Page 26 of A Perfect Devon Pub
‘The dream team,’ said Kim, beaming.
George smiled at Kim, ‘and Rose says please leave all the wine decisions to Fiona.’
As soon as the men left the staffroom, Kim turned to Fiona. ‘Just because you’ve been put in charge, don’t try ordering me around.’
Fiona watched the door shut behind the men, the sharp echo of Kim’s words settling like a slap. For a moment, she said nothing, just blinked, her heart thudding a little harder than it should be. She didn’t understand it. What had she done to deserve Kim’s constant barbs? She was polite. Helpful. Never criticised. So why did it always feel like Fiona was walking into a fight that she hadn’t started?
Ten minutes later, as Fiona nudged the door of the attic flat open, a smell greeted her. It was the pungent aftermath of cooking, but she couldn’t pin down exactly what it was. She walked inside, feeling the squelch of something underfoot. Jam? Honey? She didn’t want to think about it. A trail of sticky footprints led to the kitchen area. Fiona crossed to the sitting room, picking up cushions from the floor and retrieving a pink sock that dangled from a curtain rod. She heard footsteps and spun around. The perpetrators of the mess stood a few feet away.
‘We’ve made Mummy’s supper,’ announced Timmy proudly.
‘Yes. Daddy’s meal didn’t look very nice, so we’ve cooked, like Daddy does.’
Fiona picked up the tray, her nose wrinkling. Something offensive wafted from the plate. Eggs, certainly. But the sharp tang of burned butter and an undercurrent of something sweet suggested the children may have mixed in sugar.
Outside the master bedroom, she paused, tray balanced, then knocked, the tray wobbling.
‘Come in!’ croaked Rose, her voice muffled and rough.
Pushing open the bedroom door, Rose greeted her, sitting propped up against a mountain of pillows, her face pale but smiling.
‘We made you eggs, Mummy!’ Becky chirped, scrambling onto the bed and curling up beside her mother.
Timmy puffed out his chest. ‘By ourselves!’
Fiona eyed the tray before setting it on Rose’s lap. The plate of scrambled eggs shimmered with an unsettling greyish hue, flecked with blackened bits that might have once been onion – or charcoal.
Rose mustered maternal courage and took a tiny forkful. Fiona winced in sympathy as her boss chewed and swallowed, her eyes watering slightly. ‘Mm,’ Rose croaked. ‘Delicious, darlings.’ She smiled conspiratorially at Fiona. ‘Shame I’m too ill to have more than one bite.’
Timmy beamed. Becky frowned, then fetched a cloth, and laid it, dripping, on Rose’s face. ‘Better now, Mummy?’
Fiona snorted softly, gently removed the cloth and stepped back, watching the scene. There was something oddly touching about the kids’ pride in their food and Rose’s sheer determination not to gag. Then the pang hit. Sudden, sharp and sad. This sticky, smelly mess was the sort of thing she might never have. No burned eggs lovingly cooked, no sticky footprints, no dripping cloth, no little faces looking at her with shining pride.
Rose’s voice broke through her thoughts. ‘Earth to Fiona?’
Fiona blinked. ‘Sorry. Zoned out for a moment.’
‘Thinking about escaping before they make you taste it?’
Fiona laughed and shook her head. ‘I’m tougher than I look.’
She stayed a moment longer, watching the children’sanimated faces as they chattered over each other, then made her way out. A familiar ache settled in her chest, one she’d grown accustomed to carrying. The smell of burned eggs lingered behind her, along with the echo of small voices that followed her down the hall.
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?’
