Four #2
Inside was an unmanned reception desk. She strode through the silent space feeling a stab of longing for Ru, imagining it was he she was about to consult about the evening specials.
Would she ever get over loving him? It probably wasn’t too late to have a serious chat.
He wouldn’t have made such an effort to get in touch yesterday if he had accepted their split as final.
But then, he never accepted anyone’s decisions, did he?
His self-belief was so strong that he thought everything – and everyone – would eventually go his way.
She could unblock his number, arrange to meet up and talk things through.
Then, she recalled his casual reference to undermining her with the investors and his undisguised pride in arranging a honeymoon which involved visiting her parents; he didn’t think of her as his equal – and that was no basis for a marriage.
Fiona blew out a long sigh. She must stick to her guns.
She pushed at the kitchen swing door, expecting to hear a symphony of clattering pots, sizzling pans and the sharp clang of knives on cutting boards.
Silence met her. Only two individuals were present: the man she’d previously seen on the back steps and another near the sinks, washing dishes.
Compared to the Fork & Cork, the kitchen was larger, and the units were older, but the bright overhead lights illuminated similar gleaming stainless steel surfaces, and an array of familiar ingredients lined the shelves.
She sniffed, identifying fennel and thyme and her wine brain kicked in, matching grapes to those smells.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m Fiona, the new waitress. I was looking for George.’
‘You’ve found him,’ said the man in the chef’s uniform. He had a low voice which reminded Fiona of a deep bell tolling.
‘Rose suggested I have a word with you about tonight’s specials ... and the wine list.’
George glanced up. His forehead was shiny beneath his white hat and there was a grim, hassled expression on his face. ‘No specials. I’m on my own.’ Fiona’s eyes drifted towards the other man. ‘That’s Josh, the KP,’ explained George. Right thought Fiona, this explained the short lunch offering.
Her eyes switched to Josh. He spun around, and she recognized the bronzed face of the surf instructor she had seen on the beach earlier.
Watching him scour pans, she thought he was fizzing with energy and liked his positivity.
‘G’day. Welcome to the team,’ said Josh, waving a silver scrubbing pad at her.
He spoke with a slow Australian drawl and a surprisingly powerful voice, considering his age.
The timbre of his voice strangely reminded Fiona of her father – what would he have to say about the mess his daughter was in? She shuddered.
Josh started whistling, bringing a cheerful atmosphere into the space.
Fiona tried to imagine Ru preparing for an evening service with just a kitchen porter to assist. No wonder George looked frazzled. But taking in the simmering saucepans, the bowls of chopped herbs, sliced lemons and filled sauce bottles, he appeared to have things under control.
‘Rose says you’ve an interesting cellar. I’d love to hear about it. I’m a certified sommelier.’
The whistling stopped. ‘What’s that?’ asked Josh.
‘Not you,’ barked George, laughing. ‘You don’t know anything about fine wine, whereas this woman,’ he jabbed a thumb in Fiona’s direction, ‘can identify different grape varieties from a single mouthful.’
‘Me too,’ grinned Josh. ‘Anyone can read a label.’
‘We’ve not had a sommelier before. Josh, find the wine list and give it to someone who can appreciate its quality.’ He wiped his hands on a cloth. ‘We’ve one of the best cellars in Devon,’ boasted George. ‘Worth a fortune, so it deserves a sommelier!’
Josh rinsed a saucepan and jogged out. He returned, passing her a list which was surprisingly sophisticated. She hoped the evening would provide opportunities to delve into the nuances of these wines – she would be on solid ground while the fabric of her life unravelled.
An hour later, the dining room was bustling.
With a deftness born of years of experience, Fiona glided through the unfamiliar labyrinth of tables and chairs, balancing laden trays.
A welcoming smile never left her face. She seemed to anticipate guests’ needs, from topping up a wine glass to fetching a bill before they asked for it.
Fiona managed light-hearted banter with diners, all the while maintaining a keen awareness of her surroundings, excusing herself to deal with other customers beckoning her.
