by Daisy James
‘Oh, that was Matt Ashby. He very kindly agreed to step into the breach to drive the camper van after Alice’s accident. When the tour is done he’s going home to Northumberland after spending the season surfing on the north Cornish coast.’
‘You’re travelling the whole way round Cornwall in the company of that golden Adonis? You lucky, lucky girl, Emilie. And you have the audacity to suggest to me that you are thinking of quitting! Are you blind?!’
Chapter Seven
‘How did it go?’ asked Matt as they sat in the camper van in the hotel car park debating whether to explore Perranporth’s spectacular beach or press on to the next stop in the itinerary so there would be no delays in setting up the next Lucinda Loves…Desserts shoot the following day in Truro.
‘I thought the actual shoot went well in terms of the photography. The pictures are gorgeous. We used my scarf as a backdrop and it looked amazing against the white china, even if Lucinda did think it was ugly.’
Emilie smiled at Matt, grateful for his willingness to listen to her perform a post-mortem on her first solo shoot without Alice. It felt good to have a cheerleader friend urging her on from the sidelines, prepared to overlook her shortcomings whatever the consequences. So she felt she had to be completely honest with him and include the bad news too.
‘But as far as the mechanics of setting up the shoot are concerned, she thinks I’m totally incompetent: a Jumble Junkie who brings chaos and disorder to every shoot. And do you know what? She’s right. I am. There’s no way I can ever aspire to achieving Alice’s level of orderliness. But Marcus, that’s her personal assistant you met in the suite, has given me a stern talking-to and I’m more determined than ever to toss out my Clutterbug name badge and replace it with one entitled Efficient Emilie.’
‘She can’t be that bad.’ Matt chuckled.
‘You haven’t met her, Matt. Do you know what one of my friends referred to her as after she was forced to do a photo shoot with her last year? The Devil Who Wears an Apron. Suzie even had to book a week at a silent yoga retreat to recover from the trauma afterwards!’
Matt let out a resounding guffaw. ‘No way. Look, why don’t you take some time out to put this assignment into perspective. In fact, I’ve got an idea that might just be the antidote to all your problems. Fancy coming with me for a drink? Don’t worry, Truro isn’t far. We can be there in an hour and if you like I can even place myself at your disposal to set up the next shoot so that everything is spot on. What do you say?’
Emilie stared at Matt, the golden hairs on his forearms rippling in the gentle afternoon breeze. The parting words Marcus had uttered came floating back to her. She was indeed fortunate to have Matt Ashby as her chauffeur for the trip and it would be churlish to turn down his offer to help divert her self-induced despondency.
‘Sounds like a fabulous idea.’ She smiled and as her eyes met Matt’s her spirits nudged up a notch. ‘You don’t have to help with the set-up, though. That’s my problem, and I’m definitely going to pull out all the stops on the Truro shoot. I intend to memorise every single word of Alice’s notebook – every recipe, every prop, every angle – so that it’s perfect.’
‘Now that’s the Emilie Roberts I thought was lurking beneath the surface. Why don’t you study the notebook whilst I drive?’
‘Where exactly are we going?’
‘It’s a surprise so you’ll just have to wait and see. Afterwards I’ll drive us to our overnight stop in Truro so we can both get a decent night’s rest. I don’t know about you but last night’s shenanigans have started to catch up with me.’
Emilie settled back against her seat, plonked her feet on the dashboard and tried to absorb Alice’s neatly printed notes. Sitting alongside Matt calmed her anxiety. His presence brought a joyous vibe to the journey that hadn’t been there with Alice and her version of tightly controlled order. His relentless cheerfulness and positivity was something she hadn’t experienced for months, if not years.
Brad wasn’t blessed with an optimistic nature, preferring to err on the side of negativity and professional envy, mingled with a dash of well-meaning but sometimes harsh criticism; whereas Matt had an innate knack of making her feel as if she could achieve anything, no matter how unlikely.
