‘Eh?’
‘Where are you from, lass?’
‘Oh. Plymouth,’ I say without thinking. ‘And London.’
‘Nobody’s from two places.’
‘I don’t like being from Plymouth,’ I say. ‘Have you ever been there?’
‘I thought Devon was supposed to be lovely,’ Irene says.
‘Sure, Devon is gorgeous. Plymouth is not really postcard-Devon. Plymouth is poverty with a port.’
‘Hmm …’ she says, and I decide to change the subject.
‘How’s it looking, Doc?’
‘Honestly, I don’t see why ye wouldn’t be back at work tonight, lassy,’ he says in the thickest Scottish accent yet. ‘It’s not even swollen. I thought it was at first, but look, both feet are the same size.’
‘All right, Brett, that’s enough,’ I say.
‘Oh, thank goodness. You poor thing,’ Irene coos. ‘So we don’t need to take her to Fort William?’
‘God, no. I think she’ll be back on the horse in no time.’
‘Thanks so much,’ I say, shaking my head to show what a nuisance it all was. ‘What a thing to happen, eh?’
‘Well. Not to worry,’ he says, grinning at me again as he packs up his emergency medical kit for animals and stands. ‘Next time you’ll have to lose a whole leg if you want to get out of work.’ He winks at me, and for a split second I don’t laugh, then I quickly do.
‘Oh no. Why would I want to do that?’ I say, flapping my arms at him.
‘Heather, darling, I’ll send James down in a few hours with the menu, and you can do the pairings, and then hopefully you’ll be back with us for the evening service? No hurry, of course.’
‘Uh-huh,’ I reply, happily straightening the sheets on my bed. ‘I’ll do my very best to be back for dinner.’
And with that, Irene is out of the room and I am alone with my fake foot injury and the bottle of whisky left by Bill. I turn it round to read the label:Oban, 18 years old. I take a sniff of my empty glass and wonder how the hell whisky is made. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think it’s potatoes. Or is that gin?
I try to focus on the culinary mystery at hand. Wild garlic. I do a quick google on lamb with wild garlic, and find that yes, it does look a bit like grass. There are a couple of recommendations for wines, including a Côtes du Rhône, which I vaguely remember we might have on the menu. But mostly I sit there and feel tired from my lack of sleep, and the ibuprofen-and-whisky combo.
Perhaps I need another drink to perk me up.
I take another quick shot, enjoying the warm heat as it trails down my throat. But rather than perking me up, it drags me towards some sorely needed sleep. And just as I’m in that delicious state of sleepiness you only get from a midday nap, James ploughs into the room, clutching a sheet of paper.
‘Shit, I should have knocked, sorry!’ he says, panting as if he’s been running. He stands over me, then looks as if he’s going to sit. Then he sits down, and his weight tips me so that my body rolls into hima little; and then he stands in embarrassment and thrusts the menu at me. ‘I did a really rough version early, so you could get on to it now.’
‘Youcansit down, you know,’ I say, and he immediately does again. He’s out of his hiking gear and in a pair of jeans, T-shirt and his chef’s apron.
I glance down at the menu and am relieved to see some fairly similar dishes to the first night. But there is the inclusion of slow-roast lamb shoulder with wild-garlic velouté –what the fuck is a velouté?– spring vegetables and a Parmesan crisp, which is new.
‘The Côtes du Rhône?’ I try woozily, as the three shots of whisky and Nurofen plus codeine begin to weave their magic together.
‘Too pricey for the degustation,’ he says quickly. ‘That’s ninety-nine quid a bottle. Russell is all over the margins. How about a Grenache?’
‘Tanks thas sexcellent,’ I slur.
He smiles at me, but doesn’t pull the menu away.
‘Are you drunk?’
