‘Iwasdrunkandhigh,’ he whispers.
‘Fair enough,’ I say feebly. ‘But I need—’
‘That was a fuckin’ laugh, that night,’ he interjects, like it’s the most important detail.
‘Yes, but I can’t keep it up. The hotel is not ashithole, like I thought. It’s really fucking fancy. And there’s a brand-new fucking wine list, with page after page of nonsensical words, and years and grapes. Oh, and some of the wines don’t even mention a grape! Like what the fuck are those ones? I’m totally out of my depth.’
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Shit! That’s not great.’
‘No, it is not great.’
There is a long pause, when I hear the muffled sounds of office workers in the background, and then a deep sigh from Tim.
‘You’ll be all right,’ he’s saying, with a little impatience now. ‘Just learn the wine list, be super-confident and you’ll be sweet. And if you fuck it up, who gives a shit? It’s just Scotland.’
‘Thanks,’ I spit, fishing round in my handbag for another ibuprofen.
‘And don’t get arrested or pulled over by a cop, or do anything you need ID for,’ he says, slightly less jovially. ‘Maybe ask to be paid in cash? I dunno. Do people still do that?’
‘Not really,’ I reply.
‘I gotta go. You’ll be fine. Take care, baby! Bye,’ he says and hangs up abruptly.
Shit!The call with Tim has definitely not helped. I try to buoy myself up.Come on! This is fun. You’re always saying you want an interesting job.
I roll over and flick open the first of the books I brought with me:Wine for Newbies:
Primarily, champagne is made from Pinot Noir, Pinot Meunier and Chardonnay, though sometimes varieties like Pinot Blanc and Pinot Gris are vinified.
What the hell?I flick open my five-year-old laptop, wait the whole three minutes it takes to boot up and google ‘vinified’, which, it turns out, is just a word for ‘making wine’. Bloody typical of wine snobs to have a pointless special word for making wine, just to give people like me another bloody barrier to overcome. I take a breath.
Then I google ‘how many different wines are there?’ The answer is ten thousand grape varieties.TEN THOUSAND.
I check my phone, and reread the text message from Heather that came through this morning, which I’ve been ignoring ever since. The photo shows her hot-dog legs on a bed of crushed white linen, with an ivy-framed window overlooking a stone balcony in the distance. It looks beautiful but, for some reason, slightly lonely.
Lazy Day. How are you? How’s your cousin? xxxx
I check Apple’s weather app and the report says seventeen degrees and raining in London. I climb out of bed and go over to the sash window and, no surprise, it’s also raining here. I heave the heavy frame up, stick my phone out of the window and photograph a nasty-looking grey cloud. Nondescript enough. I swallow yet another wave of guilt and hit Send.
British springtime in full flight. Miss you. x
Almost immediately, she replies.
So bloody hot here. Nothing to do but eat, drink and shag. x
Hearing someone you’ve known since you were five talk about shagging will never not be gross. I ignore it, and flick the page of my wine book over to find out how the hell champagne can be made from Pinot Noir, even though it’s white and every single Pinot Noir I’ve ever seen is red.
I can’t do this.
I glance down at my phone again.Fuck it! I’m going to tell her.
I pace the 2.5-metre stretch of burnt-orange carpet between my door and one of those white Ikea dressers with the little black handles that everyone has. And then Heather answers.
‘Hey, Birdy! God, it’s so wonderful to hear from you.’
As soon as I hear her voice, I stop pacing.
‘You have no idea how much I wish you were here,’ she continues. ‘You’d love it. Delicious pizza, sunshine, plenty of tourists to moan about.’
