by Fiona Valpy
I can almost see Annie’s ears pricking up at this last bit of information and she raises her eyebrows at me in the mirror. I’m not sure whether she’s interested on my behalf or her own but either way, the prospect of an unattached male of around our age has got her attention.
Steadfastly ignoring this diversion, I firmly guide the conversation back to the safer ground of the wines they make and the production methods they use. Cédric, his attention fixed on the traffic which is quite busy at this time on a Friday evening, even on these little country roads, professes not to know that much about the technicalities. ‘But here we are,’ he says, swinging the pickup into the driveway of Château de la Chapelle, ‘so you can ask the experts.’
It’s a pretty domaine. The driveway, which runs up the slope of the hill, is flanked by an avenue of dark green cypresses and beyond them on either side the rows of vines run in precisely parallel lighter green lines, their tops neatly trimmed to a uniform height. Just visible beneath the leaves nestle the clusters of ripening grapes, their black skins softened to shades of velvety purple-grey by their fine coating of bloom.
We park in front of the house, an elegantly proportioned building. The hillside dips slightly behind it and then rises again, forming a natural bowl which is perfect for the cultivation of vines. On the skyline sits a little stone church with a tall, pointed steeple. ‘That’s the chapel of Saint André from which the château takes its name,’ explains Cédric, pointing it out.
We walk round the side of the house to a yard where a large tractor, towing a fearsome-looking trimmer whose blades glint in the evening sun, is being effortlessly reversed under the roof of a lean-to shed for the night.
‘There’s Robert,’ says Cédric, raising a hand in salute. ‘Good timing; it looks like he’s just finished for the day.’
A stocky, compact man in a green boiler suit climbs down from the cab and the two men greet each other with the hug and double kiss that still seems so foreign to us more cold-blooded Brits. Then Robert turns to greet us, wiping his hands on the cotton of his neat overalls before shaking ours.
‘Come into the chai,’ he says. ‘My father and Thomas are inside I think.’
In the gloom of the vast shed, the walls are lined with gleaming stainless-steel vats. A pair of legs clad in an immaculately pressed pair of khaki trousers protrudes from the small door in the front of one of these and a muffled stream of expletives can be heard echoing off the walls inside it.
Cédric and Robert grin at one another and Robert turns to Annie and me. ‘Excuse me for one moment,’ he says, and walks across to tap the legs. There’s a brief pause and then a renewed outburst of cursing, louder than before. ‘Papa,’ Robert perseveres, ‘we have company.’
The legs back up out of the vat and Patrick Cortini emerges fully, a handsome elderly man with a shock of white hair and a thick white moustache. His face creases into delighted smiles at the sight of us and he comes over to shake hands.
‘What charming young ladies,’ he beams, gallantly declaring himself ‘Enchanté’ to make our acquaintance. ‘Please forgive me,’ he says, ‘but some idiot hasn’t cleaned out the cuves properly, so I’m having to do them again myself. We’re getting everything ready for the harvest in a few weeks’ time and as usual it’s up to me to make sure everything’s done right.’
Robert continues to smile serenely, even though this dig is clearly aimed at him and his brother. He turns to us and says calmly, ‘Actually the cuves are perfectly clean, but Papa finds it impossible to admit that anyone else is capable of doing anything properly.’ He gives his father a fond hug. ‘Still, it keeps you out of trouble I suppose.’
A slightly younger and taller version of Robert materialises from an office in one corner of the chai and Cédric introduces us to Thomas.
‘So you are in the wine trade?’ he asks in English, with a very charming French accent.
‘Well, I used to be, but not now. Annie, however, is a buyer for one of the biggest chains in the UK,’ I explain.
‘But Gina is an expert too. She is currently doing a course to get some higher qualifications,’ adds Cédric, laying a hand lightly on my back as he speaks. I feel a glow of pleasure at his approving glance and supportive gesture.
‘In that case it is an even greater pleasure to welcome the two of you to Château de la Chapelle,’ Thomas smiles. ‘Shall we show you round the cellar first and then we can go and taste the wines?’
