Page 8 of A Perfect Devon Pub
‘Oh, what a treat for George. He’s a bit of a wine buff. You two will get on well.’
‘I’ll speak to him about the food and the wine. Where’s the cellar?’
Rose heaved herself up. ‘For insurance we keep the key hidden. I’ll show you.’
The pub’s door burst open, and two whirlwinds ran towards the table. The girl was about six, her pigtails bobbing with each excited step. Her older brother followed more slowly, clutchinga slightly scruffy stuffed bear. Their lively chatter filled the space and Fiona’s face split into a smile.
‘Hello, my lovelies,’ cried Rose, scooping them into her arms. ‘Have you had a wonderful morning?’
The children talked over each other, relaying adventures involving finger painting and helping Grandpa tidy his garden shed.
‘We had such fun!’ said Becky.
‘Umm, yes, and I’m sure you made a lot of mess too,’ said Rose.
Becky giggled. ‘Grandma and Grandpa said it didn’t matter. They just wanted to be with us,’ she announced triumphantly.
Becky and Timmy introduced themselves and allowed Fiona to admire their morning’s artwork.
‘When I grow up, I’m going to be an artist like Daddy,’ Timmy said solemnly.
Yesthought Fiona,cooking was art. Her heart clenched, picturing Ru in the kitchen of the Fork & Cork, inspecting food deliveries, his low, confident voice conjuring specials from the ingredients. In a high-pitched voice Becky jabbered, ‘And I’m going to be an astronaut.’
‘My, my,’ said Fiona, ‘you will have a lot of exams to pass. Make sure you study hard!’
Becky wrinkled her nose. ‘Ugh! Tests! Nasty things!’
‘But vital. You need qualifications to get on,’ stated Fiona, smiling into the child’s distorted face. ‘I’ll leave you alone,’ she murmured to Rose. ‘I’ll be back early and have a word with George then.’
At six o’clock, Fiona turned left down a narrow alley. The road led her into a small car park sheltered behind a low stone wall, shielding vehicles from the sea’s relentless spray. There was a stationary lorry, its engine idling. A man was unloadingkegs of beer, rolling them towards an open hatchway, the metal containers rumbling and rattling on the tarmac. Hovering close by was a motorcyclist and next to him stood a man wearing a chef’s apron over loose-fitting trousers. He wasn’t as tall as Ru, and he didn’t have his honed physique. This one was middle-aged, his slightly squat body and large tummy bearing the marks of two decades of thoroughly enjoying his profession. The man had muscly arms that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a professional wrestler. She wondered if this was George, or one of his team. A thick plastic pouch disappeared into the rear top box of the motorcycle before it sped off. Fiona let the machine roar past her up the hill, then followed the chef up the steps.
Inside was an unmanned reception desk. She strode through the silent space feeling a stab of longing for Ru, imagining it was he she was about to consult about the evening specials. Would she ever get over loving him? It probably wasn’t too late to have a serious chat. He wouldn’t have made such an effort to get in touch yesterday if he had accepted their split as final. But then, he never accepted anyone’s decisions, did he? His self-belief was so strong that he thought everything – and everyone – would eventually go his way.
She could unblock his number, arrange to meet up and talk things through. Then, she recalled his casual reference to undermining her with the investors and his undisguised pride in arranging a honeymoon which involved visiting her parents; he didn’t think of her as his equal – and that was no basis for a marriage.
Fiona blew out a long sigh. She must stick to her guns. She pushed at the kitchen swing door, expecting to hear a symphony of clattering pots, sizzling pans and the sharp clang of knives on cutting boards. Silence met her. Only two individuals were present: the man she’d previously seen on the back steps and another near the sinks, washing dishes.
Comparedto the Fork & Cork, the kitchen was larger, and the units were older, but the bright overhead lights illuminated similar gleaming stainless steel surfaces, and an array of familiar ingredients lined the shelves. She sniffed, identifying fennel and thyme and her wine brain kicked in, matching grapes to those smells.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m Fiona, the new waitress. I was looking for George.’
‘You’ve found him,’ said the man in the chef’s uniform. He had a low voice which reminded Fiona of a deep bell tolling.
‘Rose suggested I have a word with you about tonight’s specials ... and the wine list.’
George glanced up. His forehead was shiny beneath his white hat and there was a grim, hassled expression on his face. ‘No specials. I’m on my own.’ Fiona’s eyes drifted towards the other man. ‘That’s Josh, the KP,’ explained George.Rightthought Fiona,this explained the short lunch offering.
Her eyes switched to Josh. He spun around, and she recognized the bronzed face of the surf instructor she had seen on the beach earlier. Watching him scour pans, she thought he was fizzing with energy and liked his positivity. ‘G’day. Welcome to the team,’ said Josh, waving a silver scrubbing pad at her. He spoke with a slow Australian drawl and a surprisingly powerful voice, considering his age. The timbre of his voice strangely reminded Fiona of her father – what would he have to say about the mess his daughter was in? She shuddered.
Josh started whistling, bringing a cheerful atmosphere into the space.
Fiona tried to imagine Ru preparing for an evening service with just a kitchen porter to assist. No wonder George looked frazzled. But taking in the simmering saucepans, the bowls of chopped herbs, sliced lemons and filled sauce bottles, he appeared to have things under control.
‘Rose says you’ve an interesting cellar. I’d love to hear about it. I’m a certified sommelier.’
The whistling stopped. ‘What’s that?’ asked Josh.
‘Not you,’ barked George, laughing. ‘You don’t know anything about fine wine, whereas this woman,’ he jabbed a thumb in Fiona’s direction, ‘can identify different grape varieties from a single mouthful.’