She spent an enjoyable ten minutes explaining to a couple that they shouldn’t let their dislike of Beaujolais prevent them ordering a well-aged Burgundy, reassuring them that its earthy undertones and complexity were a sharp contrast to the young fruity Pinot Noir they didn’t like.
They took her advice. Fiona went to fetch their choice.
Descending the stone steps to the silent cellar, the familiar musty smell of damp stone enveloped her like a comfortable blanket.
A dim, flickering light from a single hanging bulb cast a gentle, golden glow over the space.
Exposed brick semicircular wine bins lined the walls, each holding bottles, some with peeling labels, reflecting their age.
She shivered with contentment. And then a memory crashed over her like a wave.
She and Ru had celebrated their last anniversary in the cellar below the Fork & Cork.
Fiona had spent an hour preparing the space, arranging wine crates bearing bowls of floating tealights, their soft flames casting dancing shadows on the exposed brick walls.
She closed her eyes and pictured the scene as if it was unfolding in front of her.
A white damask cloth draped the table, with a single red rose perched in a bud vase.
Nearby, a bottle of Champagne from a small artisanal vineyard rested in a silver ice bucket.
She could practically smell the enticing aroma of basil and garlic that had drifted down from the kitchen, could almost hear Ru’s footsteps on the stairs, followed by his powerful voice.
‘Service,’ he had called. Then, as Ru reached the bottom of the stairs, he dipped his head, urging, ‘Sit, sit.’ He waited while Fiona settled herself before lowering a plate in front of her with a flourish. ‘For madam – Mersea Island oysters.’
She reached for the Champagne, expertly removing the foil and cage, then easing the cork free with practised hands. ‘You’re going to enjoy this one, Ru,’ she said, pouring him a glass. ‘Look at that mousse – it’s almost dancing, pirouetting in the glass!’
The mousse’s smooth, creamy texture told a story all its own.
Delicate bubbles trembled and shimmered, catching and refracting the amber glow of candlelight– all hallmarks of a masterfully crafted Champagne.
By contrast, larger bubbles that quickly dissipated betrayed the less refined nature of an ordinary sparkling wine.
Ru took the glass, lifting it to his nose, inhaling appreciatively before taking a sip. His eyes closed, a dreamy expression washing over his face as he swallowed. ‘Wow, where did you find this mousse, Mousse?’
Mousse was his pet name for her, reserved for their most intimate moments.
In French, mousse literally meant “foam,” evoking the light, airy textures found in culinary creations and sparkling wines, like the frothy bubbles rising in a glass of Champagne or the delicate whipped sweetness of dessert.
Mousse embodied luxury, indulgence, and delight – a perfect encapsulation of their shared worlds.
He gestured at her plate. ‘Come on, try one.’
The oysters were nestled on a bed of crushed ice, exuding the scent of the ocean.
Fiona lifted one to her lips, savouring the briny taste that melted into something almost buttery and fresh on her tongue.
The flavours washed over her, and a warmth spread through her as a contented smile tugged at her lips.
‘Take your time,’ Ru whispered, his knee brushing against hers. ‘Nothing’s spoiling.’
Fiona looked around at the racks of dark glass bottles lining the walls, all bearing the silent history of their contents, like liquid time capsules. She reached across the table to take his hand, feeling its warmth in the cool air. His fingers rested gently on hers.
‘Happy?’ he asked, his voice soft.
‘Happy,’ she murmured.
The cellar at the Smuggler’s Inn did not smell of garlic and basil, but of must and damp.
Fiona blinked and wrenched herself back to the present.
Her eyes were wet, and she wiped them with the back of her hand.
The memory of Ru was just that – a memory.
Firmly in the past as distant and foreign to her now as the lightness and joy she had experienced that night.
The dull, empty ache in her chest reminded her why she had been trying so hard to forget him.
It was too painful to remember everything they shared.
She resolved to try and shut out the memories.
Starting right now. She would focus on the matter at hand.
She engaged her brain back into wine-mode, assessing the chalk labels above each bin which listed the region the wines came from.
After locating the wine, Fiona dashed into the kitchen to collect the order of extra chips for Table 5 she’d asked for earlier.
The meticulous layout of pre-service had descended into organized chaos.