He laughs, and I feel a buzz in my back pocket. I pull it out to find I’ve missed four calls from Irene. Four calls. It has to be serious.
‘James, has your mum called you?’ I say, hitting the dial icon and waiting for it to ring. He checks his phone and nods, as Irene picks up.
‘Heather. Oh, thank goodness. I’m sick, dear. Sick,’ she says, coughing as soon as she splutters the words out.
‘Well, same here, Irene. I mean, double G’n’Ts will do that to you.’
‘No, it’s not that. It’s some kind of flu or something. I’ve a temperature.’
‘Oh. Shit!’ I say. ‘Do you need anything?’ I cover the receiver and mouth to James,Your mum is sick. He frowns.
‘Can you come to the cottage? I’ll need to brief you on everything for tonight.’
‘Tonight?’
‘The film party, Heather. You’ll have to manage it. I can’t trust Bill to do it.’
‘Manage it?’
‘Yes. There is a lot to know. Can you come now?’
23.
I didn’t get any rest, but who the hell needs it, when you’re on a drug called adrenaline?
I have my apron fixed over a less formal, though starched-to-a-crisp white T-shirt, for the film-wrap party. We’re at the venue, Kindorn Castle. The grand, grey ruin has been elegantly adorned with great wreaths of ivory lilies, English ivy and massive white candles for lighting as the evening approaches.
It’s bench-style dining, with a spit-roast suckling pig, crushed new potatoes, Loch Dorn’s candied-apple sauce and wilted greens. There are two wines, which were inexplicably chosen by Russell on this occasion – both, Bill said, from Russell’s mate’s supplier. The wine is not to be poured, but placed on the long oak tables for self-serving. More ivy climbs up the marquee pillars, while heather, pine and thistles decorate the rustic tables.
It’s gorgeous.
I can see now why outdoor catering events like these are not usually ones for the sommelier to attend. But I can also see why Irene needs someone to manage it. There’s a lot to coordinate. It’s bloody frantic.
Bill is managing the bar and is helping me open the wine bottles, while several casual waiting staff are scurrying round, helping with final touches.
‘They’re arriving at six,’ I say, slipping my phone out of my apron to check the time.
‘Yes, you’ve told me several times,’ Bill replies, easing a cork out of a bottle of the red and then gently fixing it back in. ‘It’s all looking good – you can relax now.’
‘Is anyone famous coming, do you know?’
‘Andy Murray’s mum is definitely coming. And all the other usual Scottish celebrities.’
‘Ooh, I’d love to meet Andy Murray’s mum. What’s the film?’
‘It’s a historical thriller, apparently. The lead is from one of those small-town detective series. I can’t remember which one.’
‘That could be literally any actor in Britain. Male or female. Anyone else?’
‘Honestly, I don’t know,’ he says, shrugging.
‘You’re useless. There’s got to be a few famous faces,’ I say, rubbing my hands together.
‘I wish it was a wedding,’ Bill replies. ‘Much more fun.’
‘I do love a wedding. It’s hard not to get wrapped up in it all. All that promise …’
‘I’m with you,’ he says. ‘All that promise of what’s going to happen later on that night.’
