Four
On Monday morning Fiona woke early with a tightness in her chest. The sun shone brightly through her curtains, but she pulled the covers up to her chin. She reached over for her wine book and snuggled down, cuddling it close to her chest, like a hot-water bottle.
After forcing down a slice of toast and coffee, she swotted up on Australian winemakers for a couple of hours, then wearing jeans and a t-shirt, walked into Brambleton to her new workplace.
It was another glorious summer’s day, and families traipsed downhill towards the beach.
Hassled-looking fathers carried sun umbrellas, shrimping nets and cool bags, while their partners followed with children, voluminous bags and forced smiles.
Today, she and Ru should have been enjoying their holiday.
She wondered how he was spending his Monday.
She imagined he would concentrate his efforts on setting up the new restaurant.
His restaurant. It would take months to refurbish the premises, install the new kitchen, kit out the dining area and recruit the right staff to dovetail with opening night – including a new sommelier.
Ru would also sort out the practicalities of their split.
He would pack up her clothes and books. He might even take that holiday to Australia – she doubted if holiday insurance covered one half of a couple dumping the other.
A gust of wind blew tendrils of hair across her face, carrying with it a faint whiff of fish.
Ru would go to Melbourne. He was an optimist and would make the best of this carnage.
She heard waves crashing against the shore, a constant, soothing roar punctuated by the sharp cry of seagulls.
A few steps later and the harbour wall was in front of her.
To her right, a group of wetsuit wearing youngsters surrounded a tall, bronzed man on the beach.
The instructor, who had the physique of an athlete, looked to be in his late twenties, a few years younger than Fiona.
As she watched, the man showed the children how to use their hands to paddle and then demonstrated clambering upright on a surfboard.
He made it look so easy. But out of the water, it was.
The pupils dropped to the sand, mimicking the instructor’s actions, practising popping up and standing tall with their arms outright to balance, and then, with eager shouts, the group made their way into the waves, throwing themselves face-down on their boards, paddling furiously, before attempting to stand.
Some wobbled and splashed, others managed a brief upright stance, their knees shaking before tumbling into the water.
Listening to their laughter and cries of joy, Fiona felt invigorated.
She, too, could learn a new skill – living without Ru.
On her left was a rustic painted wooden sign: The Smuggler’s Inn . A flood of relief gushed through her like the waves lapping on the beach. This place could be her sanctuary, where no one knew her or about her past relationship with Ruben Nkosi.
Inside, low wooden beams created an intimate atmosphere, light spilled in from open windows and the scent of salt mingled with the comforting aroma of cooking onions and spilled beer.
Black and white photographs of distant times decorated the walls alongside nautical trinkets – old fishing nets, brass ship lanterns and vintage maps.
Someone had already laid the tables, and a calmness swept through Fiona.
She could do this. These rustic tables and high-backed velvet chairs would be a busy haven for her to lose herself in other people’s happiness.
Beyond the dining room, the nooks and booths were pockets to hide in when she needed a moment to steel herself from her troubles.
By working and studying, she could forget him, and then – only once she was part of the elite circle of master sommeliers – she would find a great job, repay her debts and start afresh.
‘Hi there. I’m guessing you’re Fiona,’ said a south London accent. ‘I’m Rose. Let me show you around.’
Her new boss looked like a woman used to getting things done, with practical length hair and an outfit to match.
Fiona admired the quiet air of authority that she exuded.
For a few months she wanted someone else to take charge.
After a briefing from Rose, Fiona pulled on an apron.
Within minutes, the pub was buzzing with activity.
Every seat filled up, voices overlapping in boisterous conversation.
Fiona jotted down orders from the short lunch menu and refilled glasses, offering a warm smile to each visitor, which hid her true feelings.
She weaved her way through the maze of tables and chairs, whisking so many plates of fresh line-caught seafood and steaming bowls of moules marinière from the kitchen that she didn’t have time to register the team working in there.
After a hectic service, Rose bolted the door on the last guest. Pulling out a chair and sinking down, the boss kicked off her shoes, picked up a menu and fanned herself.
‘Phew! It’s hot. Let’s discuss tonight before Mum drops off the kids .
I love them to bits, but it is tricky running your own business with a young family.
’ Rose blushed. ‘Sorry. Ivy said you’ve recently split with your boyfriend. I wasn’t thinking – how are you?’
