Page 3 of A Perfect Devon Pub
He wrinkled his nose. ‘Real ice cream? Or hydrogenated trans fats?’
Fiona punched him playfully on the arm. ‘Proper Devon dairy ice cream made with real milk from local cows, of course. They’ve been selling it here for nearly a hundred years.’
‘Well, how can I turn down the chance of that!’
They reached the ice cream kiosk, a hut painted in mint green and pale pink. It had a weathered wooden exterior, and white slatted shutters pinned back to let the cooling sea breeze inside. Above the entrance, on a large board, someone had written the flavours and prices in pink chalk: classic varieties like vanilla, strawberry, rum ‘n’ raisin and caramel, alongside local specialties like Devon clotted cream and elderflower.
Inside, vintage glass jars stuffed with toppings lined the shelves. The staff wore striped aprons just like the ones Ru’s team wore in London, and Fiona gave her head a tight shake to dislodge the association. She didn’t want to ruin today by constantly thinking about work.
‘Two scoops of caramel, please!’ she called cheerfully to an attendant, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She wanted to enjoy this moment with Ru, to bask in the sun’s warmth and the sweet innocence of ice cream. She glanced sideways at him, his face a mask of quiet determination, although she sensed an underlying anxiety.
When their ice creams arrived, they took them outside. Ru chose the table furthest from the kiosk and they slumped into deckchairs, digging their feet into the sand. Fiona took a tentative lick, the ice cream melting in her mouth, sweet and silky smooth. As she savoured the moment, she reached for his spare hand, feeling the warmth of his skin against hers. She sensed his unease. This was rare – he was usually so easy-going and confident – but she decided not to ask, certain he would tell her when he was ready.
‘I spoke to Ben this morning,’ said Ru.
Ah, thought Fiona, Ru’s troubles must be work related. Ben, Ru’s sous-chef and best friend, was running the Fork & Cork while the couple were in Brambleton. Fiona suspected that, despite Ru’s bravado at breakfast, he was regretting this holiday already, leaving his team at such a critical time. He would probably rather be in London nurturing them. Trying to keep the tension out of her voice, she asked, ‘everything OK?’
Ru squeezed her hand. ‘Relax. Everything is under control.’
So, business was not the source of Ru’s anxiety – neither the new venture nor the existing one. A family of four flopped down at the table next to them. The two children, both in bright swimsuits and flip-flops, swung their legs eagerly beneath thetable, while their parents, dressed in light summer clothes and sunglasses, eyed the chalkboard menu.
Ru frowned and slipped his hand into his pocket as if checking for his wallet.
‘We’re not in London. No pickpockets in Brambleton!’ Fiona joked reassuringly.
‘Sorry,’ Ru mumbled, withdrawing his hand, but his eyes darted around as if he was expecting someone to jump out from the shadows. He glanced down at the ground before casting a quick, wary look over his shoulder. Even as he forced a small smile, his fingers twitched at his sides, betraying a nervous energy.
Fiona wondered if Ru was finding it difficult to unwind with so much going on in London. ‘It’s lovely to be here with you,’ she said, stroking his arm. His muscle was tense, but as she stroked, she felt it relax, and a smile creased his face.
‘It’s going to be a magical week. Let’s just chill. We’ve earned it,’ said Ru. ‘What do you fancy doing tomorrow? How about a day trip to Lundy?’ She screwed up her nose; Fiona loved the rugged, windswept beauty of Lundy Island out in the Bristol Channel, but she couldn’t spare another whole day away from her books.
‘I think I should be revising.’
‘Nope. Forbidden! We are on holiday.’
‘For you maybe.’
He laughed. It was a wonderful sound, throaty and self-assured, filling her with courage, and despite herself, the corners of her mouth started twitching upward. He never let her stay down for long. His confidence was unshakable. He believed he would always succeed; on the rare occasions someone said no, Ru didn’t listen, interpreting the word as a challenge, convinced that with time and effort, he could persuade anyone to change their mind.
‘Fi, this is a celebration.’
‘Except it’s your celebration, not mine.’
He spoke forcefully. ‘This isourcelebration – the investors are backingourbusiness.’
Except they weren’t. The message from the investors had been clear. The restaurant concept had shifted. Gone was Fiona’s dream of a wine lover’s destination with Master Sommelier pairings, replaced by a model mirroring the Fork & Cork. What was worse, the investors had only backed Ru, claiming Fiona lacked his industry weight. They attributed all the value built up in the Fork & Cork to Ru – as the leaseholder – counting that as his investment in the new venture. Without a formal arrangement between them, and acknowledging he had shouldered all the financial risk, Fiona couldn’t argue with the logic. She, like Ben and the team, would be merely an employee, not a partner. That wouldn’t have happened if she had passed her Advanced Sommelier exam.
But things could have been a lot worse. The investors had taken the news of her failure surprisingly well. After asking her to step outside while they spoke with Ru alone – ten uncomfortable minutes in the corridor imagining him being berated for wasting their time–she rejoined to learn that while the concept had changed, thankfully, the financing was secure. Eating a slice of humble pie seemed a small price to pay to protect Ru’s career.
‘Fi, please, don’t dwell on that exam.’ He pushed his sunglasses off his face and his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. ‘We’re a team, and an amazing one. Anyway, now it’s not a high-end wine restaurant you don’t need to be an Advanced Sommelier.’
‘The investors think I do.’ Fiona had not been surprised. In fact, she agreed with them. Certificates were there to prove one’s worth. To separate the successful from failures like her.Her mother and father had proved that with their own careers, gradually accumulating more letters after their names as they advanced in the field of neurogenetic research. They hadn’t taken much notice of her as a child, finding discussions of amyloid plaques much more alluring than reading bedtime stories. But they’d always been proud when she came home from school waving a certificate.
Ru shook his head playfully, ‘Are you really going to pour yourself into study? You’ll never have time to enjoy life.’
Fiona sighed. Hadn’t he realized she’d been doing that all her life? In fact, it was Ivy who’d suggested a teenage Fiona channel her efforts into academia. Whether she did so to keep her niece busy, or because Ivy knew it was the only way Fiona could earn the sporadic attention of her parents, Fiona wasn’t sure. Either way, it had been addictive. Her parents applauded each exam passed, every qualification she achieved, but like brief rays of sunshine on a dreary day, they withdrew their attention once the triumph had been celebrated and buried themselves back in their own work.
When Fiona turned eighteen and left home to study for her first sommelier exams in London, her parents had emigrated to Australia to take up a research post at the Florey Institute, a global leader in neurodegenerative diseases. Fiona couldn’t help but think they’d been waiting for the opportunity ever since she was born. Communication dwindled to a text on her birthday and a phone call to congratulate her on each academic milestone: sailing through Levels 1 to 4 of her wine and spirit exams, her introductory sommelier qualification and later her certified sommelier exam. With no more progress to report, Fiona realized she hadn’t heard from them in nearly a year.
