‘Picpoul?’ he corrects me with the French pronunciation.
‘Sorry, yes,’ I say. ‘Stage fright. You know.’
‘Why don’t I shadow you for the rest of the day and show you the ropes,’ Bill says. ‘It was a bit unfair to drop you in it like this. You’ve not had five minutes to get your head round things.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, quietly wanting to hug him. Tonight I will head back to the house and formulate a plan.
‘And we can’t have you sullying our reputation,’ he says, a smile on his face as he slides a long dark-green bottle from the fridge. ‘After all, I hired you.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, before forcing my broadest, most cheeky grin. ‘What on earth were you thinking?’
8.
‘Hurry up,’ James says, waiting by the open front door.
‘Five minutes!’ I gasp, checking my phone for the time – 7.04 a.m. – and ignoring the three missed calls from Tim. I’d been awake when he rang, but that was at 1 a.m., 1.15 a.m. and 2 a.m., which could only mean one thing: he was so drunk he’d forgotten I was in Scotland, and he wanted a shag.
Itwasnice to feel wanted, though.
‘I’m so sorry – I’m just exhausted.’
Bill had been true to his word and had taken the reins at dinner, while I did a bit more shadowing,to see how we do things. But it was all a blur; I don’t think anything really sank in.
Afterwards I was, again, far too tired to go over the wine list, or unpack any of the wine books I’d brought with me. Instead I googled the ‘Top Ten things you didn’t know about wine’, and then I went through Heather’s now-private Instagram, with the same cat picture as her Facebook. She hadn’t posted since she was in Italy, and I felt a deep stab of guilt as I scrolled through all the pictures of my dear friend.
Then I had lain awake, unable to sleep, trying to figure out my options. Leaving without a full confession would mean it was Heather running out on a job. (I mean, Heather actuallyhadrun out on this job, but still … ‘She’ was here now, so that option was off the table.) But leavingwitha confession would also make her look bad. If I was going to leave, it needed to be as Heather, but with a cast-iron excuse. A death in the family was an option. But who could I kill off? She didn’t have anyone left. No, it had to be something else. Something that left her reputation intact.
I look up and see James beaming at me from the end of the corridor.
Ugh! There has to be another way.
‘We’re late,’ James says, shaking his head and handing me a large slice of generously buttered toast and a mug of tea.
‘Oh God, thanks,’ I reply, knocking back the lukewarm tea in one, and wedging the toast in my mouth as I zip up my hoodie with jittery fingers.
I chew on the toast, which is dry in my mouth. I feel a bit sick. I’m so far from being ready.
We’re off ‘foraging’ at the crack of dawn – something I wasn’t sure I could do, on the three hours of dream-filled sleep of angry old ladies, burning vines and crumbling corks. But Irene thought it would get me into the spirit of the restaurant, and that James and I could get to know each other a bit better.
‘You two need to be a tight team,’ she’d said.
‘Got it,’ I nodded. I was keen to be as enthusiastic as possible.
‘But not too much of a team,’ she said, with an eyebrow raised and a smile.
‘Understood,’ I replied. I liked Irene.
I wonder if working in an isolated hotel like this one is a bit like working on a cruise ship, where it’s areallybad idea if any of the staff get together, in case they have a bad break-up. No escape.
But Irene doesn’t need to worry about me. I’m not the boyfriend-at-work type. I’m not even really the boyfriend type. I’ve had three boyfriends, including Tim – none of whom unlocked any ‘proper boyfriend’ achievements, like meeting parents for dinner or going on weekends away to Whitstable. I also had a couple of very drunk one-night stands when I was at university for that one year. That was the year I nailedMario Kart, watched all seven seasons ofLost, and discovered my flatmate had a hydroponic marijuana farm in the basement under my bedroom. Oh, and the year ofDad’s first and last attempt at sobriety, which involved a lot of apologetic phone calls that were so emotionally exhausting I ended up leaving uni to backpack around Wales, to remove myself from it.
It’s not that I don’t want to have a normal boyfriend to cruise the aisles of Aldi with. I am just kind of happier single. It’s easier. Plus, Heather is a walking, talking cautionary tale of romantic entanglement.
James is wearing thick tawny hiking boots and an almost stylish moss-green Barbour coat with a waxy finish. It’s drizzling and still cold, but the fog has lifted and there is that smell of freshly cut grass in the air that everyone loves – especially, apparently, wine reviewers.
Anis is waiting outside in a fitted anorak, with a basket and an umbrella.
‘Where does Anis live?’ I whisper, pulling on my running shoes.
