‘No,’ I say, tearing my eyes away from his, looking at the floor, the cheese-covered ramekins, the folded, fishy batter, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
‘Hello, Heather!’ Irene says, beaming at me as she hoists a basket filled with vegetables onto the counter. She looks at James and then over to me, studying our faces for evidence of something. This must be what it’s like to be a teenager with parents who care what you’re doing. ‘How’s the lesson going?’
‘We’re just about to put the soufflé in the oven,’ James says. ‘Heather has been very studious.’
‘I have. We’ve hardly stopped for a moment. We’ve been cooking up a storm, as they say.’ I employ as much reassurance in my tone as I can.
‘Oooh, well that sounds good,’ she says, sounding approving. Then she walks to a glass cabinet and removes a large bottle of gin and three crystal tumblers from the shelf. She looks at her watch. ‘Brett can drive you back.’
James suddenly springs into action, filling the ramekins and sliding them into the oven, then setting a black egg-shaped timer on the counter, which clicks loudly.
‘I’ve just been to Kindorn Castle to check out the set-up for the film-wrap party,’ Irene says, as she pours a very large double gin and tops it with San Pellegrino, sliced cucumber, lemon and some small purple flowers from her basket. ‘It’s going to make a great venue since they’ve added the toilets, and we don’t have to bring in those horrible Portaloos. The set-up is looking fantastic. Fingers crossed.’
‘Oh, that’s good news,’ I say.
‘I’m really counting on us pulling this off,’ Irene says.
She looks grim, then shakes herself out of it, turning to me. ‘Sorry, who needs to hear this, on your day off? How are you enjoying Scotland, Heather?’
And then it’s like the spell is broken, and I’m back as Heather, among strangers, trying to keep up.
‘I love it,’ I nod.
I look across at Irene, this warm, kind, wonderful woman, and back to James, her sensitive and kind son, and wish I had always beenhere. That my small family had even half the warmth and honesty of this one. That my mother had the gentle easiness of Irene – a mother who asked questions, enjoyed my company. A father who didn’t tease me for showing an interest in things, who made me feel important. And then I wish Heather was here with me too.
‘You’re really settling in,’ she says, taking a tiny sip of her gin and then adding more lemon to all three glasses.
‘At last,’ I say, minimizing the compliment.
‘It’s behind us,’ Irene says, waving her hand. ‘And this must be our welcome drink! I can’t believe we’ve not had one yet. So, what will the toast be? Let me see. I’ve got it. “To Heather”.’
She raises her glass and beams.
‘To Heather,’ says James softly.
22.
I wake with a gasp and a fuzzy head. I pull at the flimsy curtains but it’s still dark outside.
My mouth tastes like juniper berries, and I giggle at my memory of Brett arriving in the tractor to bring me and James home to the cottage.
‘Your chariot awaits, my lady,’ Brett had said, as I tried and failed to climb up into the passenger seat. In the end James had to push me from behind. And so there I was, squashed between hot Brett and even hotter James as we careered across the banks of the loch, back to the cottage – not a road in sight.
‘I’m terrified in cars. But it turns out, with enough gin, I’m totally cool in tractors!’ I’d yelled, as we rocked over uneven hills and even across a small stream.
‘Hold on,’ Brett had shouted, as the water shot up and soaked us through.
I ate my first soufflé yesterday, which I can’t believe I almost totally cooked myself. It was divine. Salty, fishy, melt-in-the-mouth fluffy with a crusty top. Absolute heaven! James served it with a peppery salad, whipped up somewhere off-set, while I nattered with his mum about the merits of a good hair conditioner. I vow never to return to over-chilled salad boxes and bun-less burgers.
I close my eyes and think about James for a moment, and wonder, through the haze of my hangover, if I need to shut it down. If Irene had not walked in, I don’t know what would have happened. My attraction to James is now so potent I would struggle to stop it.
When we got home, it took all my resolve to tear myself away from him and into bed. Though Bill’s presence helped. He was sitting in the lounge when we stumbled back in, and engaged me in unmemorablechit-chat while my drunken giddiness subsided and I began to yawn. And, before long, I was able to force myself away and into the safety of my room.
James is so different from Tim. There’s no bravado, no posturing, no talk of pubs and fags and drugs. He’s gentle and strong, all at once. Unsure and confident at the same time. He’s perfectly balanced. Like the Blanc de Blancs – crisp, peppery and sweet all at once.Get me, with my wine knowledge.
I look up at the ceiling again. He’s up there, perhaps directly above me, lying on a bed I haven’t seen, in a room I’ve never been in.
I imagine him coming down in the night, tapping gently on my door, as he did a few mornings back, and calling my name.
