Twenty-seven #2
In the corner, Laurent and Elsa sat with another examiner, a German with a stern expression and wire-rimmed glasses. They watched her approach with an unsettling calmness.
Laurent began, a hint of mischief in his eye.
‘Imagine you are serving a party of four who have ordered the tasting menu. They would like recommendations on pairing.’ His voice held a faint hint of amusement, as if he knew she’d barely slept a wink.
She wondered if he harboured a sense of hurt pride after yesterday’s mistake of identifying a French wine for what his Gallic pride might label a ‘New World imposter’.
She glanced at the imaginary tasting menu, straightened her spine and forced a smile. ‘Of course, sir. May I suggest starting with a vintage Champagne for the oyster course? Its acidity and fine mousse will cut through the richness.’ She hoped her suggestion would please the Frenchman.
She made her way through the courses adeptly. The panel listened with unreadable expressions, but Fiona felt a bit of her confidence return.
‘What if one guest were vegetarian and not interested in oysters?’ Elsa challenged.
Fiona wanted to ask what the principal flavours of the vegetarian alternative were but stopped herself.
Think general, probably nuts or cheese. Fiona’s heart skipped, but she composed herself.
‘Then perhaps a crisp Chablis with a bit of age. The subtle minerality would complement a vegetarian dish without overpowering it.’
Elsa nodded approvingly and Fiona’s chest eased slightly. But Laurent wasn’t done with her.
‘And if the guest requested something from ... let’s say, a lesser-known region?’ His lips quirked, enjoying her discomfort.
Of course he’d test her on obscurities , Fiona thought.
That had been her downfall last time. Her mind scrambled for a solution.
‘I’d suggest a Grüner Veltliner from the Kremstal region.
It has an herbaceous character that’s versatile and pairs well with food, with bright acidity to cut through richer flavours. ’
She saw Laurent’s eyes narrow in faint amusement, but he nodded, evidently satisfied. Yet, Fiona’s hand trembled ever so slightly as she poured their glasses, a small bead of wine dribbling down the side of the bottle.
When she finished, Laurent rose. ‘Thank you. Please wait outside in the corridor. We will deliver the results shortly.’
Elsa looked at Fiona with a slight smile, sending a flicker of hope through her, but Fiona didn’t dare let it grow too much. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest.
‘It’s a brutal test, I know. It’s meant to be.’ Elsa’s eyes softened, and she placed a reassuring hand on Fiona’s shoulder. ‘But you held your ground.’
Fiona managed a small smile in return, heartened by the unexpected kindness. ‘I guess we’ll see,’ she replied, her voice thick with exhaustion.
‘We won’t keep you long.’
Silently Fiona shuffled out to join the other candidates, her brain buzzing with everything that had gone wrong: yesterday’s misplaced wine, today the slip of her hand, the tricky questions on that first day.
She slumped into a chair and exhaled loudly.
She stared at the club members and smartly dressed staff, all moving with easy purpose, oblivious to the tension clinging to those waiting in the corridor.
She had given her all. Not perfect, but who was?
Surely, they allowed for a few missteps.
Her heart pounded louder with every second, a steady thrum of rising panic. She replayed answers, second-guessed her wine choices. Still, the door across from her stayed shut.
She sat rigid on the edge of the leather armchair, fingers tapping her knee. The silence pressed in, broken now and then by laughter or muffled conversations drifting from other rooms, carefree voices that only reminded her how much she stood to lose.
The door opened. ‘Come in and take a seat,’ said Elsa, a faint smile ticking at her lips.
Was that a condolence or a congratulation?
With her heart pounding, Fiona stepped inside.
Her palms were clammy, and she clasped them tightly in her lap, hoping to steady herself as she searched Elsa’s face, trying to read any hint of what was coming, torn between anticipation and dread.
Hardly daring to breathe, her brain was racing, feeding her snapshots of every minor mistake she thought she’d made, calculating if she had done enough.
Elsa was shifting on her feet, her hands neatly by her side, every inch of her composed yet carrying a hint of sorrow in her eyes. She took a step forward, her heels sinking into the thick rug, and finally spoke, her voice low and steady.
