In the moment of silence before lunch, I stare into the dark abyss of the locker that saysHeatherin neat Sharpie on the front and face myself. I’m not in a forgiving mood. It’s clear that, contrary to what Heather said, this place is a big deal. Thisjobis a big deal.
What the hell were you expecting?
You’ve done some dumb things in your time, Birdy Finch, but this beats them all.
You’re going to screw this up, and Heather will be furious. She was relying on you to get her out of this, reputation intact, and instead you’re going to screw it up entirely.
What the fuck have you done?
I’ve made a big mistake.
When I decided to come up here, a large part of me was banking on this vision of me and Heather, huddled together by the fire at that tiny table at the Dog and Duck, giggling as I recounted my summer misadventure of playing sommelier at this crumbling Ye Olde Hotel. But suddenly this doesn’t feel like a likely outcome.
Heather and I have only ever properly fallen out once. That dark, horrible summer. She’d finished a stint in Bordeaux at some fancy château and I was working at the ticket booth at a stand-up club in Soho. That year had been one Heather success after another. It felt like I’d spent a whole fucking house-deposit on balloons and bunting and Prosecco to celebrate endless new promotions, or her latest wine diploma. Of course I was proud of her, but Ihadto be her cheerleader. There was no one else. And sometimes it was exhausting.
I hadn’t bothered to take down the last foilCongratulationsballoon in our kitchen, and it had slumped halfway down the wall, deflated, and just read ‘CON’.
I stared at it as I held a final gas-bill notice in my hand. So I sublet her room.
Unfortunately, Comedy Courtney, twenty-one, from Margate, stole a bunch of Heather’s clothes, burned her coffee pot and weed in her bed after a night on the Jägermeister.
Heather wasn’t angry about the bed, or the missing clothes; she was angry that I’d hidden it from her. But instead of fessing up that I was skint, and saying sorry, all of my embarrassment and anger bubbled up and I shouted at her.
‘You don’t know what it’s like to be completely broke! I have no fucking safety net. You have this inheritance, and you can go swanning off to France for the summer and study wine, just like Daddy, without debt; and get a fucking professional haircut from someone called Ashley!’
‘I’d rather have a family than an inheritance.’
‘I’d rather have an inheritance than my family. Families are not fucking everything.’
Three months of cold silence followed, before I turned up with a new coffee pot and half a bottle of whisky.
‘I saw on Facebook you got into the Master of Wine course-thing,’ I slurred. ‘I told everyone on the Northern Line. And then there was this nurse on the way home from the hospital, who looked like she needed a drink. And then this builder called Raf joined in and, before I knew it, I was in Burnt Oak.’
‘I’m still angry,’ she said, swiping the whisky off me.
‘I know,’ I said, as she grabbed my free hand and yanked me inside.
‘And I’ve already replaced the bloody coffee pot.’
‘Heather, I’m so fucking sorry.’
‘I know you are. Just,’ she took a deep breath, ‘just, please, try to get your shit together.’
‘I’ll try.’ I nodded. ‘When will you have enough of me?’
‘Probably never, you fucking egg.’
But now, staring into her locker, I am wondering: is this it? Have I ruined our friendship?
How am I going to prove myself – or Heather, I should say – in a place with a Michelin-bloody-starred head chef? I can only surmise that she didn’t know that the hotel was being completely revamped and injected with cash. She can’t have known, because otherwise she would have been lying to me. And Heather doesn’t lie to me.
I wonder whether I should up and leave. But I can’t see how – it would beHeatherrunning out on the job. The other obvious option is confess the whole truth to Bill or Irene andthenrun. But that would land Heather in the shit too. And then I picture Irene’s face, the feel of her hands on my cheeks, and that look of such pride and determination. I have to find another way.
‘Hello, you,’ says a familiar voice.
‘Hello,’ I say to Bill, who has emerged from the adjacent bathroom.
‘Russell’s going to observe lunch,’ says Bill, flipping his locker open.
