Page 63 of A Perfect Devon Pub
As she took another step closer, Elsa sighed, the sound soft, carrying a hint of empathy. ‘You’re not alone. The exam ... it sees everything, Fiona. Every tiny slip, every hesitation.’
Although meant to reassure, there was a cool finality in those words, making Fiona feel the loss more keenly. A silence settled uncomfortably between them as they stood there, just inches apart yet worlds away. Elsa was a member of the elite CMS, Fiona a mere wannabe. She closed her eyes, sensing Elsa’s presence, a mirror image of the life she’d glimpsed and lost.
Fiona collected her bag from the luggage room. It felt heavier than when she’d left it that morning. She trudged outside. Drizzle settled on her coat and the damp wind bit into her cheeksas if in sympathy with her despondency. She wasn’t catching a cab or even taking the Tube; not after today. Not after everything she’d spent, both in money she couldn’t afford to repay, and time preparing for that exam. She forced herself to walk, heading down Piccadilly towards Hyde Park and ultimately Paddington Station, each step through a mist-laden London full of couples and families reminding her how utterly alone she felt.
She tracked the side of St. James’s Park, deserted, save for a few joggers and a couple huddling under a lamp post, whispering to each other. She averted her eyes from them; this wasn’t a night to be thinking of love. Every bone in her body was numb with disappointment. There was no resounding applause, no tearful, celebratory call to Ivy explaining what Fiona had really been doing in London. No picking up the phone to call her parents either. No one would be proud of her today. She’d failed. Again.
Fiona clutched the strap of her bag tightly as if it could somehow hold her together.
By the time she reached the station, the crowd had thinned, leaving behind a scattering of tired commuters and droopy-eyed travellers waiting to catch the Heathrow Express, their faces showing the same weariness she felt. She took out her phone, intending to turn it back on, but then replaced it. There was no reason to call Ivy before she had pulled herself together and made a plan.
It was close to nine, and she had half an hour to wait for the next train, so she bought herself a coffee and sat staring up at the display board in front of her, hearing the gentle rattle each time the information was updated. Noting her platform, she stood mechanically, plodding to the ticket barrier, then boarded her train and slid into an empty seat by the window. She barely registered the world hurtling past outside. She wouldn’t get back to Barnstaple until after midnight, but it didn’t matter. Therewould be no one waiting for her.
She felt something rise within her, a flicker of a question, a murmur of doubt. Had all of this been worth it? All the studying, the mountain of debt, the hope? Had she always been bound to fail – just like Ru prophesied in their last heated row? Had she misjudged her own potential? Fiona squeezed her eyes shut, letting the rhythmic sway of the train lull her. For now, there were no answers. Just the hollow ache, and the last scraps of a dream she wasn’t ready to let go of.
Twenty-eight
As the first pale light of dawn crept over the horizon, Fiona dawdled along the beach, trying to clear her head after yet another sleepless night. Her footsteps were soft, barely disturbing the quiet. She moved closer to the water’s edge, where the waves lapped lazily at the shore. There was a pleasant woody fragrance, which she attributed to a mixture of decaying autumn leaves and driftwood, but it didn’t soothe her nerves.
She needed to come up with a plan. She had failed her exam for a second time, but in the cold light of the Devon morning, she recognized that might be the least of her problems. Fiona had debts. She was unemployed and accused of theft. She shuddered, recalling Ru’s expression upon seeing the half bottle of Krug that night. A picture of pure disgust. Fiona hugged her lavender coat closer – Ru’s last gift – wishing it was his arms embracing her instead.
As a newly crowned member of the elite CMS, she believed she would have convinced him of her innocence. Now, he wouldn’t want anything to do with her; but he would want his money back.
She trudged on, her shoes kicking up clods of wet sand. How could she escape this mess? Paying her way out wouldn’t resolve her predicament. Her former boss didn’t mean paying just for the Champagne. A half bottle of Krug would set her back nearly £100, a tall order, but Rose meant the tens of thousands of pounds of missing wine. It was one thing borrowing money fromIvy to retake her exams – she certainly wouldn’t borrow it to pay for wine she hadn’t stolen.
What on earth could she do? If only she had spent all of her spare time studying, not playing amateur detective. After she’d discovered the wine theft and started meeting Ru, she’d hardly looked at her books. That exam had been her ticket to a secure future, and she had squandered her chance. She’d pretended it was to solve the crime, but she knew deep down it had been because she’d wanted to spend time with Ru – the man who could once have been her husband, but now, through her own fault, would never be. His last bitter words to her– How could you? That is pure evil –seemed to echo across the deserted beach, settling like an overaged vintage, left stale and undrunk.
