Here we go.
I watch as Irene takes the table of four to their little table at the bay window. She glides across the floor towards me and whispers into my ear, ‘A bottle of champagne – could you please recommend one for them?’
‘On my way,’ I say, walking towards the table.
It’s a slightly younger party than I’m used to seeing, which means a far more relaxed expectation of service, and I feel immediately at ease. Jeans, beards, denim shirts, trainers on the men, the girls dolled up in midi-dresses, with those perfect brows that look almost like they’ve been applied with a thick black felt-tip pen. I think of my own brows, which I sometimes lovingly refer to as my ‘face bush’, and wonder if it’s time for a wax.
‘Champagne?’ I ask the guy to my right, who nods across at his partner.
‘Yes, please,’ she answers.
‘It’s a little pricier,’ I say, opening the list to the first page and running my finger down, ‘but can I recommend the Ruinart Brut Rosé. It’s absolutely luscious. And peachy-pink.’
‘Ooh, that sounds lovely,’ she coos.
‘Fabulous,’ I smile. ‘And I do really suggest you go for the degustation. Your choice of five or seven courses. Fresh scallops from Skye, hauled in off the boats this morning by a guy called Benji. The venison is todiefor. Although, the poor doe might not agree with that assessment …’
They all laugh, and I bask in the warm glow of it.
‘I’ll go and get your champagne, and your waiter will be along to take your food order. And if you need any recommendations, please ask.’
I walk back to the bar and straight to Bill, who is smiling and nodding at me.
‘Look at you! On fire, young lady.’
‘As long as everyone keeps ordering champagne,’ I grin.
‘Need a hand with the cork?’ he says teasingly, sliding it across the counter to me, as Irene joins me and pats me gently on the back.
‘You’ve got a good way with people,’ she says. ‘A natural host.’
‘This doesn’t feel chilled,’ I say to Bill, arching an eyebrow. ‘Can you grab one from the back of the fridge?’
‘Very well,’ he says, glancing across at Irene, who bites her lip and beams with delight, gliding off to meet the next table.
We nailed it.
Even Russell, who arrived about an hour into service, nit-picking at everyone, seems thrilled with our performance.
We gather round the bar for a drink, and Irene pours out several modestly filled glasses of Prosecco, as the kitchen staff, all sweaty and red-faced, shuffle through to join us. She is jubilant and raises her glass into the air.
‘Well done, everyone. That was absolutely brilliant, for our opening service. I’m proud of all of you.’ She looks over to me and nods as if she’s especially proud of me, and I feel a thrill of pride in return.
‘To the all-new Loch Dorn,’ she says.
‘To the all-new Loch Dorn,’ we all repeat, clinking our glasses. I give Roxy a hug and then Irene.
‘May we pay off the creditors and piss off the competitors,’ I say, and everyone laughs. I catch James’s eye and, as I wonder if it would be normal to give him a hug, I realize he’s already moving my way. He throws his arms around me and whispers, ‘Well done’ in my ear, and the warmth of his breath on my neck makes me pull away, feeling instantly shy.
‘Well done to you, too!’ I say, sipping on my glass, feeling my cheeks burn.
‘Didn’t she do great?’ says Bill, grinning as he slaps me gently on the back. ‘Good for you – you only went and aced it.’ I’m thrilled to notice that Bill is not sharing in the celebratory Prosecco.
‘Thanks for all your help, Bill,’ I reply.
I look round the room and I feel a real sense of something new. Happiness certainly, but it’s something else too. I want to say ‘belonging’, but that’s not quite it. I look over at Irene, who is almost crumpledover the bar with relief, and tear myself from the magnetic pull of James.
‘How are you feeling?’ I ask gently. ‘Want a top-up?’
