‘Is that right?’ I say, looking around for my socks and shoes. It’s getting cold.
‘Why did you come here?’
‘What?’ I say. ‘To the loch?’
‘To this job? Really, why did you come?’ Bill says as he buttons up his coat. I shiver and shove my feet into my sneakers.
I turn to him. I don’t know what he wants from me. ‘For some peace?’ I say lightly, and I shoot him a smile as I take off up the path.
20.
A weird calmness comes over me as I think about the service ahead today. I’ve done as much as I can to prepare. The two weeks of renovations have bought me enough time to cram all the information on the wine list that I can, writing everything down in my little notebook so that I have a reminder if I forget while on shift; and Roxy’s eagerness to learn means that I have another person to lean on. Bill has been as good as his word, ‘shadowing’ me at every moment he could spare, gently pointing out wine suggestions if he sensed even a moment’s hesitation from me. It feels vaguely like he’s watching me, which I suppose he is. But his tone is never unkind or impatient. It feels, bless him, like he’s truly trying to help me.
The weird thing is how people justbelieve. They believe I’m Heather, and they believe I’m a wine expert. They don’t see Elizabeth Finch – Birdy to her friends – thirty-one years old, a girl lacking in credentials and experience, owner of a CV filled with a million different jobs, a risk-taker, liar, gobshite, daughter of conspiracy theorists. They see Heather. Or maybe a bit of both of us, I allow myself.
Irene is ushering all the staff into the new-look dining area.
‘Everyone, gather round!’ she is saying. ‘Welcome to our proper launch! Doesn’t the room look fabulous?’
There is a muted round of applause. I don’t know Irene that well, but it seems to me she doesn’t think it’sthatfabulous. It’s okay, though – as masculine-looking as before, but less twee, more modern. Gone are the linen-covered chairs and tables, replaced with dark wood and leather. I’m happy to see Mr MacDonald’s portrait still in pride of place on the far wall.
‘And so the summer is nearly upon us. We have several big moments this season. Obviously the Highland Wine Society will bethe big test. And we have the film-premiere wrap party coming up. Lots of major players attending, who will be looking at how well the new Loch Dorn can throw a world-class event.’
There is a murmur of excitement from the younger staff.
‘Settle down, settle down,’ she says, grinning. ‘Most importantly, we have had word that a very special guest will be dining here in the next few weeks, though we’re not entirely sure which night.’
‘Last time she said that, it was Tom Hardy and his wife,’ whispered Roxy.
‘Oh God, he’s my undoing,’ I reply.
‘Too old,’ Roxy replies. ‘I’m more of a Noah Centineo type of girl.’
‘Too wet,’ I reply, shaking my head.
‘Yes, I would be,’ she replies, before bursting into a giggle, which gets her a frown from Irene. I feign outrage at her filthy mouth.
‘With the renovations complete, and the restaurant ready for its relaunch under the brilliant work of our new executive head chef, Russell, it should come as no surprise that we’re getting a visit from one Josh Rippon, writing forThe Scotsman. As you know, he’s notoriously difficult to please …’
‘I didn’t catch that,’ I whisper to Roxy. ‘Who did she say?’
‘Josh Rippon – you know him, he’s like the funniest restaurant critic ever. But also the most brutal. Ugh! Every single service will be a drag until he’s been. He needs to hurry up and come.’
‘Oh Christ,’ I say.
‘You must have had a million reviewers before.’
‘Oh, I’vehadreviewers,’ I joke.
But seriously. A reviewer now? I only just finished memorizing the wine list, and I’ve not really been tested.
‘Oh my God, Heather, you’re too much,’ Roxy says, giggling.
Irene sends us another frown. ‘So, everyone, tonight: be nice, don’t fuss – and move the venison.’ She stops talking and waits for Roxy to stop giggling. ‘Ladies! Are you all caught up?’
I mouthSorryto her.
‘Josh Rippon,’ says Roxy confidently. ‘Be nice, don’t fuss – try to move the lamb?’
