Page 15 of A Perfect Devon Pub
Peeking through the kitchen window, she couldn’t see the new assistant, but she heard a guffaw of laughter from Josh, and George’s low rumbling voice sounding brighter than she’d recently heard it. ‘I’ve never tried that. I’m open to all suggestions.’
Behind reception, with slightly blonder, newly styled hair, sat Rose, engulfed in the unmistakable acrylic smell of hairspray. She followed Fiona into the staffroom. ‘He’s awfully good looking,’ she chirped, then winked and added, ‘I’ll have to keep an eye on you.’
Fiona wrapped herself in an apron and dipped her head to hide a smile. She wasn’t anywhere near ready for a new romance, which is why she wasn’t encouraging Josh’s attentions. ‘How many covers tonight, Rose?’
‘Half full, but it’s a Friday, so there’ll be the chancers. Expectus to be busy.’
George bustled in, bringing with him a smell of frying onions. He was whistling a tune she recognized – one Josh often chose.
‘How’s it going?’ asked Rose, an anxious expression distorting her face. ‘Is he settling in?’
George grinned at his wife, then engulfed her in a bear hug and kissed her. It was five weeks since anyone other than Ivy had hugged Fiona, and she felt a pang of longing. Ru had been so tactile. She missed their intimacy.
‘While I’ve got you both,’ said George, ‘we’ve come up with a special for tonight.’
‘Long time since we’ve offered one of those,’ quipped Rose, patting her pockets. ‘Fiona, lend me a pen so I can scribble this lot down, would you, love,’
Fiona dug out a spare pen. ‘Fire away,’ said Rose.
‘We’re using up that partridge I ended up freezing. We’re putting it into a pie. The base is spinach, cream, rich sherry vinegar and pine nuts, topped with the partridge mixture and a sauce that’s been simmering for the last two hours.’
‘Right,’ said Rose, ‘Sounds delicious. What’s the pastry, and is it gluten-free?’
‘No, it’s filo – too thin for non-gluten flour. I’ve kept some of the mix aside and we can cook it in gluten-free puff pastry if someone asks. But it won’t be as good.’
‘Some of your red burgundies would go well with that combination. Any spices I need to know about?’ asked Fiona, mentally scrolling through the wine cellar. ‘I might nip down now and grab a few bottles to let them warm up a bit.’
George strode out, talking over his shoulder, ‘Dash of this dash of that, nothing overpowering.’
‘I think Chef is keen to return to his station,’ said Rose laughing. ‘I’ll finish setting up. You know where the cellar key is, don’t you, Fiona?’
Fiona padded down the stone steps, inhaling the musty smell and struggling to block out the memory of that anniversary with Ru, which occasionally still tormented her when she visited the cellar. She focused her attention instead on the wine labels, noting and assessing the quality both of the vintages and the growers. George’s uncle had been a serious collector. The wines included famed growers from Bordeaux, Burgundy, Rhône, Tuscany, as well as New World stars from America, Australia, New Zealand and South America. There were even some from South Africa. Passing that bin, she swallowed down a lump in her throat – that was where Ru had been born. She wasn’t doing very well at trying to forget him. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as more memories flooded in – still fresh, but now bittersweet. She remembered the way he would grin when he fed her a forkful of something he’d been working on, his eyes lighting up with pride, the heat from his kitchen always clinging to his skin. ‘Try this, Mousse,’ he would whisper, feeding her a confit tomato or a plump, newly sourced olive.
She shouldn’t have pictured olives, because their walk through a bustling market in Provence hit her next. There had been an overwhelming rustic tang of olives. His fingers had brushed against hers as they strolled between rows of produce – tomatoes so red and shiny they looked polished, huge basil leaves, bright and fragrant, a hint of citrus zesting the warm breeze. Ru had pressed a finger to his lips thoughtfully, his eyes twinkling as he muttered some new recipe idea. She could almost hear his voice now, deep and confident, full of passion as he talked about flavours, textures, and the way a dish could change someone’s mood.
She shook her head, trying to banish the thoughts. No. She had set him free so he could soar, and that meant she must forget him and keep moving forwards with her own life. Work hard in the pub. Pass that wretched exam. Repay her debts. Earn theright to fall in love again – but this time with someone who was a more equal match.
By 8.30 p.m., every table in the dining area was busy and laughter echoed throughout the pub. Fiona seated customers, took drinks orders and explained the menu. The special was popular, as were her wine recommendations. All evening, she jogged into the kitchen, ripping off order slips as she ran, tossing them onto the counter and dashing back out to fetch wines. At one point, she caught a glimpse of the new assistant – a figure hunched over, retrieving something from the walk-in fridge. Just a pair of legs and shoulders, but clearly the promised reinforcement hadn’t done a runner. She made a mental note to introduce herself later, when things were less hectic. Rose coped with most of the plates while Fiona spent much of her evening below ground.
She was in the cellar for the eighth time that night, on her haunches scanning the chalk marks for Pomerol. The door was open, and the faint sound of whistling drifted down to her.
Tonight, the kitchen atmosphere seemed better, like a dense fog lifting at sunrise.
Spotting the correct region, Fiona switched her search to pink foil caps and removed a bottle labelled ‘Vieux Château Certan’. She checked the year and frowned. Fiona was looking for the 2005 a glorious year for clarets. This was a bottle from 2017. She replaced it and crouched down for the next one. Finally, she located the correct vintage on the last rung of the rack, and clutching the precious bottle, cast a fond look around the room. In November, when the pub wasn’t so busy, she’d spend some quality time down here, rearrange the layout and label the different vintages so it was simpler to locate things.
Back upstairs, the roar from the dining room hit her. Rose shot past, four plates of the special balanced in her arms, calling out,‘George says there’s only two portions left! Can you hurry up with that wine please and help me. There’s service piling up back there.’
The next thirty minutes evaporated as Fiona rushed in and out of the kitchen, responding to George’s excited cries of ‘service’.As she swept past the prep station, she glimpsed the new junior’s hands – steady, confident and male – arranging garnishes. Just hands and a sliver of arms encased in a white chef’s jacket, but enough to stir her curiosity. She felt a wave of gratitude that help had finally arrived and found herself hoping he was into surfing; if he was, he would stay, and Josh could use a mate in the water, stop him pestering her to join him. And perhaps the newcomer would enjoy her impromptu wine lessons? The thought of expanding their little educational circle made her smile as she grabbed another tray of starters. She circled the dining room, offering advice and topping up glasses, sprinting to and from the cellar, uncorking and decanting fine wines.
‘That was unbelievably good food,’ said a woman scraping her plate with a fork. ‘Please send my compliments to the chef.’
Fiona felt a flush of pride, smiled at the customer, before collecting the dirty crockery and carrying it through to the kitchen.
‘Another happy customer, George,’ she said, stowing the plates for an absent Josh. ‘The woman sends—’ Her breath caught in her throat. She swallowed, staring wide-eyed at George’s new assistant. The man smoothed his apron as he raised his eyes to hers.
He was smiling, but his dark eyes radiated sorrow.
‘Hi,’ said Ruben.
