‘I’ve known Benji for twenty years,’ James begins, by way of explanation. ‘Since I was, like, eleven.’
‘Is it true? Do you want to leave?’
‘Leave? No, not really. Maybe.’ James shrugs as if it’s nothing. ‘All chefs dream of their own place. You want a coffee?’
‘Oh my God, please.’
We push open the door to the little café and it makes a satisfyingTring!as it hits the bell. Inside, various booths and tables are filled with a surprising smattering of locals and tourists enjoying their fry-ups. James waves to a man in waders and a purple fleece; he’s maybe mid-forties, with ginger curls and tight, lined skin. We navigate between the tightly packed tables to join him in the far booth, and a few minutes later he and James are discussing supply times, fishing quotas and the quality of line-caught sea bass over a pot of tea and my milky latte. I am struggling to keep up, but equally fascinated by the ins and outs of restaurant supply and the search for the perfect hake. The trick is, like all fish, the timing, apparently – but more sofor hake, as it becomes soft and cottonwool-like, the longer it’s out of the sea.
‘It’s not going to work, Fraser,’ says James, ‘looking at the timelines, on any day but Wednesday.’
‘Aye. Wednesday it is,’ says Fraser, pouring himself another tea. ‘How are ye taking to the west coast then, pet?’
‘I’m liking it,’ I reply, realizing that, for today at least, it’s the truth.
Half an hour later we make our way out of the café and back onto the street, to find that the sun has pierced the clouds, and for the first time in a week I can feel it on my skin. I immediately slip off my coat and turn my face skywards.
‘Sun,’ I say. ‘My dear old friend, how I’ve missed thee.’
‘You’ve just had a bad first impression. You wait,’ James says. ‘Summer might only be three months long, but it’s a stunning three months.’
‘Three months,’ I say, laughing. ‘I couldn’t live somewhere this cold.’
I didn’t mean that. I said it because that’s what people say. The truth is, I don’t mind the cold. I was made for it really. I hate being too hot, and suntan on my pale skin is only patchy red blobs. Once I went to Madrid in high summer with Heather and spent three days in my room, with the blinds shut, binge-watchingCrazy Ex-Girlfriend, venturing out only for breakfasts and sundowns. We never went on holiday together again after that.
‘You get used to it,’ James says, sounding a trifle hurt.
‘People say you can get used to anything.’ It tumbles out of my mouth. He doesn’t reply and, in the absence of noise, I add, ‘Do we see anyone else?’
‘No, that’s it, just those two this morning. Anyway, we need to get back for lunch service.’
His voice is a bit clipped, and I feel bad. I want to tell him I love the sun on my face when the air is cool, and I love Skye and the port, and the little castle with the arched bridge, but I’m not sure I can say it now and sound authentic.
‘Okay,’ I say and follow his lead back to the car.
I look back over my shoulder at Portree’s colourful little port and take a deep inhale of that salty, fishy air. Then I stop, pull my phone out and take a couple of quick snaps of the harbour on the way out. It’s a shame I can’t put them on Instagram, but I’ll have them as a memento, at any rate. I rush to catch up with James, who is already at the car.
‘Sorry, just taking some snaps,’ I say, laying my coat in the back.
‘Can’t be that bad then,’ he says, looking right at me as if he’s won an argument.
Then he does that thing: the searching of my eyes. I don’t answer – I can’t find any words – but I smile, then look at the ground.
After a moment he slams the boot shut and wanders round to the driver’s side and we both get in and, almost in unison, buckle our belts.
On the drive back there is a strange tension in the car. It’s the same tension as the first night, or is it? I can’t be sure it’s not all in my head. Does tension need two people to create it? Or is it something that can be categorically created in one’s own head?
James leans forward to turn the car stereo on as we drive over the Skye bridge and head back on the main road towards the estate.
I don’t want to talk about the restaurant, because as soon as we talk about it I have to be Heather again, but I remember we’re supposed to discuss the Wine Society evening.
‘The Wine Society,’ I say quickly.
‘Oh shit, yeah,’ he replies. ‘We’re supposed to be thinking of a theme.’
‘What about all-British wines?’ I say, remembering the Wine Awards. It’s literally the only thing I know about British wines: that there are awards and they’re a bit of athingnow.
‘British wines?’
