‘Balls! Sorry,’ I say, sliding behind Roxy.
‘It’s fine. I’m explaining the fish of the day; and some damned animal ate all the dill, so there’s no dill emulsion. One of the junior staff is reprinting the menu now.’
‘Oh, we could have got some in Portree,’ I say.
‘It’s okay. Roxy says the wine match is still fine – do you want to check?’
‘Honestly I think Roxy knows more than I do,’ I say as she turns to me, looking a bit sheepish. ‘It’s fine. Go on. Keep going.’
‘Sorry,’ she mouths to me, and I pretend to be really offended, and that makes her smile.
‘Try to sell dessert today. We’re down on desserts,’ booms Russell, as he and Irene join us in the kitchen. Irene looks weirdly ruffled for the first time since I’ve met her. She clutches a stack of invoices in her hands. ‘As the renovations are ongoing, the menu is compact, but each dish will be from the new menu, so this is your fortnight to really focus and become experts. I want to see passion. Commitment. Perfection.’
‘Bookings are not up as much as we were hoping,’ Irene interjects, by way of explaining his ridiculous speech, I suppose.It must be a blow to your ego to find you weren’t the draw card everyone was hoping for, eh, Russell?
Russell continues, ‘Everyone has to leave this place ready to tell a friend, an uncle, their rich cousin or grandparent that Loch Dorn is the best restaurant on the west coast. That a Michelin star is only a season away. I’ve given you all the tools – now fucking use them.’
I snort and then, when Russell immediately catches my eye, pretend it was a cough.
‘All right, eleven forty-five,’ says Irene, looking at her cute little vintage gold watch, and the staff automatically disperse. ‘Where’s Bill? Is he stocking?’
‘Oh yes, sort of,’ I say. ‘I need to speak to you about that.’
Irene looks at me, and I try to send her anit’s very importantface, as I don’t want to say anything in front of Russell and James. She understands immediately.
‘Very well, let’s go into the dining room. Roxy can finish setting up.’
Irene is stressed. There is a deep line between her eyebrows that wasn’t obvious a few days ago, and her voice is hoarse. The dining room has been cleared of furniture and the plans are laid out across the table, with swatches of fabric in shades of blue, silver and grey.
‘Bill,’ she begins, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘I assume he’s been drinking?’
I flinch.He’s been drinking. She sounds disappointed. No, gutted. She sounds absolutely gutted, and I no longer wonder if Bill was telling the truth when he says it’s his last chance. I wonder if my dad had anylastchances. He certainly had a lot ofchances. There weremonths when he didn’t drink, and those times always felt even more weirdly strained. Suddenly he took an interest in me and in things I was doing; and, honestly, I preferred being left alone. I could cope with the hour-long drunken rants about fluoride and chemtrails, but not the apologies and feeble attempts to bond. I felt a sense of relief when he drank again.
Last time I called home, about four years ago, he answered the phone, shouting and slurring, until Mum took the receiver off him, sounding panicked. ‘Hello? Oh, goodness, Elizabeth, it’s only you. No, no, your father’s fine. Busy day at work.’
Dad had lost the fish-and-chip shop to creditors more than a decade ago. And I’m pretty sure he didn’t have another job.
I flat-out challenged Mum. ‘Um, Dad doesn’t work. He’s on sickness benefit.’
‘That’s enough of that talk, Elizabeth,’ she said, her voice rising. ‘How dare you—’
I hung up the phone and never called again.No looking back, I’d calmly told Heather, as I felt the last threads of a tattered safety net fall away beneath me.
‘No, no,’ I blurt now to Irene, falling easily into the role of my mother. ‘Bill’s got a stomach bug of some kind. Believe me, I just had to anti-bac the toilet.’
Irene doesn’t look up from the two almost identical dove-grey fabric swatches she’s holding. ‘Okay,’ she replies, and I can tell she knows I’m lying. ‘Well, we must make sure no one else in the cottage catches it. Do I need to make up some rooms in the annexe for you?’
‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ I say. ‘I’m sure it’s only something he ate.’
‘It’s better for us if it’s stomach flu – in case word gets out. Food poisoning is bad for business.’ Irene looks up at me and gives a soft smile, like she’s grateful, but I suddenly feel uneasy about the charade.
‘Who will do the bar?’ I ask, more pointedly.
‘I’ll rope in Brett. He can manage,’ she says, before looking back up at me, her immaculately pencilled brows knotted together. ‘Willyoumanage without him? Perhaps you should take this as an opportunity to do the stocktake?’
I swallow down the rising guilt, remembering the concerns she raised with Bill, who is supposed to be keeping an eye on me so that I don’t make any more embarrassing errors. I raise my hand instinctively to the bump on my eye, which has now more or less disappeared.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say quickly. ‘Look, I know I’ve had a rough start. I’m so sorry. It’s just, with the relocation …’
