‘Exactly. Like, if you’re having a dinner party, get all the guests to bring, say, a Riesling or a Pinot or something, and then you can all sit and compare and learn. You can get some quite good practice that way. Does that help?’
‘I was thinking of a more intensive programme. Like, say, a week?’ I bite my lip.
She bursts out laughing.
‘Well, you know, it being alcohol, you can’t gettoointensive. You’ll die. They say the best way to learn is with a glass in hand – and it really is. You could go on a vineyard tour. Or visit my favourite little wine shop in Angel, next time you’re up there. They do tastings every Thursday. Or surely there’s a boutique wine shop or wine club in Tooting that you can ingratiate yourself with?’
‘So what you’re saying, essentially, is that I can’t just swot up a bit and then wing it?’
‘No,’ she says, sounding vaguely offended. ‘Wait? What’s going on?’
‘Well,’ I say, suddenly having a genius idea. ‘Donald has extended the butcher’s a bit. He’s including some deli food and a bit of wine, and I’m helping.’
‘That sounds a bit unhygienic. Who wants to have a drink next to some big hunks of dead pig carcass?’
‘He’s paring down the butchering bit,’ I say quickly.
‘Who’s doing the food?’ she asked, and I realize this idea was not as genius as I thought.
‘Ah, he has a new chef,’ I say dismissively.
‘A chef?’ she says. ‘Wow, must be an impressive deli.’
‘Yes, well, it’s a bit of an experiment.’
‘What kind of chef is he, if he does deli food?’
‘Oh, he’s just a chef from up north,’ I say, knowing it’s the best way to shut any southerner up. Suddenly I’m struck by the surreal but pleasing image of working alongside James in a little London deli.
‘Well, this all sounds rather intriguing.’
‘I shouldn’t have mentioned the chef really. It’s irrelevant.’
‘Why did you mention him then?’
Heather can be infuriating – I can’t hide a thing from her.
‘Okay,’ I say, just going with it. ‘He’s very tall and good-looking. And a nice person, as it turns out. And not Tim nice, but, you know, ordinary human-male nice. A nice ordinary guy.’
‘Oh, I knew one day you’d find someone ordinary,’ she giggled.
‘I know, right?’ I can’t help but giggle too.
‘Well, what can I do to help?’ she says, swooning.
Heather gives me a few ideas about doing some tastings at home, a few blogs I can read and, while we’re chatting, I do a quick Google search and learn there is a great wine outlet about thirty minutes’ drive away. But none of this is going to help in the short term.
I miss her. I wish we were back in London in her flat, eating two-minute noodles and drinking a fancy bottle of something Heather had swiped from her work.
‘Oh, thanks for putting in the call to the Scottish job, by the way. I never heard from them, so I guess they found a replacement.’
‘Oh. Yes,’ I stammer.
‘Birdy, you’d tell me if you need anything? I’m worried about you.’
‘Yes, I promise.’
‘Okay,’ she says then, her voice dropping. ‘Oh, that’s Cristian, I have to go.’