In the distance, the sky was awash with shades of muted pinks and greys, while the sea reflected the dim, waking light of the sun, casting a silver sheen over the water. It was a gorgeous sight and lifted Fiona’s spirits. She gave herself a talking to. Things were not that bleak. Even if Rose reported her, the police would probably not arrest her. She knew she was innocent and there was only circumstantial evidence to implicate her. Kim had only reported seeing Fiona near the cellar: that was not grounds for arrest.
Rose would encourage the team not to gossip; she wouldn’t want the scandal. And even if someone did talk, the Smuggler’s Inn was in rural North Devon. Rumours wouldn’t travel far. She could resurface in a big city like Manchester or Glasgow, start again as a junior sommelier and work her way up.
Why had Rose refused to let Fiona explain? Her boss had trusted her with the cellar lock code, yet somehow now believed that someone who’d supervised her children’s homework was a thief. And Ru – he’d accepted her guilt without question, washing his hands of her completely. How could he be so superficial? He knew her, had even loved her once, yet Ru wasn’tcurious about Fiona’s side of the story.
She picked up a pebble and tossed it, trying to make it skim across the water, but it sank, taking her optimism with it. What if Kim gave a false statement, claiming she had actually witnessed Fiona stealing wine? If she also shared the fact that Ru and Fiona had been meeting secretly in Ru’s flat, which was true, their previous relationship would be discovered and then perhaps the whole of Kim’s story would be believed. If it was, the bottle of Champagne might tip the weight of circumstantial evidence against Fiona. And if they charged her, Ru would be affected too. She couldn’t risk that.
There was only one solution. Fiona must persuade Rose that she was innocent before she left Brambleton. Then she should follow Josh’s example: find a modest job far away, leave this behind. Put Ru behind her too. Except she couldn’t work out how to achieve that and couldn’t think of anyone to ask for help. The person she had turned to for advice over the past three years had always been Ru, and he wouldn’t help her now. A brick had been hurled into their relationship, shattering it like glass, scattering their romance into pieces too sharp to pick up.
Out at sea, the silhouettes of small fishing boats bobbed on the horizon, their shapes blurry in the misty dawn. She could see the faint movements of the fishermen, casting their nets into the sea as they began their day’s work, their figures outlined against the soft glow of the morning sky. The scene felt timeless, a daily rhythm of toil and nature that carried on, oblivious to the changing seasons. Fiona stopped, watching them in quiet reverie, her breath hanging like smoke in the icy air as she listened to the distant sounds of the waves mingling with the faint hum of boat engines. She needed to get her own life back in rhythm.
Fiona rubbed her hands down her face, trying to summon her energy. She owed money to Ru, and to Ivy, and without that finalqualification, she had no prospect of earning much. She should give that exam one more try, but the thought of studying filled her with dread.
She dragged herself back up through the village, let herself into the cottage and sat cross-legged on the faded bedspread. An hour later, and although her books lay scattered around her, she had yet to open one. Outside, the golden leaves swirled in the autumn breeze, their vibrant colours glowing against the overcast sky. The distant sound of a woodpecker echoed from somewhere in the trees. It resembled a scene from a storybook, but the sting of yesterday’s failure was a gaping wound.
By mid-morning, unable to concentrate on wine, and needing to keep her mind occupied, Fiona stripped her bed, then Ivy’s. In the bathroom, she grabbed the laundry basket and dumped the soiled linen on the floor. She heard her aunt’s footsteps on the stairs, followed by her calling out in surprise: ‘Fiona, you’re back.’
‘Thought I’d put some washing on,’ Fiona said, concentrating on separating the darks from the whites.
Ivy leaned round the bathroom door. Her face was pale and drawn, and she looked exhausted, as if she had slept little more than Fiona in the last few nights.
‘I’ve been so worried. Why did you switch your phone off?’
Fiona squeezed her eyes shut, realizing her phone had been switched off for four days. She had no intention of changing that. There was no one she wanted to contact, and there were several people she didn’t want to contact her. Like Rose, George or the police. ‘I left you a note. You knew where I was.’
‘But why didn’t you say goodbye before you left, or hello when you got home? And whyisyour phone switched off?’
Feeling herself well up, Fiona screwed up her eyes; her aunt walked into the room, holding her arms wide and Fionacrumpled into them sobbing. Ivy stroked her hair. ‘What’s happened, love?’
Struggling to stem her tears, Fiona sniffed. She took a breath, stepped away, then explained the real reason she had gone to London, and that she’d failed her exam. All the while the tears fell. When she finished, she wiped the back of her hand over her eyes, then across her mouth, tasting the salty tears, a reminder of her failure to identify that blasted Sancerre wine.