Dazed, that was the only word to describe how Fiona felt.
Yet, a wave of gratitude washed over her.
Rose’s question was far easier to answer than the relentless ones Ivy kept throwing her way.
She forced a faint smile. ‘Ghastly,’ she admitted.
It was like living in a parallel universe, a helpless spectator to the implosion of her own life. ‘But keeping busy helps.’
Rose pointed a knowing finger at Fiona and said, ‘You did well. You’ve done this before, haven’t you? Ivy mentioned you had experience, but I wasn’t expecting too much – everyone claims they’ve got experience these days.’
Fiona smiled, relieved to discover her facial muscles hadn’t forgotten how that was done.
‘Tonight is a more serious affair,’ said Rose. ‘Let me jot this all down for you.’ She fumbled in her pockets. ‘Blast! Where’s my pen gone?’
‘Don’t worry, Rose, I’ve got a good memory.’ Years of revising for exams had honed that to perfection.
Rose rewarded her with a smile. ‘We set up at 6.30 p.m. and open at 7 p.m. Come to the back of the pub at six o’clock.
That’s where reception is for the B&B side of the business.
The food’s gastro pub fare – speak to George about the menu.
The evening wine list is different too. George’s uncle left him a fine wine collection, which we offer besides the more run-of-the-mill stuff we’ve just been serving.
You’d be surprised how often the punters take us up.
Lots of rich tourists come to Brambleton.
’ Rose reached down, massaging a foot. ‘Do you know anything about wine?’
Fiona arched her eyes. ‘I hope so. I’m a sommelier.’ Just not a fully qualified one.
‘Oh, what a treat for George. He’s a bit of a wine buff. You two will get on well.’
‘I’ll speak to him about the food and the wine. Where’s the cellar?’
Rose heaved herself up. ‘For insurance we keep the key hidden. I’ll show you.’
The pub’s door burst open, and two whirlwinds ran towards the table. The girl was about six, her pigtails bobbing with each excited step. Her older brother followed more slowly, clutching a slightly scruffy stuffed bear. Their lively chatter filled the space and Fiona’s face split into a smile.
‘Hello, my lovelies,’ cried Rose, scooping them into her arms. ‘Have you had a wonderful morning?’
The children talked over each other, relaying adventures involving finger painting and helping Grandpa tidy his garden shed.
‘We had such fun!’ said Becky.
‘Umm, yes, and I’m sure you made a lot of mess too,’ said Rose.
Becky giggled. ‘Grandma and Grandpa said it didn’t matter. They just wanted to be with us,’ she announced triumphantly.
Becky and Timmy introduced themselves and allowed Fiona to admire their morning’s artwork.
‘When I grow up, I’m going to be an artist like Daddy,’ Timmy said solemnly.
Yes thought Fiona, cooking was art . Her heart clenched, picturing Ru in the kitchen of the Fork & Cork, inspecting food deliveries, his low, confident voice conjuring specials from the ingredients. In a high-pitched voice Becky jabbered, ‘And I’m going to be an astronaut.’
‘My, my,’ said Fiona, ‘you will have a lot of exams to pass. Make sure you study hard!’
Becky wrinkled her nose. ‘Ugh! Tests! Nasty things!’
‘But vital. You need qualifications to get on,’ stated Fiona, smiling into the child’s distorted face. ‘I’ll leave you alone,’ she murmured to Rose. ‘I’ll be back early and have a word with George then.’
At six o’clock, Fiona turned left down a narrow alley.
The road led her into a small car park sheltered behind a low stone wall, shielding vehicles from the sea’s relentless spray.
There was a stationary lorry, its engine idling.
A man was unloading kegs of beer, rolling them towards an open hatchway, the metal containers rumbling and rattling on the tarmac.
Hovering close by was a motorcyclist and next to him stood a man wearing a chef’s apron over loose-fitting trousers.
He wasn’t as tall as Ru, and he didn’t have his honed physique.
This one was middle-aged, his slightly squat body and large tummy bearing the marks of two decades of thoroughly enjoying his profession.
The man had muscly arms that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a professional wrestler.
She wondered if this was George, or one of his team.
A thick plastic pouch disappeared into the rear top box of the motorcycle before it sped off.
Fiona let the machine roar past her up the hill, then followed the chef up the steps.