It’s a well-run operation. Annie and I have visited enough wineries in our time to be able to spot signs of sloppiness or taking shortcuts and there are none here.
Patrick proudly shows us the nuts and bolts of the cellar, the gleaming, surgically clean steel vats; the vast yellow Vaslin press, the de-stemming machine and assorted pumps and long coils of plastic tubing, stowed in the corners for now but ready for action when the hectic days of harvesting begin next month. They show us the bottling room where the machinery stands quiet for the moment amidst orderly metal cages of filled bottles, waiting to be labelled and have the capsules put over their corks when orders come in. And they usher us through to the hallowed coolness of the barrel cellar where the previous year’s wine rests quietly in softly scented barrels of French oak, taking on the wood’s subtle flavours for a final twist of finesse and smoothness.
Our tour finally over, Thomas leads us to the back of the house where a shady terrace gives onto the vineyard. We sit down at a table spread with a checked cloth and Robert tells us about his work in the vines. ‘We practise culture raisonnée, using as few pesticides and chemicals as possible and encouraging the vines to find their own balance and strength. It’s not quite organic, but it’s reassuring to have the treatments to fall back on if necessary; for example, if we have a cool, damp summer, like last year, when mildew can become a problem and threaten the harvest. But you will know all this already of course,’ he smiles at us.
Thomas adds, ‘People in Britain tend to ignore the fact that French wine is often a more natural product than its non-European counterparts. And of course, wine from Europe has less far to travel than New World wines, so it’s a far greener product with a much smaller carbon footprint. These things are becoming more important, I think, and we need to get the message across.’
Patrick has disappeared into the house and emerges carrying a tray laden with glasses and bottles. Thomas leaps up to help his father, deftly opening the two reds to let them breathe a little before we begin with the whites. They’re delicious—an un-oaked Sauvignon Blanc with just a hint of Sémillon to soften and balance the acidity, and a more complex oaked wine, heavier on the Sémillon, made in a more sophisticated, almost Burgundian style. Then there’s a crisp Clairet, the perfect wine for a hot summer’s evening with its mouth-watering cherry flavours. And finally we taste the two reds, the medal-winning oaked version and a simpler un-oaked one. They’re really well-made Clarets, smooth, fruity Merlot with a tantalising edge of spicy Cabernet Sauvignon.
Annie seems to be seriously interested in the wines and Thomas gives her a bundle of tasting notes, technical details and prices. With a flourish, he adds his card to the pile of literature. She picks it up and examines it. ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘Sorry I haven’t got any of my cards with me. But I’ll pass this on to my colleague who handles Bordeaux. It’s just a shame it isn’t Gina any more these days.’
He passes me a card as well. ‘Give us a ring any time if we can be of assistance with your studies.’
It’s very pleasant indeed sitting on this beautiful terrace talking to these knowledgeable and charming men, but reluctantly I realise it’s half past seven and they will no doubt all be wanting to get home to their families and their Friday night suppers. Cédric has been quite quiet during the course of the evening. A few times I’ve caught him watching me when I’ve glanced surreptitiously at his face in the shadows where he sits listening to the Cortinis as they talk about their wines and occasionally asking Robert about his work in the vines or enquiring af
ter his family. Their easy friendship is obvious and they hug again fondly when we say goodbye. Old Monsieur Cortini plants enthusiastic kisses on the cheeks of his female guests and urges us to come and visit him again whenever we feel like it.
Cédric drops us back at the house, declining our offer of a further drink. ‘Merci, but we’re having supper at my mother’s house tonight. Another time perhaps though,’ he says. And do I imagine it, or is the look he gives me especially tender?
Obviously I don’t imagine it as, the minute he’s gone, Annie turns to me with a gleeful grin. ‘Well, you’ve certainly made a huge impression there, Gina Peplow. He couldn’t take his eyes off you all evening!’
‘Old Monsieur Cortini, you mean? Yes, well I am particularly attractive to septuagenarians, even if I do say so myself,’ I say in a vain attempt to deflect her.
