The men all look at each other for a moment and I hold my breath. If they are anything like most of the men I know, they won’t be able to resist. Even if they don’t want a whisky, they’re going to have to have one, if just one of the table says yes. That’s how it works.
‘I’d love a Scotch,’ says the eldest man, in a deep American drawl. ‘You must’ve read my mind, young lady.’
‘Well, as the only Scot at the table, I’d better have one too,’ says the Vegas crooner, putting his wine glass aside. ‘But if anyone ruins it with that ice, we’re going to have to have words.’
‘I take mine straight,’ says another.
‘You gotta have some water,’ another insists while practically fondling his massive man balls, as I walk slowly back from the table and take a moment to rest against an ivy-wrapped pole.
‘Thistle and Crown are going to meet us halfway with the wine,’ whispers Anis in my ear. ‘You did it. Well fucking done!’
I did it. I, Birdy Finch, did it. I was calm under pressure and I pulled it off. I feel absolutely giddy with relief and pride. And as the band kicks in with a medieval version of ‘Wonderwall’, I finally breathe out.
24.
I’ve been getting comfortable and falling into a routine. That’s what happens in life, isn’t it? Everything eventually becomes routine, even in extraordinary circumstances.
I shower and dress in my uniform. I go over the menu with Roxy and James and Anis. We agree on the pairings. This is the only part that I still find intensely challenging, but I make sure they give me a couple of hours’ notice, so I can do some thorough research before we discuss. Sometimes I get it wrong, but I have learned this is okay. In the world of wine-tasting, some things still come down to personal taste. And as long as I can keep up the pretence that my choices are sometimes ‘bold’ or ‘unexpected’, rather than plain wrong, I’m doing fine.
Roxy has taken over the dreaded stocktaking under my supervision, much to her delight and my relief. Though today she’s taken the day off to see the doctor in Inverness.
And then there’s Bill, always checking in:Have you done the stocktake, Don’t forget to offer water …
There is something going on with him that I can’t put my finger on. It’s not the drinking; he’s mostly functioning at work, and the last time I saw him drunk was at the film party, although he could be hiding it from me. I was quite sharp with him then. But what am I supposed to do? I’m not his therapist. I’ve got my own shit going on here.
Each day I do my shift, safe in the knowledge that all the pairings have been agreed with the rest of the team. I keep my little notebook close, ready for last-minute requests or those wanker alpha-male types who want to impress their friend or lover with something ‘unexpected’.
With each shift my confidence has grown, and – a weird side-effect – I think I’m actually starting to know a few things about wine. At least the wines at the restaurant.
And I’m enjoying it. I enjoy meeting the guests, and I enjoy feeling like an expert. I like making them laugh and I feel at ease. I like the creativity of putting the menu together, and I love the way people leave happy.
James.
James.
James and I have not been fishing again, or on any kind of date-like activity. Since my disclosure about Tim, he’s definitely keeping a respectful distance. But he’s still attentive, kind and always finds a reason to spend time with me, though sometimes we catch each other’s eye and the spark is there. But then he looks away; or I do. He never mentions Tim, and I never bring him up either, but he is present: a small barrier that keeps us from crossing any lines and betraying anyone, even though Tim and I have barely been in touch these last four weeks.
At Irene’s suggestion, our cooking lessons have moved to the morning – perhaps to avoid an inevitable once-a-week booze-up, and keep James and me safe from making any mistakes? Irene is often in and out, so there’s certainly no opportunity to flirt, but I look forward to it so much that I spend most of the week wishing the days away. And I can tell James looks forward to it too.
He’s taught me how to make chocolate mousse, prawn cocktail and a proper boeuf bourguignon. Look at me, Elizabeth Finch, getting all above my station in life with knowledge about what makes a good bowl of chowder, and which white wine goes best with crayfish.
The Monday just past we sat out in the garden, drinking peppermint tea with his mum for hours while she talked about the early days of Loch Dorn – James laughing as we rabbited on together.
I now like to hike. HIKE! Extraordinary. I have become a kind of Renaissance Birdy.
I even found an old book in the cottage calledEdible Scotland, fully annotated by James, I think, which I carry with me in the hope that I will eventually find something to forage. James talksabout the mushroom season with Anis all the time. I have a fantasy about stumbling upon armfuls of porcini poking out of the damp earth in late summer. The key to separating them from others that look almost identical is, according to the book, the net-like webbing on their stems. If they’re out before I leave, I’m determined to find one.
Everything is working. It’s working, and I can hardly believe I’m pulling it off. The only thing that is getting me down is Loch Dorn itself. The relaunch seemed to go well at first, but as the days have passed there haven’t been enough bookings, and there is an oppressive worry slowly cloaking the spirits of everyone at the hotel.
Today in the kitchen Anis is stressing out in the corner, plating up the last desserts, and James is in the deep freeze counting artichokes, while the other two chefs are clearing down the surfaces.
‘Can I help, Anis?’ I ask.
‘Get the chantilly,’ she snaps.
‘Roger that, Chef,’ I reply, and fish around in the fridge for the container and hand it to her. Chantilly:vanilla and sugar and whipped cream.
‘Busy shift?’