She fought to quash the insistent blade of interest that had appeared at Matt’s suggestion of a decent night’s sleep. He had his tent to sleep in, but would his presence just beyond the camper van door prove irresistible? Warmth flushed through her body as she succumbed to her own very personalised version of a Hollywood romcom in which the heroine and the hero were only able to resist each other’s sexual magnetism for so long before succumbing to the inevitable desire to…
‘We’re here. What do you think?’
Emilie slapped Alice’s notebook shut and turned to look out of the passenger-side window so that Matt couldn’t see her reddened face. She gasped at the lush panoramic hillside that extended in front of them. Neat rows of vines undulated over the south-facing slopes like a regiment of parallel caterpillars in a race towards the horizon. The vista was more akin to a valley in the south of France than south-east Cornwall.
‘A friend of mine, Hugo Latimer, lives here. He owns and runs this vineyard and, would you believe, he makes his own wine. I’ve known him since I set up my brewery, and he always lets me bunk in with him whenever I need a break from the tent. I reckon he’d love to show us round his winery and let us taste some of his award-winning wines. Would you believe he won a gold medal in the International Wine Challenge this year for his sparkling wine?’
‘That’s amazing. I can’t believe you can actually grow grapes here.’
‘Wait until you taste the wine Hugo produces. You are in for a real treat. Come on.’
Matt leapt out of the driver’s seat and jogged to the front door of the attractive farmhouse like an excitable puppy on his first foray into the countryside. A tall, rangy man in his mid-thirties appeared at the door, his hands stuck in the pockets of his sleeveless Barbour jacket, his feet encased in a pair of navy Wellington boots. If Emilie had to sketch a picture of what she’d thought Hugo the English winemaker would look like, this would have been it.
‘Hey, Hugo!’
‘Matt? What are you doing here? I thought you’d be on your way back to Northumberland by now. Come in, come in. Oh, you’ve brought a friend. Hi, I’m Hugo Latimer, proud owner of all you see before you.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Emilie smiled, shaking Hugo’s outstretched hand until a black and white springer spaniel lolloped towards her, anxious not to miss being part of the action. Emilie reached down to ruffle his silky ears whilst he nuzzled her hand in the hope of a treat.
‘Hugo, this is Emilie Roberts. She’s a product photographer working on a culinary road trip with Lucinda Carlton-Rose and I’ve been roped in to drive this little beauty around Cornwall. Beats hitch-hiking. And this, Emilie, is Poppy. I see you are firm friends already.’
Emilie laughed. ‘Hi, Poppy!’
They followed Hugo into the best example of a high-spec farmhouse kitchen Emilie had ever seen. Clearly this spectacular room was where the winery received its paying customers. Every surface shone with either polished oak or stainless steel and the refrigerator was more akin to a walk-in closet than an average kitchen appliance. The room smelled of freshly ground coffee with a faint background hint of yeast.
‘Any chance of a tasting, Hugo? I promised to prove to Emilie that England can give the rest of the European wine industry a run for its money. If there’s no real ale on the menu, then the next best thing is a bottle of Hugo’s sparkling white.’ Matt smirked at his friend.
Hugo reached into the mammoth fridge and extracted a chilled bottle before setting out three crystal glasses and pouring an inch of the pale fizz into each. Emilie took a tentative sip, rolling the liquid around her mouth, savouring the sharp tang of the effervescent bubbles on her tongue. She tasted zingy green apples with a top note of e
lderflower and gooseberries.
‘It’s wonderful, Hugo.’
‘Hugo won’t blow his own trumpet, so I’ll do it for him. That wine you’ve just tasted, Emilie, has won a number of prestigious awards.’
‘Not as many as you have, my old friend!’ Hugo laughed. ‘Have you reconsidered your decision on the brewery yet?’
‘I haven’t,’ shot back Matt, before swiftly changing the subject. ‘Why don’t you let Emilie taste one of the rosés.’
Emilie wondered why Matt, the most relaxed person she had ever encountered, bristled at the mention of his microbrewery, which he’d told her he’d closed down two years ago. She glanced at Hugo’s resigned expression as he selected a bottle of his rosé, unscrewed the top and poured them each a glass.