‘Bollocks, Gina, you know I’m talking about Cédric. He’s besotted with you. He went to all that trouble to take us over there and bring us back. He didn’t need to be there at all. Probably just looking for an excuse to throw his awful harpy of a wife off the scent and spend an evening with you!’
‘Don’t say that,’ I wail in despair. ‘She’s truly, honestly not like that at all. She’s really lovely. I don’t know what’s going on, but I have to say I actually think the less of him for it. Honestly, what hope is there if even the most decent-seeming, well-thought-of, caring men behave like this?
‘I’m sick of it all,’ I continue bitterly, working myself up to a fury that surprises even me. ‘Lies, deception, cheating. It’s grubby and hurtful and... and wrong!’ I finish up somewhat lamely.
And I realise I don’t know whether I’m talking about my situation or my mother’s, whether I’m angry at Cédric or at my father and Liz. But one thing’s for sure: I can choose not to be part of anything like that. And that’s what I’m resolved to do.
♦ ♦ ♦
On the last night of her holiday, Annie takes me out to dinner at a restaurant on the banks of the river, looking back across the stretch of dark water in whose depths the lights of Sainte Foy gleam like a school of golden fish. As we walk in, a man at one of the tables stands up and says, ‘Bonsoir.’ It’s Robert Cortini, who shakes hands and introduces us to his wife, Christine. ‘It’s our wedding anniversary,’ he explains, ‘so we thought we’d treat ourselves.’
‘Congratulations,’ I reply. ‘Have a good evening.’ And we make our way to our table at the other side of the room, leaving them to their meal.
‘Isn’t it nice when you start recognising people when you are out and about?’ says Annie. ‘You must really be starting to feel like you belong.’
And I realise that she’s right. It’s as if this place—and the people in it—are quietly weaving silken threads, as fine as a spider’s web, that are beginning to bind me here.
We settle down with the menu. Once the waiter has taken our orders and deposited a basket of bread on the table before us, along with the bottle of chilled white wine that we’ve chosen, Annie reaches over and takes my hand. ‘Gina,’ she says seriously, ‘we need to talk.’
‘Oh no,’ I say in mock despair, ‘are you breaking up with me?’
‘Of course not, I’d never do that,’ she smiles. ‘But I am worried about you. You’ve stuck yourself away down here in the depths of France in that lonely house with only a cat for company. You’re not sleeping. And you’re not eating properly; you’re getting far too thin. And I couldn’t help but notice that casket on the table in the sitting room. I know it’s none of my business, but I’ve got a strong suspicion it’s not for keeping your secret stash of chocolate HobNobs in. It’s not healthy, you know, Gina. Having some time on your own is no bad thing, but you seem to be cutting yourself off completely. I know it’s hard for you to trust again after what that two-timing shithead Ed did to you, but you’re too young to turn yourself into a lonely cat-loving spinster with the remains of a dead person for company. Honestly, it’s like something out of a Hitchcock movie; you’re going to go potty and start murdering people. And don’t expect me to come and stay again if you do.’
I give her a watery smile, swallowing back the sudden tears that spring into my eyes. I know I’m pretty close to the edge, struggling to make sense of what my life’s become. And when she leaves tomorrow I’m going to be cut adrift again, floating aimlessly on an ocean, the solid ground of the life I used to know—or thought I did at least—having disappeared beyond the horizon. I hadn’t realised my fragile state was so obvious and thought I’d been doing a good job of keeping up the appearance of normality.
‘It’s like I said before,’ Annie continues, ‘you’ve got to get back into the saddle. Get out there again and meet somebody. Why don’t you come back to England? You can stay on my sofa bed while you look for a job. I know it’s not the easiest of times, but maybe I can help you find something in the wine trade. Or you could write, like your dad did.’
‘Oh, Annie, that’s kind of you, but I’m honestly okay here. I want to get the Master of Wine course under my belt and the studying will keep me busy in the autumn, plus a few trips back to England along the way. And I really do need some space at the moment. There are a few things I need to get sorted out in my head. Yes, admittedly I do have my aunt’s ashes in my sitting room, and I know that’s not the most normal state of affairs, but it’s only until I decide what to do with them. I just need a bit of time.’
