1
May
You here for a wedding?" the driver asks, his cheery eyes focused on me and not on the tiny track we're careering up.
"No, no," I reply, as my fingers begin to ache from all the seat clenching they're having to do. He's got to be doing at least seventy.
"Aye, you're not dressed for a wedding," he agrees.
I look down at my shirt, self-consciousness pushing away fear for a moment. I'd bought a white silk shirt for sixty percent off from T.J. Maxx, but several hours into my journey I'd remembered that white silk shirts were only for rich people or anyone who liked doing laundry. The deal clincher for me, when buying clothing, is whether it will come out of the dryer like it's been ironed.
The car takes a sharp turn and the single lane thins to a ribbon before the woods clear completely and we drive through a simple iron gate fixed to two old stone pillars. Vast lawns rise slowly upward, and along the approach, rows of towering trees stretch their branches across to meet in a tunnel of crooked wood and leaves. Everything is sepia in the fog.
Ahead, the house comes into view, though in truth it looks more like a small castle. A gray-and-sandstone mother ship, with pointed turrets flanking the sides and an enormous staircase leading from the circular drive to the entrance. It's far grander than I'd imagined, but strangely bleak. I text Tim immediately.
I'm in a fucking gothic novel.
I'm pleased with my tone. Funny, irreverent, mysterious. I think about calling him to elaborate but I'm not entirely sure he'd get the joke. Tim isn't exactly well-read.
The car tires skid, jolting me back to the reality of the speeding vehicle. We are momentarily stuck as the tires spin hopelessly in the mud and the driver revs the engine. He switches gears and we thrust forward.
"Round the back there's a short road to the stables and cottages. And then a small car park," I say, double-checking the instructions on my phone.
"Staff entrance?" he questions, with a single raised eyebrow.
"Yup," I say, nodding, then stare wistfully out the window.
The back of the house is just as grand as but arguably more beautiful than the front. The ground drops away from a pebbled courtyard and rose garden down to a river, which I can hear but not see. The stables sit about a hundred meters to the side of the house, and the car pulls to a halt between them and a trio of small stone cottages. I look at the house, which is barely in view through a small grove of oaks.
The largest of the three cottages has wood smoke rising in pleasing spirals from the squat chimney, and there's a small slate-and-silver sign on the wooden door that I can just make out. staff only.
"This is it," I say, getting out and handing the driver 200 pounds in Scottish notes, trying not to wince as I say good-bye to all the money I had left in the world. "Thanks for the ride. Who knew you could get to the west coast in under one and a half hours from Inverness? It must be a world record."
He looks inordinately proud.
There are about a dozen cars in the car park, a white van, some four-wheel drives, a few of those big, black, expensive-looking SUVs, and a couple of golf carts-but still no humans. A dog barks once, far in the distance, the sound echoing ominously around the estate.
I feel my anxiety blossom into full nerves. This is it. The literal end of the road, and potentially the craziest thing I've done since walking out on that stupid West End play. Right before my first line.
"Hope you enjoy Scotland, lass," the driver says, then takes off with a screech of tires on gravel.
I knock a few times on the wooden door. For late spring, it's far colder than I'd imagined, and my thin trench coat is proving a nonsense kind of cover-up for this weather.
My phone beeps and it's Tim.
What do you mean?
I chuckle. He's so predictable.
There is still no sign of anyone. Crossing my arms to try to brace myself against the icy breeze, I look around the courtyard for some sign of life. I can hear the horses scuffing at the hay-covered stone floor in the barn, and I can sense the smell of mossy earth. I lean forward to look through the small window of the end cottage, and a small motion light springs on, blinding me to my surroundings.
"Heather?"
I jump at the voice behind me-deep, with a thick but soft Scottish accent. I hold my hand up to my face and try to make out the figure emerging from behind the white van. He is tall, dressed in chef's whites underneath a dark coat that is open and flapping in the wind, with a dark woolen beanie pulled down over his forehead. Tall, mysterious, and can poach an egg. I am instantly intrigued.