‘What do you think?’
‘Absolutely delicious. I can taste cranberries, redcurrants and then a hint of strawberry.’
‘We hand-tend all our vines throughout the year. I also believe in minimal intervention so we also hand-pick the grapes when they’re ripe. Come on. I’ll give you a quick tour.’
‘Would you mind if I took a few photographs?’
‘No problem, be my guest.’
Matt declared he was as familiar with the vineyard as the back of his hand so decided to remain in the kitchen to fix himself some coffee. Emilie realised that Hugo, whether inadvertently or not, had touched a nerve. She followed Hugo, with Poppy skittering at his heels, into the cobbled courtyard and then through a sturdy wooden gate into the field leading to the vines.
The view was stunning yet quintessentially English, with row upon row of spindly branches woven through taut wires twisted around wooden posts. The grapes had been harvested and the vines looked curiously bare, yet they still had a unique beauty that she relished photographing.
‘I couldn’t help noticing that Matt cut you off when you asked about his microbrewery,’ began Emilie as she continued to snap photographs of the vineyard so as not to look too interested in the answer. ‘He’s already told me how passionate he is about local beverages and you mentioned he’s won awards for his beers. I don’t understand why he decided to ditch it all for a life on the ocean waves when clearly he loves anything and everything drink-related. There’s no way I could even contemplate giving up my camera, even though things haven’t exactly been great this last year.’
‘You wouldn’t think it but Matt is an incredibly talented brewer. He’s a maestro in mixing flavours – herbs, fruit, spices, even flowers – and creating fresh ideas to experiment with. I’ve been grateful for his input on many occasions at the winery.’ Hugo crouched to the ground to remove a stray weed from beneath a vine. ‘You should taste his home-made mead!’
Emilie laughed. ‘I was lucky enough to sample a few glasses of his Cornish Mine Punch, which was amazing.’
‘It’s not just his brewery’s organic ales that won recognition from the industry, Matt also won a Young Entrepreneur of the Year award a few years back. He seemed to have a knack for marketing the products. The business was flourishing. I’ve been trying for months to persuade him to reconsider his decision to cease production.’
Emilie stopped snapping pictures and turned to look at Hugo, who was staring across his land towards the horizon. She was confused. She had assumed that the reason Matt’s microbrewery had closed was the same as for many small businesses struggling to make a profit in the economic climate. But here was Hugo telling her that not only had Matt won awards for his products but that the business was successful too.
‘Hugo, why…’
‘Come on, let’s get back. Matt will be wondering where we’ve got to.’ Hugo spun on his sturdy boots, called Poppy to heel and marched off to the farmhouse, with Emilie jogging in his wake, her brow creased in puzzlement. Clearly there was something both men were avoiding talking about.
‘Do you mind if I photograph a few bottles of your wine, Hugo? My friend Alice will be so envious of my visit to the vineyard. She classes herself as a wine aficionado, but that’s only because of the amount she drinks, not her eminent discernment of its origins. Maybe I could buy a couple of bottles to cheer her up?’
‘No problem. I’ll sort something out for you.’
Emilie took her time designing a montage of Hugo’s various wines around a hand-hewn wooden board bedecked with a bunch of grapes and a few vines she’d arranged in one of the crystal wine glasses to add depth. She raised her lens to check the ambient light and spent the next few minutes snapping some images.
‘Fabulous. Thanks, Hugo.’
Matt drained his coffee and reached out to shake his friend’s hand. ‘Thanks for the hospitality. I think we should be getting underway.’
‘Where are you staying? You’re more than welcome to stay here tonight you know.’
‘We’re heading off to Truro for the next shoot. Emilie takes the bed in the camper van and I’ve got my trusty old tent. We’ve decided to get started on the shoot first thing. It’s a new experience for Emilie.’ Matt smirked, obviously having recovered his equilibrium after Hugo had tossed the brewery grenade into the conversation.
