‘Thank you, Russell,’ I say, relieved.
‘Thanks, Russ,’ Tom repeats, before looking back at me with a wide, expectant grin.
I quickly crane my neck over my shoulder to give the impression that I’m busy and have as little time as possible to chat. Because I don’t. I made zero headway on the stocktake and now I’m sitting with a buyer, probably to order wines that we need, becauseI should have done the stocktake. And I desperately want to get back to the cottage to study. I turn back to Tom. My knee is jiggling.
‘I totally thought we’d already met,’ he says with a flirty grin. ‘I feel a bit silly now.’
‘Oh, don’t,’ I say, and then I lean forward and touch his hand. ‘I’m afraid I have to make this quick. It’s manic today.’
‘Right. Of course,’ he says, grinning. He smooths out the wrinkles in his trousers and points towards the brochure’s first page. ‘Well, the big news is natural wines, of course, and we’ve broadened our collection. They really appeal to people looking for more artisan wine-making, and of course buzzwords like “atmospheric yeast”and “minimum intervention” work really well as a point-of-sale to customers looking for somethingnow.’
He stops for a moment and waits, as if I’m supposed to say something.
‘Bloody hipsters, eh?’ I say, nodding at him to go on, and he pauses before letting out a nervous kind of half-giggle. Then I remember Russell’s suggestion. ‘I’m looking for British wines, actually. You know. Stay local and all that.’
Just then I catch Roxy out of the corner of her eye and wave her over.Thank God. One thing I know very busy people do is delegate.
‘Roxy,’ I say warmly. ‘Have you met Tom from Inveraray?’
‘Yes, we’ve met,’ she says, blushing slightly.
‘Look, you know about the Wine Society night, right? We’re going to do British wines. Do you reckon the two of you could come up with a shortlist of, like, a dozen?’
‘Oh yeah. That’s perfect,’ Tom jumps in, sitting up slightly in his chair. ‘We’ve got a deal on these from south-east England,’ he says, running his finger along three whites with achingly modern minimalist labels, so small I can’t read anything on them. But one of them is strangely familiar.
‘Ah,’ I say, focusing on one with delight. ‘I tried this one a few weeks back. Sauvignon Blanc, right?’
‘It won the—’
‘Silver!’ I say, thrilled that I have some knowledge to impart. ‘Cat’s wee.’
‘Yes. That’s for sure. Okay. Great,’ Tom says, nodding at me.
‘I’ll leave you guys to it, okay?’
‘Okay,’ Roxy says, ‘thanks so much, Heather.’
I put my hand on Roxy’s shoulder as I go to leave and give it a little squeeze. Bless her, she genuinely sounds excited.
At breakneck speed, I sprint down the back path to the cottage, fling open the door to my bedroom and jump onto my bed. Laptop out. Phone out. I open my notebook. Forty-eight wines down, seventy-six to go. And so I make my way to the Loire Valley for a sprightly Sancerre.
As I’m staring down at the pen, a memory returns to me. School homework on the little table in our kitchen. One of those tables for really young kids that was hopelessly too small for me, but which I was still using at twelve. I was doing lines. Fifty lines.I will not speak back to the teacher. I remember taking my time to write each line out differently. One with flowers around the letter ‘o’. One in full capitals. One upside down. One backwards. One line I used my mother’s make-up mirror to write each letter in reverse. When I very proudly handed it to the teacher, she told me I had missed the point of the punishment and reprimanded me for beingcheeky. Then she demanded that I do them again, properly. When I refused and pointed out the injustice of it, I was sent to the head teacher and my mother was called. I was adefiant child, apparently. I didn’t get into trouble when we got home, though. Indifference would be a better way to describe the reaction from Mum. ‘Can’t you just do your lines and stop trying to stand out?’
For this situation at least, it was probably good advice.
I refocus on my task, jumping through to the reds, to begin on the Pinot Noirs. By 5.45 p.m. – about the time James, Anis, a thankfully sober Bill and Roxy are assembling in the staffroom for our evening service of four bookings – I am starting to feel like I can do this.
17.
There is a gentle knock on my door.
‘Heather?’
I groan. I hate James calling me that. I consider asking him to call me Birdy, pretending it’s a nickname, which isn’t actually a lie, but it feels wrong. I look in the mirror. I look … kind of good. I’ve put on quite a lot more make-up than usual, but I’m hoping it’s not too obvious. I wasn’t sure blood-red lips were quite the right look forfishing, but I’ve gone for it anyway.
‘Hi, come in!’ I quickly scan my room but it’s clear of anything incriminating. I’ve started keeping my studies between my mattress and base, so I’m pretty sure no one will find anything, even if I die in a boating accident today with James. It’s rather strange living your lie to the extent that you’re planning for an accidental death. But here I am.
He opens the door and he’s ready to go – boots and everything. Same as the foraging day, in all the green wax-and-tweed clothing a man can muster.
