‘Where are the staff from?’
‘Wherever we can get them,’ Bill says with a laugh. ‘They only need to clear tables and stay out of trouble.’
‘That might be a tough brief for this lot,’ I reply, frowning.
‘They’re all local,’ Bill says, reassuring me. ‘There’s not a lot of work round here, and Irene …’
‘Say no more,’ I say, nodding and suddenly understanding the situation. Of course Irene would employ some local kids to help out. And of course they’re a bit rough round the edges. And usually Irene would be here to keep them in line. I look over at them and vow to be more compassionate. But also watchful like a hawk, and ready to step in with firm authority, if they put any of this at risk.
Within seconds I spot an older gent in a kilt, sporran and formal black jacket at the doors of the marquee. They’re here.
Instinctively I clap. Just like Irene.
‘Places, everyone,’ I whisper to the lads by the door. ‘Be discreet, thoughtful and, above all, manners, please.’
Toothy Grin gives me a reassuring nod.
I wait by the door, nodding and smiling at the guests as they walk in. I guide some to their tables, if they can’t make sense of the seating plan, and help others with their jackets. I make sure everyone has a glass of champagne or orange juice or sparkling water. I fuss over a couple of children, David and Alva, who are each accompanied by a nervous-looking parent. Neither can be more than eight years old.
‘We were burned alive as revenge for our father killing the king’s only son,’ says David proudly.
‘That’s my mum over there,’ Alva says, pointing to a beautiful blonde in a shimmering silver gown. ‘She was bludgeoned to death in front of me.’
‘How exciting for you both,’ I say, showing them to a seat and offering them both some freshly pressed apple juice.
Then, to the sound of bagpipes, the main cast arrives, shuffling in slowly.
‘That’s the lead actress,’ Bill confirms, whispering in my ear as she passes. ‘The director, Bob Someone-or-other, to her right; and that guy on the left is the one from that dancing show.’
‘Christ, you’re hopeless at this,’ I say to Bill, laughing.
The actress is exquisite-looking, and I’m sure I know her from something, but I can’t place it. Her hair is left loose, tumbling around her face and down her back, with a crown of tiny white flowers. Her dress is midnight-blue and elegantly decorated, with a cap-sleeve made from lace and a small, tasteful fishtail, which glides behind her as she walks. She is glowing.
I feel very ordinary, suddenly, in my apron and T-shirt, and with my dry, dyed hair, as I guide her to her seat. I can smell her perfume and hairspray, and I reach my hand up to my own hair and wonder if I can get it fixed. And maybe paint my toenails.
The lead actor is handsome, his hair unkempt and his sharp tuxedo styled with the bow ‘undone’, like a Vegas crooner on his last song. He also smiles in that same saccharine way.
As dinner begins, the tempo and volume of the room increase. The band, who I’m told also performed a scene in the show, is playing modern songs in the style of a sixteenth-century tavern band. Currently it’s ‘Poker Face’ by Lady Gaga, with the accordion taking the place of the vocals. It’s completely surreal, but I like it.
The waiters are behaving themselves. Nosebleed is being relatively efficient with his clearing and definitely knows how to open a bottle of wine. But the guests are going through it – the wine. I head to the back of the marquee, where Bill has a small whisky bar set up. I catch him taking a shot with his back turned, as I approach.Oh, Bill, notagain. I curse myself for believing he might be getting better. I should know better.
‘Heather!’ he says, trying subtly to wipe his face.
‘I saw you – don’t bother,’ I scowl.
‘Well, it’s all free, isn’t it?’ he winks.
‘No,theypaid for it,’ I counter.
‘Come on,’ he says, his eyes flickering with shame. ‘Perks of the job.’
‘Just don’t get drunk,’ I say sharply. ‘So, where are we keeping the rest of the wine? They can drink, this lot.’
‘It should be all out by the catering tent.’
‘Well, there’s like one case of white left,’ I say. ‘There must be more. How many did Russell order?’
Bill frowns. ‘Gosh, I don’t know.’
