“You never put anything in the calendar! And honestly, I thought you’d want to come. It’s a big night for me.”
“Freya,” he said with a long, drawn-out sigh, “you’re always preoccupied with colleagues and clients at these dinners. Does it even matter that I’m not going? Why are we arguing about this?”
“Because there’s a space for you at our table. Because it’s embarrassing for me to tell my boss you’re not coming at this late notice. And because I want you there!”
“I think it’s really unfair that you’re guilting me about this,” he grumbled.
“I’m not guilting you about anything, I’m just frustrated you didn’t tell me you weren’t coming.”
“Oh my god, I’m not getting into this, it’s so stupid!” he snapped, swinging his legs off the bed and standing up. “You didn’t talk to me about this, and now you’re acting as though it’s my fault I can’t read your mind!”
He stormed out of the room, leaving me to stomp around as I got ready for bed. By the time he came in, I was in bed with my back turned to him and he turned off the light without saying good night. I remember making him his coffee as usual in the morning, but we were distant, both of us still seething.
I knew he had a point. I suppose it was unfair of me to expect him to come simply because I’d put it in the calendar. But I didn’t tell him that until I got home after the awards, a little tipsy and elated from one of my team’s whiskey brands winning “best new relaunch” with its refreshed packaging design.
This year, I’m in a much better mood as the taxi draws up to the hotel, because I haven’t had to argue with anyone over phone calendars, which is a relief. I’m wearing a black cocktail dress with orange block-heel shoes with ribbons that tie in bows around the ankles and a matching orange clutch. I’m going for a professional-with-a-splash-of-color vibe.
Like everyone else on my team, I got ready in the toilets at work, so I didn’t have the time or space to go too exciting with my makeup, settling on a bit of mascara, topping up my bronzer and lipstick.
My boss Phil hands both myself and his wife a glass of champagne as we enter the ballroom where the awards are held with the team and all take a moment to scan the sea of faces as guests mingle before the ceremony begins. Phil catches me craning my neck to look over the crowd.
“Are you looking for someone?”
“No, no one in particular,” I say hurriedly.
This is a lie. It hasn’t escaped my notice that Dancing Bear is nominated in the IPA category and I did wonder if Jamie might be here. It’s not that I specifically want him to be here. It simply crossed my mind that he might be.
I go say hi to some of our clients and then, a few minutes before the ceremony begins, sneak away to find the toilets. I alwaysfeel guilty if I have to get up from the table and creep out during someone’s acceptance speech.
I’m on my way back from the bathroom when I see Jamie. He’s standing in the hall leading to the ballroom, where guests are mingling around some food stalls set up with different brands offering tasters and brochures. He’s in midconversation when I catch his eye and do a small wave. A knowing smile spreads across his face and he excuses himself to come over. He’s wearing a smart navy suit and when he leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek, I get a wave of his cologne. It smells good.
“You’re here on time,” I observe, clearing my throat and trying to not let his cologne go to my head. “Impressive.”
“Is that all it takes to impress you? Good to know.” He grins, his eyes drifting down to my shoes and back up again. “You look very nice.”
“Likewise. You put on a tie and everything.”
He reaches up and tugs at the knot as though I’ve just reminded him to be uncomfortable in it. “Well, when you know the likes of Suttworth employees are going to be at an event, you have to make an effort. How was the hangover after the sten?”
“Raging. Yours?”
“Terrible. A fun weekend, though.”
“It was.” I notice the hotel staff beginning to usher those out in the hall into the ballroom. “Looks like it’s about to start. We should go to our seats.”
He points at the stall next to us. “Before we do, have you tried this olive oil? These stalls are going to pack up once the ceremony begins, so you need to experience this now before it’s too late.”
I glance over at the slim, dark bottles of olive oil lined up on the table behind small taster pots and plates of sliced sourdough bread. The woman standing behind the stall straightens and smiles as she notices our attention.
“You have to try this,” Jamie insists, leading me over. “This is the best olive oil I’ve ever tasted.”
“Wow. That is a very bold claim, but I know you wouldn’t say it lightly.”
“Nicola, tell my friend here about this olive oil,” he prompts, as she beams at him and holds out the plate of bread for me.
“Of course! This is produced in Tuscany and is made from a blend of olive varieties, but primarily Moraiolo and Frantoio. It’s delicate, buttery, with a hint of pepper. Make sure you smell the oil first, that’s important to the taste, same as if you were tasting wine.”
“It’s a family-run business, isn’t that right?” Jamie adds, nodding to her.
