‘In cottage four, with the rest of the younger ones.’
‘Oh, does that mean we’re the old ones?’
James laughs loudly, and Anis shoots me a suspicious look.
‘I was just asking where everyone lives,’ I explain, not wanting her to feel left out.
‘Cottage four,’ she replies in a thick Scottish accent, pushing her frankly incredible dark, glossy hair behind her ears. She’s beautiful – petite and smooth-skinned, with the most gorgeous full eyebrows – and is sporting the cutest red Hunter boots. ‘Are you wearing those shoes?’ she says accusingly, looking to James and then back at my Converse.
‘I’m afraid I didn’t bring anything practical,’ I say, shrugging. ‘But perhaps I can go to town and pick up something next week?’
‘Aye, you’ll need to,’ she replies, her brow furrowed, ‘if you’re going to do anything round here – work or otherwise. Those shoes are terrible.’
‘You’re so right,’ I agree, shrugging off the offence. ‘Fashion is pain, though, right?’
She doesn’t smile, but rather looks at her basket and then over towards the horse stables and sighs dramatically. Like she’s always having to sort people’s shit out. In my experience, that kind of exasperated disapproval always comes from a good place. I smile to myself, vowing to win her over.
And so we head off in silence, a merry party of three, into the wilderness.
James leads the way down the bank towards the river at the back of the estate. The grounds are not kept like an English estate might be. There’s the rose garden, but the rest is unrepentantly wild, withunkempt hedges, fruit trees, long grass and wildflowers in purples, yellows and deep pinks stretching up to meet the morning sun.
As we reach the swollen river we leave the sun for the canopy of oak, birch and beech trees, all that vivid green of freshly unfurled leaves. The cool air against my skin feels suddenly invigorating.
James directs us along a muddy path towards a footbridge.
‘So, Anis …’ I say. Wondering how to strike up conversation, I go with something outdoorsy. ‘Do you like hiking?
‘I prefer hunting,’ she replies.
‘Right. Hunting,’ I say. ‘Like with a gun?’
‘Aye, with a gun,’ she replies. ‘And a ten-inch blade, should I need it.’
I strategically slow my pace to fall behind her.
We walk for a few minutes while the sound of the river and occasional bird song fills the silence. Every now and then James pulls his phone out of his pocket and takes a picture of some bit of bright-green foliage or a bird perched on a branch. And once or twice he takes a photo of Anis pushing back bushes and pointing at things I can’t make out. He tries to take one of me, and I shoot my hands to my face as fast as I can. ‘Please, no close-ups,’ I joke, and he’s so polite he doesn’t try again.
‘What are we looking for, then?’ I eventually ask. ‘I’ve never worked at a restaurant that forages. What happens if we don’t find anything?’
‘Russell doesn’t reallydoforaging, so it’s just my and Anis’s thing really. But he accommodates us,’ James begins, pulling his beanie off and shaking out his thick dark hair. I try to suppress another swoon. ‘We get the main things from local suppliers: you know, game birds, mackerel, salmon, Highland venison. But I try to forage some seasonal things like raspberries and mushrooms, and all the herbs, like wood sorrel, water mint, if we can find it – that kind of thing. I think it’s fun for the guests to seeforaged mushroomson the menu, don’t you think?’
‘Okay, so we’re not looking for Highland venison,’ I say, ‘unless you’re concealing a shotgun in those trousers, James?’ I joke.
I’m pleased to hear Anis give a deep, throaty laugh, but when I look over my shoulder, James appears mortified.Too much.
‘No, not today. We have a really good supplier from Skye,’ he says as he squeezes past me on the small path and pulls himself up towards some tiny white flowers. ‘Few more days,’ he says to Anis and she nods.
‘And cuckooflower is great with our wild salmon. But the real prize is porcini, of course,’ James says, grinning, ‘I get a bit obsessed during mushroom season.’
‘You have ceps here?’ I say. Now porcini, I do know. Heather did an amazing pasta dish with them. But for some reason I thought they all came from Italy.
‘Of course we do,’ Anis says. ‘James would get or grow everything local, like, if he could. And Russell would get everything shipped up from London, if he could.’
‘Oh, do I sense a slight conflict here?’ I say, smirking.
‘No, no. He’s the executive chef,’ says James, not really answering the question.
‘He’s the executive prick,’ Anis corrects, frowning in James’s direction, ‘but his attitude is that we need to make money, not friends.’
