Twelve
That night, Fiona’s sommelier skills were in demand.
The fire was lit, filling the dining room with the smell of Applewood and casting flickering shadows along the walls.
It was lovely hearing the gentle hiss of logs mingling with the hum of chatter and the booming sound of waves crashing against the harbour wall outside, but it made the staff, rushing around everywhere, feel hot and bothered.
Concentrating on wine, Fiona avoided the kitchen, allowing Trish and Kim to process orders. She was opening a bottle of Champagne as efficiently as she could, aware of more orders piling up in the kitchen, when she heard Trish deliver food to a nearby table.
‘Duck confit for you, madam,’ said Trish.
‘No, I didn’t order the duck, just my husband. I went for the risotto. And could we have our wine, please?’
While carefully pouring Champagne, Fiona tuned in. Duck was expensive. George would be cross if Trish had messed up and Rose wasn’t here to soothe his temper.
‘Let me check the order slip,’ Trish said.
Fiona put the bottle in a chiller and turned, catching Trish’s eye. It wasn’t fair to let Trish face a moody George. ‘Why don’t I sort the food order, and you fetch their wine,’ she smiled at the customers. ‘It was the Chambertin-Clos de Bèze 2005, wasn’t it?’
She slipped Trish the cellar key, telling her which drawer to return it to. ‘I pulled their wine out earlier, you can’t miss it. It’s on the tasting table – I had too many bottles to bring it up with me.’
Fiona carried the plates of duck back to the kitchen, popping them on the serving counter. ‘Chef, I need to check the order slip for Table 6.’
Trish’s handwriting was clear: two duck. Fiona’s pulse rate quickened. Was the mistake Trish’s or the customers?
‘Problem?’ asked George tersely.
‘Hopefully not,’ said Fiona, picking up the plates. ‘The wife claims she didn’t order duck.’
‘Service,’ called Ruben, sliding three plates onto the counter. ‘What’s the matter with the duck?’ Fiona chose her words carefully. ‘Possible mistake on the order slip. Customer says they ordered risotto not duck.’
George huffed, but Ru smiled, slipped off his apron, and took the plates out of Fiona’s hands. ‘Let me see if I can sell this for you.’
As Fiona walked past tables, a hush fell, replaced by frantic whispering, finger pointing, and then inevitably, the phones started flashing.
Customers swivelled in chairs, looking not at her, but at the man she was following.
By the time she reached Table 6, the room was silent.
Relieved to spot wine in their glasses, she leaned over the table and whispered, ‘Madam, I am so sorry.’
Ru stood behind her, his leg brushing against hers.
The faint contact sent a shiver through her, dragging her back three years.
She’d been a nervous trainee sommelier then; he, the poised sous chef with four junior chefs under his command.
That day, she’d bungled a food order – a slip she thought might spell disaster.
But Ru had swooped in effortlessly, turning calamity into charm. That night he glided through the packed restaurant, his presence magnetic, and sold the unordered plate of scallops to a delighted customer.
Later that evening, he claimed his reward: their first date.
Now Ruben stepped forward. ‘I believe the waitress made a mistake with your order, madam. The duck is one of our specialties. I’d recommend giving it a try – it’s the best dish on our menu.’
Blushing, the woman nervously twirled a lock of her hair. ‘Did you make this?’ she asked, her voice soft with curiosity.
His face lit up. ‘A kitchen is a team effort. We made the rub from scratch and cured the meat for twenty-four hours, then it’s been slow cooking most of the day.’ He smiled, his eyes alight with his enthusiasm. ‘It’s the same herb mixture we use in my London restaurant.’
There it was again. My restaurant. Fiona chewed on her lip.
‘Well, if I’m trying the famous duck, could I get your autograph too?’
‘ Absolutely! My pleasure. Enjoy the meal, and I’ll have that autograph ready.’
Ru stood, flashed Fiona a smile and whispered, ‘I’ll claim my reward later.’
‘From Trish not me!’ she hissed, scooting off, scolding herself for feeling relived it wasn’t Kim who owed him a reward. But Ru was a free agent. He could date whoever he chose to. She just prayed he didn’t flaunt his independence in front of her.
On Thursday, Fiona arrived at 11 a.m. to a ringing phone and a red-faced George scribbling in the appointments book.
‘I’ve got it, George,’ yelled Fiona, lunging for the phone, hoping it was a cancellation. ‘The Smuggler’s Inn.’
‘Rose?’ said a man’s voice. ‘It’s Sam.’
‘Rose isn’t well I’m afraid. Can I help you? Sam, did you say?’
She lost grip of the phone as someone wrenched it away. ‘Sam, hi – it’s George.’
George covered the receiver with a hand. ‘Need to squeeze a table for three in tonight. What time can we manage?’
Fiona threw her hands in the air. ‘You choose. I might have to lay up a booth, as we’re solid—’
George released his hand saying. ‘That’s fine, Sam. See you at eight. No, it’s my pleasure. Thanks for the booking. Bye.’
He finished the call. ‘Sorry, Sam Hastings is our best customer. Eats here at least once a week and he’s bringing his brother – the Hastings family is our landlord.’
They will need looking after , Fiona thought. ‘How’s Rose? Is she up to working tonight?’
He clicked his tongue. ‘No, and Trish can’t help.’