"Hello! Yes, I am. That's me," I say, saluting him like a general, my nerves apparently turning me into a comedy idiot.
"We need you to start right away," he says nervously, pulling up the collar on his coat.
"Right this minute?" I reply, desperate for a hot cup of tea and a shower.
"Our emergency cover fell into the river while taking a tinkle," booms a posh English accent, as a much older, shorter man in a dark suit with a bulging belly arrives, dragging one of those fancy bellhop trollies behind him. The light shines onto his reddish face, which is heavily lined but jolly. "Hospitalized with exposure."
"Double exposure," I reply with a giggle-I can't resist-and he shoots me a wicked grin.
"I'm William. But everyone calls me Bill. And this is James, here to welcome you on behalf of the kitchen," he continues, glancing down at my bag. "Well, I won't need the trolley. You travel light. Goodness gracious me. You should have seen last night's late arrival-poor night porter had to make a dozen trips up and down the stairs. And he's got a dicky leg."
"I don't like having more than I can manage on my own," I say, smiling at him.
"Well, I hope you brought some wellies," he says, glancing down at my shoes.
"No. I'll need to get some. And a coat. Didn't anyone notify Scotland it's May, for God's sake?" I say, clutching at my arms.
"Northerly. They're bitter, even in summer," says Bill as he sticks the key into the lock of the cottage, and it makes a heavy thunk as he turns it. He pushes the door open, but instead of showing me in, he pops my suitcase just inside and pulls the door shut. "Couldn't grow a Pinot in this wind chill, eh?"
I stutter, then scramble for a quick reply. "Yes. Certainly it needs to be warmer. Except when there's a frost. You also sometimes need frost." He's staring at me, so obviously I continue my verbal drivel. "For the grapes, because sometimes they need frost. To make the wine, er, better."
"We need you to start tonight," James says again, cutting through the chatter. He and his tense shoulders are looking back toward the main house as if he's left a pan of hot fat on full.
I start to feel a little panicked. "I'm not dressed," is all I can think to say. "I thought there would be some kind of formal orientation first? Watch one of those Welcome to the company films. Spend hours getting your e-mail set up? Meet the boss? Go for a welcome drink?"
"My kinda girl," Bill chortles again.
"We've got you a uniform." James furrows his heavy brow my way, then turns sharply away to do more brooding.
Bill turns to me with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, this is all very sudden. But I'm sure you'll take to it just fine, with your incredible experience. Oh, don't look so sheepish-I was the one who hired you, remember? I've seen your CV."
"Right. Of course. Okay, let's go," I say as confidently as I can. No need to discuss my CV in front of James, or anyone.
Bill jumps into the nearest golf cart and turns on the ignition. James offers an impatient smile and nods toward the passenger seat.
"Cheers," I say as he jumps on a little platform on the back and hangs on.
"If James is edgy, it's because he needs to go over the menu with you, like, now," Bill whispers.
I'm going to have to be careful with everything I say. Play the new girl. With the number of jobs I've had, that's one thing I can do.
We pull up at the entrance to the kitchen, and as the heavy modern door is pushed open, the light and noise spill out onto the courtyard, and suddenly a new set of senses comes fiercely alive.
The back kitchen is buzzing. There are three chefs in whites preparing for the evening service. Piles of small new potatoes are being scrubbed, and another chef has a great sheet of tiny herbs, which are being forensically picked through with what look like tweezers. There is a kind of rhythmical chorus as knives hit wood, pans slam on granite, and my block heels clip-clop across the stone floor.
"Hi, Chef," says the youngest-looking of them. He's covered in blood splatters and holding a comically large butchering knife. James nods in approval at the young lad, who blushes and smiles shyly back at him. It's a cute exchange, and I warm a little to James.
Smells of lemon zest and rich, dark chocolate fill my nose as we pass the pastry counter. Then the sting of onions hits my eyes as we duck under a low doorway into the preparation area. There are two rows of stainless-steel cooking surfaces and large ovens, and another serious-looking young chef, her dark hair stuffed into a hairnet, is standing over a huge pot, carefully spooning in what seems to be an enormous ladle full of tiny lobsters.