‘Well, if you’re sure. It’s great to see you. Send my regards to your parents, won’t you?’ Hugo pulled Matt into a man hug and then it was Emilie’s turn. She had really warmed to this hard-working winemaker with the calloused hands and easy smile. ‘Have a great trip and make sure you call in again on your way back up.’
They jumped into the Satsuma Splittie and waved goodbye. As twilight tickled the horizon, sending ripples of dusky pinks and violets into the sky, Matt eased the van down the uneven track to the main road. A mellow mood descended between them as darkness pressed against the windscreen and they made their way to the campsite that had been reserved for them that night.
‘Thanks for taking me to Hugo’s. It was exactly what I needed after the day with Lucinda. I can see how hard he’s worked to get the vineyard up and running. His passion shines through and I’m sure he’s going to win more awards.’
‘No problem.’
Emilie wanted to broach the subject of Matt’s abandonment of his own business but didn’t quite know how to without risking a frosty response similar to the one Hugo had received – and Hugo was Matt’s friend. However, she had never been accused of skirting issues when a healthy interest in other people’s business was the alternative. So she asked, innocently, ‘How long have you known Hugo?’
‘Three or four years. We met at a conference for small, independent ale and wine producers in Brighton and just clicked. I loved what he was trying to do down here. Loved how he insisted on flying the flag for home-produced wines. I’ve always had an interest in beverages, much to my mother’s despair after my first attempt at brewing beer in my bedroom. The fermentation was so wild the whole vat exploded. I don’t think I ever totally eradicated the smell of hops from the carpet. Then I moved on to distilling the fruit my brother and I collected from the garden and the local hedgerows – Mum and Dad drank it but it was more like engine oil than gooseberry or blackberry wine.’
Emilie was about to broach the subject of his microbrewery when Matt took a sharp right turn and yanked on the handbrake.
‘We’re here. Now, I reckon it’ll take us no more than twenty minutes to get to Ashcroft Down Farm for the shoot tomorrow. How long do you think you’ll need for the set-up?’
‘About an hour.’
‘Okay, we’ll add an extra hour on just to make sure there’s plenty of time. That means we need to be on our way by nine a.m. at the latest. Do I need to set my alarm?’
Emilie saw the dimples reappear in his cheeks as he smiled across at her, his hands resting lightly on the incongruously large steering wheel.
As she slid back the door at the side of the van to allow Matt to retrieve his rucksack, she noticed an icy nip in the air. She fleetingly wondered if he would be okay in the tiny tent he had already begun pitching in the shadow of the camper van.
What was she thinking? She had only met the guy twenty-four hours ago, although it seemed like she’d known him for ever. She felt so comfortable with him by her side, unlike the previous six months when Brad had tended to instil a nervous tension into her veins whenever they were together. She had always been on tenterhooks that she might inadvertently upstage him whenever she had her camera in her hand.
Brad’s treatment of her had affected her confidence and the heightened nerves had increased her clumsiness. Matt’s brand of cheerfulness made her relax and she could feel her confidence ballooning. Nevertheless, Matt was still a stranger and it was ridiculous to contemplate sharing a bedroom with him.
She settled down on the makeshift bed and pulled her sleeping bag up to her chin. A sharply focused image of Brad floated across her mind’s eye, his dark mahogany eyes bright with laughter as she pictured him indulging in a gondola ride along the canals of Venice.
A shiver of irritation ran through her chest as she remembered that Italy should have been her assignment. She should have been eating spaghetti outside the Basilica at that very moment instead of curled into a sleeping bag in a deserted campsite in Cornwall with only a metal roof between her and the stars and potential hypothermia.
She groped around for her mobile to check her messages for the first time that day, her heart hammering in anticipation of a potential missive from Brad: perhaps an apology, an anecdote about the shoot, a word of conciliation, or even an invitation to join him?
As soon as the thought entered her head she banished it and chastised herself for succumbing to a brief bout of melancholy. She had to move on with her life, her head held high. She should resist looking backward as she planned her foray into the professionally uncharted waters as a potential freelance photographer in charge of her own itinerary of ambition without the need to allow for someone else’s creative aspirations.