‘May I?’ We look up in unison.
Zach has his hand on the seat next to me.
I clear my throat. ‘Of course.’
As he sits down, his arm brushes against mine and the nerve endings on my skin begin to tingle.
Nora is looking at him with an odd expression – part surprise, part delight.
‘I’m Zach,’ he replies, convivially. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Hi there!’ she grins, then flashes me a look that says:Where on earth did you find this guy – Planet Hunk?
‘Oh, sorry,’ I say, realising I was too unsettled by this entire bizarre situation to remember to introduce them. ‘Zach, Nora. Nora, Zach.’
‘I had no idea you were seeing someone, Lisa,’ she says, astonished.
‘Oh, God, I’m not,’ I say hastily. ‘He’s nothing to do with me. I mean . . . we’re not seeing each other. Are we?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘This is my . . . colleague,’ I continue, for some reason at twice my usual speed. ‘He’s from Los Angeles.’
‘Via New York,’ he adds.
‘We work together.That’s all.’
‘Right,’ she says slowly, still looking a bit confused. ‘New York. How exciting.’
‘It has its moments, but then . . . so does Manchester, as I’m already discovering.’
I’m saved by the sound of a knife tapping a wine glass. Jeff has taken the stage.
‘Good evening and a very warm welcome to this special venue,’ he begins, as if he’s watchedThe Greatest Showmanone too many times. ‘I’m sure you’ll all agree that, when it comes to glamour, the Met Gala has nothing on us. So much so that Lady Gaga is hoping to make an appearance later, though sadly we’ve just had a message from Nicole Kidman’s agent to say she’s washing her hair. . .’
Nora leans in. ‘You do realise that you’llneverget the mike off him now, Lisa.’
She’s not wrong. Considering Jeff’s job was predominantly to detail the location of the fire exits, the rest of the speech is worthy of a stand-up slot at the Edinburgh Fringe. After a round of applause, he returns to the table.
‘I quite enjoyed that,’ he confesses.
‘You’d never guess,’ laughs Nora. ‘You’ll want to announce the raffle winners next.’
‘I’ve already got Miss Bennett on the case.’
‘Is that the elderly French teacher?’ he asks. ‘Tell her I’ll arm wrestle her for it.’
I’m usually not bad at quizzes. I grew up in a family in which my teenaged cousins and I relished taking on the adults at Trivial Pursuit and these days I can usually manage a passable score in our local pub quiz. But this particular challenge – to test the subtlety of one’s nose – turns out not to be my forte.
The idea is that we have to match eight small samples of wine with the host’s descriptions, identifying for instance which of them is ‘dry, fruity with balanced acidity and tannin levels’ (and therefore a Merlot) and which is ‘rich and spicy with mouth-watering notes of apricot, peach and honeysuckle’ (and is therefore a Viognier). On the basis of all this, my palate, it seems, is about as subtle as a brick. And my partner’s – because for these purposes that’s what Zach is – is not much better.
‘Pretty sure it’s a red,’ says Zach, frowning as he swishes the liquid around his glass. ‘Possibly with top notes of gasoline and grape Jell-o.’
‘That’swhat you’re getting from this?’ I reply.
‘Definitely. I’m going to say it’s a . . . Zinfandel,’ Zach declares.
‘There’s no Zinfandel on the list.’