She lets go of my hand to allow the waiter to put our starters down in front of us, and tucks in to an oyster, washing it down with an appreciative slurp of wine.
‘Well, okay, I’m going to give you ‘til Christmas. But if you aren’t looking better by then—and if you still have mortal remains sitting on your coffee table—then I’m coming over here to forcibly remove you. Deal?’
‘Deal,’ I say, laughing and holding my hands up in mock surrender. ‘Don’t worry; I’ll be fine.’
‘Well, in my opinion you’ll be fine a lot faster if you have a bit of good old-fashioned hot sex. I know, I know,’ she forestalls me as I try to interrupt, ‘I’m not saying it has to be with the gorgeous, perfectly compatible, thoroughly nice-seeming man who is obviously keen on you and whom you clearly like in return. Good grief, that would be making life far too easy, after all!’
‘Apart from the very serious complication that he’s married with children,’ I butt in.
‘Well, yes, there is that,’ she concedes with a sigh. ‘But what about Thomas Cortini? He seems to be unattached. Didn’t you like him? You’ve got his number; phone him up and say you want to come and give his sales strategy the once over. Or you need him to explain the ins and outs of malolactic fermentation. Or you’ll come and help him with his next bottling run. Whatever. Think up some spurious excuse and make a move. That’s what I’d do in your shoes.’
‘Ssh, keep your voice down, his brother might hear,’ I hiss, with a nod across the room to where Robert and his wife are tucking into their main courses. ‘And anyway, I don’t fancy Thomas Cortini,’ I protest.
‘Don’t you? I thought he was cute. But in any case, that’s not the point here. He may not necessarily be the one, but he may be able to introduce you to his other single friends. You have to make an effort, Gina, because men aren’t just going to come marching up your drive.’
‘Actually, you’re wrong there,’ I say with an airy wave of my hand. ‘Men seem to be always doing exactly that. Just not the right ones. But I do take your point and I promise I’ll make an effort. Anyway, let’s just enjoy our meal. Now, tell me, what’s on the agenda for when you get back...?’
After our meal, we emerge into the warm night air and wander across the bridge spanning the broad river, making our way back to the car. We stop beside one of the tall pillars covered with ivy and baskets of coral-pink petunias and lean on the parapet to gaze at the gold-flecked water flowing beneath us.
‘This is a beautiful place,’ murmurs Annie dreamily.
Perhaps it’s the wine making
me maudlin, but I’m suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of loneliness. ‘Oh, Annie, I’m going to miss you so much.’ I lean my head on her shoulder for a second. ‘Thank you for being such a good friend.’
She puts an arm around me and we stand like that companionably for a few moments.
‘Bonne nuit,’ says a quiet voice beside us and we pull apart and turn to see Robert and Christine Cortini who are walking across the bridge arm in arm.
‘Good night,’ we say. ‘We hope you had a good evening.’
They nod and smile, continuing on their way, and we follow in their wake a few minutes later, driving home, under a sky filled with stars, in comfortable silence.
CHAPTER TEN
The Harvest
To-Do list:
General self-improvement—ongoing as follows:
•45 mins Pilates + 30 mins walk (frustration at impossibility of love life now becoming intolerable)—daily
•Research online meditation courses leading to life of zen-like serenity
•MW coursework
•Eat properly to get Annie off my case
•Sleep well (see above)
The house is very quiet after Annie’s gone, leaving behind her a pile of sun-crinkled, suntan-lotion-smudged magazines and a faint whiff of her Kenzo Amour perfume.
The August heat continues day after day and, despite the odd rumble of thunder carried on the thick night-time air now and then, there’s no rain. By the end of the month even the vines are starting to look parched, the green rows dusty and a few leaves starting to bleach and fall. It’s perfect weather for finishing off the ripening of the black Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon grapes though, concentrating the flavours and sweetness into the promise of a full-blooded, heady vintage.
I’ve grown so used to the quiet company of just an old black cat and my own thoughts that I jump out of my skin when the chirp of the telephone suddenly breaks the silence one morning, almost tripping over the threshold as I dash inside to answer it.