"Oh my God, baby lobsters," I whisper, aghast, but Bill has suddenly disappeared out through the swinging door into the restaurant. There's a glimpse of a dark, candle-lit room with accents of deep red and tartan.
"Langoustines, three minutes, fifteen seconds. Rolling boil," the chef says to herself as she starts a small timer. Langoustines. I blush at my stupidity and take a deep breath. I won't last five minutes if I don't keep my mouth shut.
"Heather?" James calls to me from the service area, where he is sorting through scribbled sheets of paper.
"Hey. Jamie for short, is it?"
"James, actually," he says abruptly, before glancing at the floor. "Are you ready?"
"Sure," I reply, painting on a face full of efficiency and confidence.
He waves a piece of paper at me. "We've matches for the langoustine and hot-smoked salmon, but not the beetroot and pickled cabbage. We also need a pairing for the blade steak. I would have gone for a Cabernet, but there's the spring greens and turnip foam to consider in the balance. What do you think?"
James puts the paper down and looks up at me, and for the first time I see his full face in the light. He's definitely a looker, if you like that kind of accidentally handsome, full-lipped, furrowed-brow, forgot-to-shave-for-a-week kind of thing, which I most certainly do. Dark hair, chestnut eyes, and cheeks flushed from the heat of the kitchen. And in those starched chef's whites too. I try hard not to stare.
Okay. I'm definitely staring.
Still staring.
"Heather?"
I shake myself out of my daze and back to the job at hand.
"Do you have any ideas what we could pair them with?"
"What do you usually pair them with?" I ask, hoping for a shortcut.
"The menu changes all the time, with the season, so this is a new dish, I'm afraid. There's normally something new needs pairing every day. As I said, we often pair the blade steak with the Cabernet, but I think the turnip-"
"The menu changes all the time?" I gulp.
James takes a breath. "Sorry. I know this is a lot to take in. Before each service we sit and discuss the pairings for the degustation menu. The sommelier and me. Then I run it past Chef."
"Chef? I thought you were the chef."
"No," he says with a shy smile. "Russell Brooks, our new executive chef, will check over everything tonight. It has to be right first time," he says, somewhat apologetically.
"Russell Brooks." I smile. "Sounds like an electrical appliance."
My gag hangs in the air for a moment, then withers and dies.
"He's got two Michelin stars," James says, his eyes wide.
"Oh yes," I say quickly.
Two Michelin stars? That doesn't make sense. I thought this place was meant to be stuck in the Dark Ages. I glance around the kitchen and realize the whole setup does look rather too grand. "Of course I know who he is. Everyone knows Russell Brook."
"Brooks," he corrects.
"Yes." I nod quickly. "Two Michelin stars."
"Do you want a little time to familiarize yourself? I can give you thirty minutes, and then we have to get the draft ready for Chef." He offers me the menu.
I study James's face for a moment. I can't tell if he is desperately begging for my help or angry that I'm not helping already. One thing is for sure: He is waiting for me to take control, and up until this point I've been trying to delay the inevitable. Time to bite the bullet.
"Where do you keep the wine list? And the wine? I'll need to see the cellar and maybe do some sampling," I say, reaching for the food menu. Christ, it's complicated! This place is fancy as fuck. What the hell is smoked sea bacon? "What did you say I need to match again?"
"The guinea fowl, the crab, the beetroot, and the blade steak," replies James, the raised vein on the side of his neck dissipating somewhat. "The new wine list is here," he says, dumping a large black leather folder into my arms. "And the cellar is out back, the way you came in, and down the stone stairs by the deep freeze. I can show you?"
"No need. I'll be half an hour," I say, nodding in determination, deciding the quiet of the wine cellar will be the safest place to panic. New wine list?
"One sec. Anis?" he calls to the baby-lobster boiler, who frowns at the disruption. She is carefully pouring deep-green oil into a blender with all the steady seriousness of an open-heart surgeon. "Once you've finished the dill emulsion, make a tasting plate for Heather," James commands.
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