‘Oh yes,’ I say, thinking quickly. ‘I really love cats.’
Don’t go on to social media. Make all your feeds private. You need to be offline for most of the summer. And a cat picture will do. I can be into cats for three months.
I spin round on my leather bar stool and take in the dining room. Crisp white linen hangs across large square tables and over the chairs, where the fabric is pulled taut and tied in a bow at the back. It is a little twee, but super-cute.
Each table has a small candle on a short silver holder, with a tartan ribbon at the base. The huge curtains are swept to the side with matching tartan tiebacks. The walls are a deep burgundy, with some original stone brickwork exposed along the top. There are gilded paintings of men in tartan, with spaniels and guns. The room has a faint whiff of cigar smoke and all I can visualize is rotund men in their seventies drinking brandy and peering at old maps.
‘This is the only room that hasn’t been renovated yet,’ Bill is saying.
‘Renovated?’ I say, confused.
‘Oh, you won’t have seen the rest of the place! We’ve done everything except this dining room. They’re starting here next week, so we’ll have a couple of slower weeks while they fit the new carpet and she gets a fresh lick of paint. Service in the bar area only, and a slimline menu. And then, come the first week of June, it’s all on. Summer, new hotel, new restaurant. We’re off!’
‘Oh,’ I say. A new head chef, a new wine listandrenovations?
‘See that old badger?’ Bill says, pointing to a gilded painting on the wall. ‘That’s the great-grandfather of the current owner of the estate, Michael MacDonald.’
‘Come on,’ I say, grinning at Bill, who is now busy polishing a wine glass.
‘It is. And his faithful hound, Duke. I do wonder what he’d make of all the changes around here.’
The kitchen is open and runs half the length of the far wall, adjacent to the bar. Now that I think about it, it did seem strange to have such a modern set-up in such an old-fashioned place. From most of the dining room you can see the serving area, with its stainless-steel heat lamps and solid oak frame. James is there, now sporting one of those fitted black bandana chef-hats, tasting something from a small silver jug with the end of a teaspoon. He makes tasting things look like a very serious business indeed.
He smiles as the kitchen door flies open and a huge bulk of bruising masculinity comes striding through. He is wearing a dusty blue tweed suit, including a waistcoat, with a pop of bright-yellow handkerchief in his top pocket. His hair is a mess of dark curls and his eyes are dark and bright at once. He is a forty-something supermodel, the kind you’d see in a luxury watch advert inGQ, rising out of the oak-clad cabin of a vintage sailboat, shirt casually open, reaching for a faceless woman in a gold bikini.
‘Hello, Heather. Welcome,’ he purrs in an unplaceable British accent, his voice like the burnt caramel atop a vanilla-bean gelato. He tosses a copy ofThe Scotsmanon the bar top next to me.
‘That’s me,’ I say.
‘James!’ he shouts as he looks me square in the face, pursing his lips ever so slightly. Handsome as he is, I have to say I find his Man Brand a total turn-off – any poor woman who married him would face a lifetime of bikini waxes, lunges and, in the worst-case scenario, vaginoplasty. It is less than a split second before the doors fly open again and James arrives, head down, examining his notes. Much more my type. If everything about Russell is hard and polished, everything about James is soft and easy. The way his hair looks like it smells of shampoo rather than expensive hair gel, for example. Good-looking, but not intimidatingly so, and far less likely to shave his balls.
‘Welcome to our wee restaurant,’ Russell continues, pushing back his sleeve to look at his enormous silver watch. ‘We have justforty-five minutes to service, and I can see you need to get refreshed from your trip, right?’
‘Yes, that would be good …’ I reply, tucking my hands under my armpits to serve as a fume barrier.
‘Good, then let’s go through the list quickly,’ he says, nodding.
I also nod, stealing a quick glance at James, who is biting his thumbnail. I mouth,It’s all coolto him, but he looks confused and I make a mental note not to do that again.
I swing my stool in Russell’s direction and pull out my notes. A deep breath, then I engage my ninth-form drama-class technique of speaking very loudly and clearly, with just a hint of Claire Foy fromThe Crownfor authority.
‘It’s virtually impossible to make a perfect pairing without a thorough tasting of your cellar,’ I say.
‘Of course,’ says Russell, nodding in agreement.
‘And, obviously, I haven’t tasted the dishes, so this is best-guess work.’
‘You don’t need to explain, Heather,’ Russell says, touching my arm. ‘I am simply glad you are here with us, and that Bill is no longer choosing the wine.’
Bill rolls his eyes and slides an espresso in front of Russell, who presses it sharply to his lips, downs it in one go and slides it back in Bill’s direction with an approving nod.
‘With the guinea fowl, you can see I’ve not gone for the usual Pinot Grigio. I have assumed,’ I pause, glancing over my shoulder at James, ‘that the celeriac is not roasted …’
‘Yes, I’ve noted that on the final menu,’ James replies quietly, as Russell purses his lips in his direction.
‘Fabulous! Well, I definitely suggest the German Riesling. The dry. And for the blade steak, I disagree about the Cabernet – too heavy, with all the foams and whatnot. I think the Argentinian Pinot will fill the dish out well and,’ I glance down at my notes, ‘soften the savouriness with a hint of raspberry.’
‘Good, good,’ Russell nods his head, flicking his eyebrows up towards me, and a smile forges its way across his smooth face. ‘And the crab?’Shit, I forgot the crab.
