‘Ew,’ I reply. ‘Don’t sully it!’
‘Oh dear, Heather, I wouldn’t have had you pegged as a romantic.’
We head back to the storage area behind the tent, and I stare longingly across at the gravlax being prepped by Anis. James is back at the hotel, but it’s probably just as well he isn’t here to distract me.
‘Well, I shouldn’t be a classic romantic,’ I say, shaking my head free of thoughts of James. ‘My parents’ marriage was fucking awful. Dad had … his problems, and Mum fannied around, pretending there was nothing wrong. It was like she lived in an alternate universe.What’s happened to my clarinet, Mum? Oh, you must have lost it. It’s your fault. Because there is no way I could admit that your father sold it this morning to pay off a fucking debt. Because that would mean I would have to admit that he has a massive fucking drinking problem, or whatever. No, no. It’s easier to gaslight my nine-year-old and insist that she lost it.’
Bill stops and furrows his brow, looking absolutely horrified.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, I used to play the clarinet,’ I say. I’ve made this joke before.
‘No, your mum. Did she do that?’
‘She did,’ I say, although today there is little of the pleasure I usually take in shocking people with this story. For reasons I cannot entirelyfathom, I feel rather more exposed, after telling Bill. I look up at him, and he’s still frowning.
‘I’m sorry that happened to you,’ he says, and it stings a little. I shake my head and wave my hand.
‘Come on,’ I say, ‘let’s get this done.’
I run a box-cutter down the tape on the next case of wine, make a mental note of how many we have left, and we make our way back out of the prep area into the marquee, where I see a huddle of the casual waiting staff by the head table, mucking about.
I frown and turn to Bill. ‘I’ll see what’s going on.’
As I approach, I notice one of the young waiters is holding a large roll of kitchen paper stained red to his nose, while the others are loitering around, hands in pockets, one filming the chap with the nosebleed on his phone and another rolling a cigarette.
‘What’s going on?’
The one rolling the cigarette looks up at me with a toothy grin. ‘Fraser lost a bet,’ he says, smirking in a way that makes me want to grab him by the scruff of his neck and toss him into the moat that circles the castle. Yes, there is a moat.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, hands on my hips.
They look at each other, shuffling back and forth. Oh, this is going to be good.
‘What happened?’ I say more plainly.
‘I said he couldn’t take a selfie of his butt-hole,’ snorts one, ‘and so he actually fucking tried. Pants down, he fell forward right onto the table leg.’
The one with the bleeding nose looks mortified.
I want to laugh. I mean, I should laugh. It’s funny. But it also pisses me off a bit, which is an unusual reaction for me. My mind is on Irene, at home with a high fever and high anxiety at not being here to watch over every little thing. I know there is no time at all for mucking about. Tonight is really fucking serious for Loch Dorn, and I can’t have these halfwits ruining it for her. For us.
‘Guys, you know you’re here to work, right?’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ says the one on his phone, and he slides it away into his apron pocket.
‘Aye, we’re just having a bit of fun, like,’ says Toothy Grin.
‘Have some fun later, eh? In your own time.’ I stare hard at him. I know his type. I turn to the waiter with the nosebleed. ‘Go to the van and clean yourself up.’
‘All right,’ says Nosebleed, looking sheepish.
‘And don’t be fucking dicks,’ I say sharply. ‘Do you want to get paid?’
‘Aye,’ Toothy Grin says, looking far less pleased with himself. ‘Sorry, mam.’
They disperse quickly, but I feel a slight sense of concern as I return to help Bill open another case of white wine.
