Page 7 of A Perfect Devon Pub
On days when the restaurant was closed, Ru always made brunch, filling the flat with tantalizing smells, including her favourite cinnamon bread. Sometimes she selected a boutique Champagne to chill, and they would eat together, cross-legged on the bed. Eventually, their eyes would meet, and they would forget their plates and glasses, and focus on each other.
Fiona snapped out of her memories, drawn to the choir’s swaying figures as their voices soared. ‘Let sense be dumb ...’Those words reverberated and she winced. Had she been too rash yesterday? No, she told herself firmly. Couples couldn’t just return to their relationship and pretend something as momentous as this hadn’t happened. It was like trying to patch a cracked mirror; no matter how careful the mend, the fracture was still there, splintering every reflection.
The music surged, the choir reaching a powerful crescendo. ‘Speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire ...’The words coursed through Fiona like a jolt of energy, stirring something restless inside her. But then the music softened, the voices lingering over the line: ‘O still small voice of calm’.
That last phrase pierced through the noise in her mind, cutting through her doubts. She must be strong. For a moment, a quiet settled within her. The tension she’d been holding onto since her decision eased a little, and she let herself breathe.
Fiona plonked a slice of toast onto her plate and pulled the pack of butter towards her. Ru wouldn’t find it difficult toreplace her. Someone else would soon enjoy his musky smell. She must succeed too, by passing her exam and forging a new, financially independent life.
After breakfast, Ivy left for church and Fiona cleared up, made herself a pot of coffee, then dragged herself back upstairs. It wasn’t her childhood bedroom in the rectory, but as she sprawled across the patchwork quilt she’d known all her life, she felt at home, staring as intently at her wine atlas as she suspected Aunt Ivy would be gazing at an altar.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the space, yet even after her second mug, her mind felt cluttered. She was missing her simple flashcards on wine regions, grape varieties and tasting notes. She focused on the page in front of her. She must study – that qualification would enable her to repay her debts – which would balloon once Ivy lent her the money for the next exam. Just as she had immersed herself in the subtle differences between Bordeaux wines and the New World Bordeaux blends, her phone buzzed.
Ru. Again.
His name taunted her. Every missive was a reminder of the emotional baggage she was trying to shed. Her eyes flitted to the screen, glimpsing his latest message.
Can we please talk? I need to understand.
It was the fifth message today. All with Ru’s trademark sign-off for his messages to her – a beating heart emoji. Just as Ru’s emoji pulsed with a rhythmic, almost desperate vitality, guilt pulsed within Fiona – a persistent, haunting beat that refused to be silenced. She ignored all the messages – responding would only pull her into a spiral of conversations she wasn’t ready for. She turned the phone facedown, hoping the distractions would stop, but the soft hum of incoming texts made it impossible to concentrate on tannins, terroir and tasting techniques. Everyping was a tug-of-war between her future life and her past.
She sat up and gulped her coffee. Catching sight of one of his socks under the bed, she pushed herself upright, the mattress creaking as if in disapproval. Fiona kicked the sock closer to the wall, picked up her phone, scrolled through her contacts and brought up Ruben Nkosi. A thick sensation filled her throat, as if something was lodged there. To allow them both to move on, and for him to soar without her holding him back, she had to do this. Fiona squeezed her eyes shut, opened them and quickly blocked his number. It was over.
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.Hisrestaurant. 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 wouldmake 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 herselfin 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.Ilove 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 implosionof 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.
