‘They can’t run out of wine, can they? They can’t. Irene wouldn’t let them run out of wine.’
‘It has happened before,’ Bill says, as he starts to clear away some empties.
‘Ugh!’ I sigh, rushing back through the tent, the darkness now having fully descended. I clock each table as I pass. There’s plenty of red everywhere, but it looks like the white is what everyone’s going for. It’s no surprise really, since they’re eating pork. Why did no one check the orders? Should I have checked the orders?
Back in the catering tent, Anis is finishing packing up.
‘What do we do if we run out of white wine, Anis?’
‘Fuck! What? It’s not even nine p.m.’ Anis stands up straight.
‘I know. I asked Bill, but he thinks it must’ve all been drunk. I mean, they are really going for it.’
Right then Toothy Grin comes racing through the doors.
‘Are we out of white?’ he says, shifting from side to side. ‘That famous guy wants another bottle for his table, and he’s asked for the manager. Also, I just met Andy Murray’s mum.’
‘Shit. Shit. Shit!’ I say, biting my lip.
I look at Anis, who is rubbing her hands on her chef’s whites and pulls a set of car keys out of her pocket. ‘I can’t leave. I have to get the dessert out.’
‘How far away is the nearest town?’
‘Fort William? I don’t know, twenty minutes?’
‘Will anything be open?’
‘Go to a pub called the Thistle and Crown,’ she says, looking at her watch. ‘It’s closer than Fort William. Tell them Anis from Loch Dorn sent you. And we’ll settle with them tomorrow. In fact I’ll call them now, tell them you’re coming.’
‘Okay, then.’ I nod at Anis, before turning to Toothy Grin. ‘Reckon you can keep everyone happy until I get back?’
His face reddens and he looks terrified.
‘Why don’t I go for the wine?’ he says. ‘I know the roads, like. And I know the Thistle and Crown. It’s my local.’
I look at him and back to Anis, unsure.
‘I’ll do it,’ he insists. ‘I’ll get the wine. What, like, half a dozen cases?’
‘That should do it. Just get the house-wine. This deal is all in, so we shouldn’t have run out, but we can’t afford to supply something expensive.’
‘Oh, they only have house-wine anyway,’ says Anis. ‘I mean, it’s the Thistle and Crown, not The Pig & Whisky.’
‘Right. Well, off you go,’ I say, nodding to Toothy. ‘Thank you so much. I’ll go and keep the Very Important Men satisfied for as long as I can.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Anis asks me.
‘I have a plan,’ I say, looking across at the still-unopened box of spirits.
With six tumblers, ice and a bottle of still water, I head to the main table. As I approach, they appear to be role-playing an angry king in want of a pitcher of wine.
‘Where is my wine, boy!’ the Vegas crooner is saying in a mock ye-olde-English accent, to the roars of laughter around him. It’s a total men’s club, this table, and I can’t help but glance across at his co-star, who appears to be taking time to speak with the two children’s parents, over on the table by the toilets.
Each man is nondescript, like a bad photocopy of the one before. If there is a film-industry look, they’ve all been to the same stylist andordered it. Blindingly white teeth, slightly messy greying hair, shirts straining against bulging bellies.
I set the tumblers on the table: one for him and for each of the five seated with him. The men all stop talking and watch me in silence. The band has chosen this exact moment to stop playing, and while the room is filled with nothing but the clinking of cutlery and the boisterous sounds of tipsy folk, I steel myself.
‘Who’s ready for a real drink?’ I say, slapping a bottle of eighteen-year-old Oban on the table.