Just her and Kim and an extra three VIP covers. That would be a challenge. ‘Any other ideas for help?’
George rubbed his eyes. ‘Pray?’
Fiona chuckled. ‘That’s an idea. I’ll ask Ivy.’
Ivy was happy to help in the pub, and by 6.30p.m.was laying tables and polishing glasses alongside Fiona and Kim. George walked into the dining room, followed by his sous chef.
‘Tonight’s specials,’ announced George. He ran his hands over his apron, fiddled with his chef’s hat, then added, ‘I’ll let Ruben explain ... they’re both his ideas.’
‘First, there’s a pan-seared sea bass – crisp on the outside with a buttery, melt in your mouth texture inside. It’s served with a zesty citrus beurre blanc sauce and complemented by a bed of roasted asparagus and a wild mushroom risotto.’
Listening to his enthusiastic voice, Fiona wanted to reach out and touch him.
Her whole body tingled as she imagined kissing him, his lips lingering on hers.
She diverted her mind, matching the complicated flavours with different grapes.
She favoured a Sauvignon Blanc – the bright crispness would enhance the freshness of the sea bass and balance the richness of the sauce, without overpowering the delicate flavours of the fish.
Or maybe an unoaked Chardonnay. Its crisp acidity and minerality would match both the fish and the rich wild mushroom risotto.
Ru was still talking and Fiona realized she had missed what the second special was.
‘For pudding,’ said Ru, ‘we’ve made a chocolate tart with autumn raspberries.’ She darted a glance at him. He replied with a grin, sending a pulse of desire through her body. ‘Thought we should set the sommelier a challenge.’
Ruben and George returned to the kitchen, leaving Fiona with an ache in her heart. How could she heal with him constantly reminding her of her loss?
Kim folded her arms over her chest. ‘I reckon Ruben fancies you. Are you really a sommelier?’ asked Kim.
‘Yes.’ She puffed out her chest. ‘And I’m studying for the Advanced Sommelier qualification too.’
‘What does that involve?’ asked Kim rolling her eyes.
‘A lot of hard work and a lot of experience. Blind tastings.’
‘Blind tastings!’ scoffed Kim, ‘What’s the point of that?’ she asked and stalked off.
By opening time, Fiona was feeling nauseous and her head was pounding. She made herself an espresso and swallowed a couple of paracetamol. ‘You okay, love?’ asked Ivy, brushing a hair from Fiona’s face. ‘You’re looking pale.’
‘I’ll be fine.’ She gave a half laugh. She would soon be too busy to notice.
The door opened and Fiona rushed to greet the customers, giving her head a shake to clear the brain fog.
An hour later, her temples were still throbbing.
Everyone sounded like they were shouting, and her hand felt too heavy to lift a pen to scribble down orders.
Fiona was waiting at the serving counter when Kim joined her.
‘Table 5 is asking for the sommelier. They can’t decide between a Margus and a Lynchy something or other.’
Fiona smiled inwardly. ‘I suspect it’s a Margaux and a Lynch-Bages. I’ll see to it.’
Ivy puffed over. ‘Another wine request.’ She panted, ‘The Hastings table wants a bottle of Krug. Where can I find that?’
Fiona felt her chin tremble. The VIP table had ordered her favourite blended Champagne. Her chest felt tight and in front of her, Ivy’s head seemed to blur.
‘Service,’ came a sharp command.
The room spun and Fiona collapsed.
Before losing consciousness, she registered a man’s alarmed cry – ‘Mousse!’
Fiona could smell him – a mixture of basil, caramelized onions and lemons – making her want to lie back in his arms and sleep. Her eyes flickered open and she saw his hands, chef’s hands with the nails neatly trimmed and spotlessly clean. She felt his warm breath caress her ear.
‘You fainted,’ he murmured.
She looked beyond the hands, saw the floor tiles. ‘I’m not feeling great.’
George lowered his head, his eyes narrowing as a quizzical expression spread across his face. ‘Moose?’ he said, addressing Ru. ‘You cried moose . She fainted and you called her an animal?’
Fiona’s mind churned, trying to unscramble the misunderstanding. How was Ru going to explain this slip-up?
‘I said move , not moose ,’ Ru claimed hastily. ‘I was trying to give her some space.’
George chuckled, his laughter breaking the tension. ‘Ah,’ he said with a smirk. ‘I thought you said moose ! I reckon she’s got Rose’s flu.’
‘Sorry to be a bore, but where can I find a bottle of Krug?’ asked Ivy.
Fiona groaned. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed, and she wasn’t sure she even had the energy to manage that unaided.
She lifted a hand – it felt as if someone had attached one of those ankle weights people used in gyms – and pointed at a drawer.
‘Cellar key is in that drawer, Ivy,’ she whispered.
‘The Champagne is near the door, clearly labelled on the bin. There’s a fast chiller behind the bar. ’
‘What do we do about Table 5’s wine?’ asked Kim.
‘I’ll deal with it,’ said Ruben, pushing Fiona upright.
‘George, if you can cope on your own for five minutes ...? Kim, let’s go and talk about fine wines, then I’ll help you locate their choice.
’ As Josh helped Fiona onto her feet, she replayed the last few moments, drinking in the sensation of being cradled in the arms of the man she still – despite her best efforts – loved.