‘Anis!’ I shriek. ‘Christ, sorry, I wasn’t expecting anyone. Taking a break?’
‘This isn’t a usual thing, so don’t go thinking it is,’ she says sternly. ‘I’m just a wee bitty jumped-up today.’
‘Oh, I was going to start on the stocktake. Roxy will be down to help in a moment. So much to get my head round. A baptism of fire, as they say,’ I smile.
‘Yes, I heard you made a right twat of yourself the other night,’ she says, making what I presume is a popping-cork gesture, but it comes off a bit like she’s wanking.
‘Well,’ I say, frowning, ‘I suppose I did. I’m a bit rusty.’
‘Have you been out of work?’ she asks, not missing a beat.
‘No, no – you know, it’s only an expression,’ I mutter. ‘I mean, I’m just getting up to speed.’Christ, she’s intimidating.
‘Well, get on then,’ she says, nodding towards the huge rack on the far wall. I stare idiotically at the rack, feeling exposed all over again. Should I simply count them?
‘You’ll need that,’ Anis says, nodding towards a big book with dog-eared pages and a biro slotted into its spiral binding.
‘It’s not done on a computer?’ I ask, frowning. That would have been easier.I wish Roxy would hurry up. ‘So, tell me,’ I say, casually picking up the list, ‘where are you from, where did you train, how did you end up here?’
‘I’m from Glasgow,’ Anis says, giving nothing more away. ‘You?’
‘Oh gawd. It’s so boring,’ I say with a wave and bury my head in the ledger as far as I can, wishing Roxy would appear. I peer across at Anis. She’s sitting at a barrel that doubles as a table. She reaches for her glass and drains it, then grabs the bottle.
‘Here,’ she says, and it feels like an order, so I put down the list and join her, obediently filling a dusty glass from the shelf next to us and taking a sip of the wine, eyeing the label I don’t recognize.
‘It’s from an outside catering job,’ she says, nodding at a couple of cases in the corner. ‘Paid-for leftovers.’
‘Good to know,’ I say, tipping my glass at her.
‘You enjoy working with James?’ she asks, and it feels weighted.
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘He’s really lovely.’
‘He is,’ she says. ‘He’s sensitive. Had his heart broken by an Australian two summers ago. She treated him like part of her Scottish experience and left him cold. He took a long time to recover.’
It feels like a warning, and I decide not to reply and nod as if I’vereallyheard her.
‘Don’t you have a boyfriend back home?’ she then asks pointedly.
‘Ahh, um, yes,’ I say, thinking about Tim and realizing I’ve pined for my favourite buttermilk-fried chicken place in Soho more than him this week. ‘Well, we’ve never explicitly called it that. I’m notsure he would say he was. So that probably says it all, really,’ I blurt, almost involuntarily.
‘So, what do you think of Bill?’
I try not to giggle. Is she gossiping? Am I being ordered to gossip?
‘Ah, he’s been super-friendly.’
‘He’s not gay,’ she reports.
‘Oh. Okay,’ I say, really trying to swallow a laugh.
‘He’s just a posh English person,’ she continues, as if that explains somegaytrait that I might have noticed. ‘He was one of the best barmen in London. He trained in New York with the Paxton Group and then he worked in London. That’s how he’s friends with Russell. He’s up here because his wife left him.’ Anis taps the edge of her wine glass.
She gives the impression that nothing is ever a secret around her, and if it was, it would be sensible to fess up straight away. She stands up and wanders over to the wine rack, reaches behind one of the bottles and pulls out a packet of Marlboro. ‘They’re communal,’ she explains. Then she wanders right to the end of the cellar, flicks on another light and I can see a massive round metal thing that looks like an oven.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘The old whisky distillery stuff. This is the copper boiler. Russell wants it removed and turned into a fireplace for the annexe,’ she says, lighting her cigarette and holding it up to a tiny air vent in the ceiling. It’s a gallant attempt, but absolutely not working.