‘Fiona,’ Elsa said, her accent adding a gentle rhythm to each word, ‘I’m so sorry ... but you haven’t passed.’
Fiona felt the words strike like a deep, sickening blow. Her hands bunched, her knuckles were white. Reality settled in. Each shallow breath was full of the scents of beeswax and faint notes of wine, the remnants of the recent exam, the aromas clinging, a reminder of her failure.
‘No,’ she whispered, almost as if trying to deny it. ‘Not again.’ Her voice faltered.
Elsa’s expression softened. ‘You were close, Fiona. Closer than last time,’ she said carefully. ‘But the panel felt there wasn’t enough consistency in the tasting portion.’
Somewhere down the hall a door clicked shut, the muted sound magnified in the silent room. Fiona’s eyes flicked up for a brief second, following the noise, wishing she could disappear into the hallway and out into the crisp London air, distancing herself from the scene of her failure.
She took a shaky breath, blinking back the sting in her eyes.
‘I did everything I could, Elsa,’ she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
‘I studied, I worked ...’ Her words choked off, the desperation catching in her throat.
‘I needed this. I needed to prove I could do this. That I’m good enough.
And now ...’ Her voice faded as she looked down, the intricate, tangled pattern of the rug a cruel reminder of how lost she felt.
As she took another step closer, Elsa sighed, the sound soft, carrying a hint of empathy. ‘You’re not alone. The exam ... it sees everything, Fiona. Every tiny slip, every hesitation.’
Although meant to reassure, there was a cool finality in those words, making Fiona feel the loss more keenly.
A silence settled uncomfortably between them as they stood there, just inches apart yet worlds away.
Elsa was a member of the elite CMS, Fiona a mere wannabe.
She closed her eyes, sensing Elsa’s presence, a mirror image of the life she’d glimpsed and lost.
Fiona collected her bag from the luggage room.
It felt heavier than when she’d left it that morning.
She trudged outside. Drizzle settled on her coat and the damp wind bit into her cheeks as if in sympathy with her despondency.
She wasn’t catching a cab or even taking the Tube; not after today.
Not after everything she’d spent, both in money she couldn’t afford to repay, and time preparing for that exam.
She forced herself to walk, heading down Piccadilly towards Hyde Park and ultimately Paddington Station, each step through a mist-laden London full of couples and families reminding her how utterly alone she felt.
She tracked the side of St. James’s Park, deserted, save for a few joggers and a couple huddling under a lamp post, whispering to each other.
She averted her eyes from them; this wasn’t a night to be thinking of love.
Every bone in her body was numb with disappointment.
There was no resounding applause, no tearful, celebratory call to Ivy explaining what Fiona had really been doing in London.
No picking up the phone to call her parents either.
No one would be proud of her today. She’d failed. Again.
Fiona clutched the strap of her bag tightly as if it could somehow hold her together.
By the time she reached the station, the crowd had thinned, leaving behind a scattering of tired commuters and droopy-eyed travellers waiting to catch the Heathrow Express, their faces showing the same weariness she felt.
She took out her phone, intending to turn it back on, but then replaced it.
There was no reason to call Ivy before she had pulled herself together and made a plan.
It was close to nine, and she had half an hour to wait for the next train, so she bought herself a coffee and sat staring up at the display board in front of her, hearing the gentle rattle each time the information was updated.
Noting her platform, she stood mechanically, plodding to the ticket barrier, then boarded her train and slid into an empty seat by the window.
She barely registered the world hurtling past outside.
She wouldn’t get back to Barnstaple until after midnight, but it didn’t matter. There would be no one waiting for her.
She felt something rise within her, a flicker of a question, a murmur of doubt.
Had all of this been worth it? All the studying, the mountain of debt, the hope?
Had she always been bound to fail – just like Ru prophesied in their last heated row?
Had she misjudged her own potential? Fiona squeezed her eyes shut, letting the rhythmic sway of the train lull her.
For now, there were no answers. Just the hollow ache, and the last scraps of a dream she wasn’t ready to let go of.