front of James, or anyone.
Bill jumps into the nearest golf cart and turns on the ignition. James offers an impatient smile and nods towards the passenger seat.
‘Cheers,’ I say as he jumps on a little platform on the back and hangs on.
‘If James is edgy, it’s because he needs to go over the menu with you, likenow,’ Bill whispers.
I’m going to have to be careful with everything I say. Play the new girl. With the amount of jobs I’ve had, that’s one thing I can do.
We pull up at the entrance to the kitchen, and as the heavy modern door is pushed open, the light and noise spill out onto the courtyard, and suddenly a new set of senses comes fiercely alive.
The back kitchen is buzzing. There are three chefs in whites preparing for the evening service. Piles of small new potatoes are being scrubbed, and another chef has a great sheet of tiny herbs, which are being forensically picked through with what look like tweezers. There is a kind of rhythmical chorus as knives hit wood, pans slam on granite and my block-heels clip-clop across the stone floor.
‘Hi, Chef,’ says the youngest-looking of them. He’s covered in blood splatters and holding a comically large butchering knife. James nods in approval at the young lad, who blushes and smiles shyly back at him. It’s a cute exchange, and I warm a little to James.
Smells of lemon zest and rich, dark chocolate fill my nose as we pass the pastry counter. Then the sting of onions hits my eyes as we duck under a low doorway into the preparation area. There are two rows of stainless-steel cooking surfaces and large ovens, and another serious-looking young chef, her dark hair stuffed into a hairnet, is standing over a huge pot, carefully spooning in what seems to be an enormous ladle full of tiny lobsters.
‘Oh my God, baby lobsters,’ I whisper, aghast, but Bill has suddenly disappeared out through the swinging door into the restaurant. There’s a glimpse of a dark, candle-lit room with accents of deep red and tartan.
‘Langoustines, three minutes, fifteen seconds. Rolling boil,’ the chef says to herself, as she starts a small timer.Langoustines. I blush at my stupidity and take a deep breath.I won’t last five minutes if I don’t keep my mouth shut.
‘Heather?’ James calls to me from the service area, where he is sorting through scribbled sheets of paper.
‘Hey. Jamie for short, is it?’
‘James actually,’ he says abruptly, before glancing at the floor. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Sure,’ I reply, painting on a face full of efficiency and confidence.
He waves a piece of paper at me. ‘We’ve matches for the langoustine and hot-smoked salmon, but not the beetroot and pickled cabbage. We also need a pairing for the blade steak. I would have gone for a Cabernet, but there’s the spring greens and turnip foam to consider in the balance. What do you think?’
