I grin. ‘Sure, why not? Is there a plus one?’
‘Yes, but you’re definitely not taking Tim.’
3.
May
This is it. I’m ready.
I’m sitting at the edge of the bar, waiting for James and the famous Russell with my hastily scribbled notes, taken down during my emergency call to Heather. She was thrilled when I told her I was staying with my cousin, and even more thrilled when I told her I needed help choosing wine for a dinner party he was throwing.
‘At last!’ she’d squealed. ‘Oh God, where do I begin?’
Big mistake, I’d thought, vowing not to call her again – at least not to talk about what I’m supposedly doing in London while she’s away. I cannot be juggling more than one lie here. And I definitely don’t want to lie to Heather more than I need to.
She reeled off a ton of suggestions, which I quickly cross-checked with the wine list, then gently told her I had to go because the wine shop was about to close.
I thought the callhadcalmed my anxiety somewhat, but when Bill appears like a jack-in-the-box from behind the bar, I jump. He’s holding a bottle of red in one hand and some kind of spirit in the other, and his cheeks are redder than they were outside. I wonder if he’s been sampling the offerings. And then I wonder how I can get in on that scam.
‘You done?’ he asks.
‘Mostly. I went into the kitchen to show James, but Anis said I should wait here for Chef,’ I say, staring longingly at the bottle of whisky in Bill’s hand and wondering if this is the kind of place where the staff get wasted after work. All that booze, all these young waiters on seasonal placement. There must be a lot of sex at Loch Dorn.
‘You’re admiring this, aren’t you?’ Bill says, and I nod emphatically before I realize he doesn’t mean the whisky in his right hand, but the wine in his left. ‘It’s a very, very old Châteauneuf-du-Pape.’
‘Ooohh,’ I reply. ‘Can I take a look?’
‘Of course,’ he says, carefully presenting the bottle to me, label up.
‘Bloody hell, it’s older than me,’ I say, blindly walking into amateur territory. ‘I mean, it’s, uh, such a good year …’ My voice trails off.
‘Not our oldest,’ he replies proudly, as he turns to stack the liquor against the mirrored wall at the back of the bar. ‘You can arrange tastings, you know. Just speak to Russell when he gets here.You’rethe sommelier. He won’t mind.’
‘James said something about a uniform?’ I say, catching myself in the mirror as Bill moves a bottle of gin. My new chic, shaggy Heather-styled bob has morphed into a serious case of bed-head, and I know I am starting to smell. ‘I don’t feel especially fresh.’
‘Oh, how rude of me.’ Bill spins round, knocking a brandy balloon off the polished countertop in the process. I baulk, waiting for the smash, but there is nothing but silence, and he reaches down and picks it up off the floor behind the bar. ‘Rubber mats,’ he grins. ‘After Russell is done with you, I’ll take you out back and you can freshen up in the staff loos.’
I take a deep breath. I totally have this.
‘What’s with the music?’ I ask him.
‘It’s traditional. Lyres and harps and suchlike.’
‘Thank God no bagpipes, at least.’
‘You’re not a fan?’
‘I don’t think one is ever afanof the bagpipes, are they? A bagpipe never headlined Glastonbury is all I’m saying.’
He laughs, glancing across to the door anxiously. We’re both waiting for the famous Russell. Bill, I suppose, is feeling anxious to introduce his new hire, and I sit up a little straighter, finding myself wanting to make him proud.
‘You’re not how I pictured you,’ he says quietly. ‘And nothing like your Facebook picture.’ My heart stops. I’d got a matching haircut, but it had done nothing to narrow the gorge between beautiful, elegant Heather and me.
‘I’m very photogenic. It makes it hard to do online dating,’ I reply to Bill, trying not to feel too miffed. ‘Men are always disappointed when they see me in real life – my photos are so exceptional.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean that,’ he says, grinning. ‘Your profile picture is a cat.’
For a moment I’m confused, and then I recall my advice to Heather.Change your profile pictures to something nondescript.
