‘Oh, that’s great,’ I say, scrambling around in my apron for a pad and paper. I didn’t think I was supposed to take the food order. I look over my shoulder for Roxy, but she’s not in the dining area. Must remember pen and paper. I engage my memory:The salmon, venison and two soups, I repeat in my head, and then look nervously towards the other couple. How am I going to remember all of this?
‘We’ll both have the venison, and the beetroot as a starter,’ says the other gentleman with a polite smile.Two beetroots, two soups, salmon, three venison. I’ve got this.
‘So what do you recommend?’ Thomas asks pointedly.
I look down in dismay and realize the lunch-specials wine list has about a dozen wines on it. I could guess, I guess? Or I could …
‘Ahh, one bottle or two?’
There’s a very audible scoff from Betty.
‘I mean, well, you’re having fish and they’re having meat, so …’
Thomas tuts loudly. ‘Where’s Irene?’
‘Well, she’s …’ I stammer. ‘Um.’
I look round and clock Bill, who immediately senses my distress and glides across the floor in seconds to rescue me.
‘Hi, Thomas, how are the kids?’ he says in a voice I’ve not heard before. It’s so saccharine it gives me the creeps.
‘Good, Bill. Good,’ Thomas replies.
‘What can I help with?’
‘Well, so far your new sommelier has recommended a red or a white wine, two bottles of wine and a bottle of champagne. I was hoping for something a bit more specific from a new sommelier.’
I furrow my brow as if I’m agreeing with him that I’ve been rubbish.
‘I see,’ Bill replies with a reassuring smile. ‘I’m ever so sorry, but it’s her first shift here, so she’s not really up to speed. Heather, here, used to work at the Wolseley, you know.’
Thomas looks up at me suspiciously, but the other three say ‘Ahhh’ in unison.
‘I did,’ I say quickly.
‘Why don’t you go and see to table three, and I’ll look after these guys for now,’ Bill says.
I scuttle off and I’m actually shaking as I reach the safety of the bar, but immediately notice that the guests at table three have their hands raised in my direction. I look for Roxy, who has returned from the coat rack and nods supportively to me. It’s me: I have to go. I lick my dry lips and swallow a couple of times.
‘Hello, how can I help you?’ I ask the two sweet ladies, one of whom smells so overwhelmingly of a mandarin- or orange-based perfume that I have to take a small step backwards.
‘Bill says you’re a very good sommelier,’ says one. ‘We’re ever so impressed. You’ve come all the way from London to be at our little local.’
‘Ahh.’ I blush.Oh shit!
‘So, we were wondering, is the Picpoul any good? It’s Margaret’s birthday and we fancy getting a little … well, you know?’
Margaret reaches forward and touches her friend’s hand and they both giggle in such a sweet way that my heart slows and I feel a sense of calm wash over me. Old friends. Old friends sharing a drink. Old best friends. And all these lovely ladies want from me is to know whether a wine is good or not. That I can easily pretend to do.
‘Yes. It’s the best,’ I reply. ‘Nothing like sharing a bottle with your best friend, is there?’
‘That’s right, dear,’ Margaret nods.
As I head to the wine fridge behind the bar, I glance back at Margaret. She is giggling away at her friend, eyes full of delight, just like old girlfriends do. Old girlfriends like me and Heather. Another grim wave of guilt hits me as I think of her.
‘Sorry about before,’ whispers Bill as I limp up to the bar. ‘I should have given you the list.’
‘Oh, it’s okay, forget it,’ I say looking up. ‘I need a bottle of, er, Pick Pool.’
