‘Could you talk through them now?’ says Josh.
‘What – all of them?’
‘No the wines in the degustation,’ he sighs dramatically, adding an eye-roll in his friend’s direction. ‘You know what? Give us a moment and we will get back to you.’
I scurry off like a frightened chambermaid.
And then I’m annoyed. Seething actually. And I can’t stem the flow of fury, and I keep thinking how stabbing Josh with his fish knife would feel really good.
I make my way back through the kitchen door and push maybe a little hard on the doors, so that they bang loudly, and James is standing there with an expectant, almost excited look on his face. That makes me angry too. His stupid, childish face smiling at me, wanting to know how it’s going. I can hear the sounds of chopping and fryingand boiling, and Anis looks like she’s plating up the quail and haggis starter, and I fantasize about dropping it on Josh’s head.
‘He’s like a constipated tortoise, in that polo neck,’ I say to James, as I walk into the back area and pace back and forth, trying to get my breath. James is now preoccupied with getting the starters out, but keeps looking over at me and I can tell I’m distracting him. I don’t want to knock him off his game too.
‘Heather?’ says Bill, coming in. I try to stand up straight and shake off the anger.
‘Yes?’
‘He wants talking through the wine list.’
‘Jesus fucking Christ, this guy,’ I scowl.
‘You can do this,’ he says, but I realize now that he looks as unsure as I feel. He doesn’t trust me, either.
‘I’m coming,’ I reply and march back through to the front of the kitchen, where James is gawping now, then I push through the doors. But something pulls me back into the moment. It’s Irene, standing by the bar, clutching the menu and looking to me for reassurance. It’s sobering, and I realize suddenly how high the stakes actually are. Not for me, but for them.
I close my eyes and breathe slowly out to the floor of my stomach. I can pull this back.
I walk slowly over to Josh, ready to recover from my mistake. It’s only a little misstep, I tell myself. Anyone could have made it. It’s nerves – you’re a bit nervous.
‘Hi, I understand you want talking through the tasting menu?’ I say, and I’m impressed by how relaxed I make it sound.
‘Well, the wine list actually,’ Josh says.
I look at him, his smug little face filled with haughty, well-bred superiority, and I hate him. The flood of anger comes rushing back.
‘We’d like some additional options for the degustation? I’m not a Riesling fan, and Holland here doesn’t fancy anything white at all.’
He doesn’t like me. He just doesn’t fucking like me, and so here we are. I’ve been here before. My voice. The way I hold myself. These people can almost smell the class permeating from you. I’m not in the club.
I take a breath and dig deep. I try not to think of James and Irene, and I try to find the right words. ‘Maybe I can suggest the Grüner Veltliner instead of the Riesling? And we have plenty of rosés.’
‘I’m happy with a Grüner Veltliner, if that’s all you’ve got,’ says Josh.
‘And how can we do this, if I’m only for red?’ asks Holland.
‘Well, you’re absolutely screwed, because three of the seven courses in that absolutely divine tasting menu would be drowned by red.’
It just jumps out, and I wish I could shove it back in. It’s sneery and sarcastic and not playful and witty, and I feel like the Birdy of a couple of months ago once again, with the weight of a lifetime of failure and disappointment heavy on my shoulders. Pissed off at the world for not being more awesome towards me.
Holland roars with laughter, but it’s a mixture of shock and embarrassment, I think, and then I clock Josh, who looks like he’s the cat who got the fucking cream. Like he’s caught out the place for the crappy sham it is and will enjoy crafting a nasty little eight-hundred-word article about how the west coast of Scotland is unrefined and boorish. I’ve fucked it.
‘Do you think the Beaujolais is light enough to suffice?’ Josh suggests, because apparently he’s now doing my job.
‘Sounds like you have all the answers?’ I snap, unable to stop myself now.
What am I doing? Why is it that sometimes I try so hard, and then at the last minute I fail? And at the first sign of it, I double-down?
Bill arrives with the Gimlet and eyes me across the table. He’s trying to get me to calm down, but honestly it’s just more pressure. I wait until he’s finished, racking my brain to think of a way to deal with this arsehole.
