Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘So? Who is he?’ Candy cuts across my thoughts, looking hugely inconvenienced.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man in your bed!’ She tuts with irritation.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I shrug, trying to push out of my mind the picture of him in my bed and the annoyance that comes with it. ‘Maybe a holidaymaker they forgot was booked in,’ I try to dismiss him. ‘Look, I know you’re not keen on having me in here –’ I’m not that thrilled myself either. Sharing with the woman whose engagement collection I borrowed is frankly making me squirm with embarrassment – ‘but it’s the only bed left in the house, so we’re just going to have to lump it.’ I swallow hard. She falls silent for a while, turning back to the dressing-table mirror and tonging her hair again. I pull my belongings out from my suitcase and find an empty drawer to put them in, each of us ignoring the other. Then suddenly Candy turns back to me.

  ‘You don’t think . . . ?’ she says mischievously.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t think he’s joining our team, do you? Like, another sales agent?’

  We both stop to think about this.

  ‘Shit!’ I say under my breath. She might be right. The competition is hard enough without there being any more contenders, especially not really annoying, cocky ones. Candy, on the other hand, practically blossoms at the prospect.

  I go back to my holdall, pulling out my best and only dress, which I bought for my sister’s wedding six years ago now, just after her first baby was born.

  I can hear my best friend, Layla’s, voice telling me I should’ve treated myself to something new, that I deserve something. But I’m skint. Layla used to work with us. We’ve sat opposite each other for years. Now she’s left I feel, well, bereft, in a funny sort of way. Layla has finally found true love and is trying to convince me it’s not too late for me either. But frankly, as the only prospective partners I ever meet are Cadwallader’s sales agents, I’m not convinced she’s right. I wish Layla was here now, I really do. I shake out the dress and find my thoughts flicking back to Charlie and wonder what Layla would make of him. Attractive, smart, in his own business – frankly, he has everything going for him. I look at the dress, wondering whether to put it on. Well, there’s no harm in trying to make a better impression than the one I left him with. I start getting changed.

  ‘Fancy yourself for this job then, do you?’ Candy’s smiling at me, like a teasing hyena.

  ‘Well . . .’ I clear my throat and try to smile confidently. I can’t, my jaws lock up.

  ‘You’ll need to toughen up if you’re going to be in the running. Especially if we’ve got a new, good-looking fella on the block. Mind you, don’t tell my Dean. He gets really jealous.’ Candy laughs and looks back into the mirror. ‘And maybe lose the nanny look.’ She nods at my reflection.

  An hour later and I’ve changed four times but am back in my dress. I’ve added a bit more lipstick to brighten myself up, and a scarf, but I’m not sure about it. I know I shouldn’t be worried what Candy thinks of me, but she must be doing something right. She’s probably hot favourite for the job and is certainly looking pleased with herself. I need to be more like it. As Trevor always says before one of his Monday morning sing-alongs, ‘A happy agent is a high-selling agent.’

  I change my mind about the scarf . . . and the lipstick. And then I run a hairbrush through my curls and try to pin them back off my face, without success.

  Downstairs, we gather in the living room. Nick is dressed in another pair of chinos, a light blue and pink shirt with a purple jumper over his shoulders, and Gloria is wearing a cotton button-up dress that is straining at the bust, a cardigan, presumably in case it’s cold, and a scarf draped haphazardly but not seeming to care.

  ‘Right, ready to go?’ Nick rubs his hands together.

  ‘Hey,’ the man who was in my bed sticks his head out of the kitchen and waves a hand.

  ‘Oh, no,’ I mutter, and try and hide behind Nick, hoping he doesn’t see me. Everything about him just seems to make my hackles rise. He had the cheek not only to be in my bed, but not even to apologise. He pulls a headphone out of one ear and lets it dangle.

  ‘I’m Isaac. Anyone fancy a beer?’ He’s holding one in his hand and dropping crumbs of bread from the care basket that was left for us, in the other. ‘Sorry, it’s been a long day, long flight and all that. Hey, you look great,’ he gestures to me behind Nick, dropping more crumbs. I try to smile a thank you. ‘I didn’t recognise you . . . with your clothes on,’ he delivers, and laughs, getting the right reaction from the others. Gloria’s mouth opens, Candy hoots with laughter and Nick pulls an ‘awkward’ face. I grit my teeth with irritation.

  ‘Sorry, we have to be somewhere,’ I say, far more haughtily than I mean to, and I turn towards the glass-panelled front door.

  ‘Oh, me, too!’ He looks at his watch and tosses the last of the bread into his mouth. ‘Dinner at the Tire-bouchon, by any chance?’

  My heart hits the worn, terracotta-tiled floor; so he is another agent.

  ‘You’re coming with us?’ Candy sways towards him, smiling like a praying mantis.

  ‘U-huh,’ he nods. ‘I’m Isaac. Charlie’s new travelling wine man. Just in from California. I guess I’m the one who’s going to be teaching you everything you need to know about wine.’

  Candy suddenly switches from combative colleague to simpering student, slips her arm through his and leads him to the door, her big round full bottom swaying from side to side, followed by Nick, who has suddenly got a serious face on, and Gloria, who, typically, says nothing.

  ‘I’m dying to know everything you can teach me,’ Candy oozes as we step out into the warm, sunny evening. Over the river the sun is dipping in the sky, just like my spirits, as the prospect of the new job falls just a little further out of reach. If I’m going to have any chance of keeping the bailiffs from taking my and Dad’s home I need to start making a seriously good impression. But how?

  The walk along the riverbank is a quiet affair. Even the glass or two of crémant, a sparkling wine, in the tasting room with Colette hasn’t loosened us up. Well, maybe Candy. Nick, Gloria and I follow behind Candy, who is walking with Isaac. There is an uncomfortable silence between us. We’re all of us strangers, none of us has worked in the same department at Cadwallader’s, but I can’t help wondering if they’ve worked out about me, wondering what on earth I’m doing here. I need to keep my distance.

  Knowing we are going to be housemates, even roommates, for the next twelve weeks and all of us hoping for the same prize at the end of that time, is playing heavily on our minds, by the looks of it.

  The restaurant is a short walk back to the town and just the other side of the square. We pass the boules court where men are still playing as the sun dips over the Dordogne, and pass the mairie along the road that hugs the riverbank. The lights strung around the outside decking area as we approach Le Tire-bouchon look like fireflies, lighting up the front of the restaurant. The smell of searing, seasoned steak over hot flames reaches out to greet us. It’s a single-storey building with a decking area as big as the restaurant itself. There are two large red and white wind-out awnings, and patio heaters dotted around, although not on in this warm and balmy evening. There are tables full of diners spread out over the decking and young waitresses with dark hair piled on top of their heads, skinny black jeans and wraparound black pinnies, moving between them, taking orders, bringing bottles of wine and collecting plates. There is a convivial hum of conversation in the air and gentle jazz playing in the background, and suddenly the tension we were feeling seems to seep away as we step on to the decking. It’s not a big place, but appears to be popular, with a traditional, relaxed feel to it. The river brings its own gentle chatter to the party, bumbling and tumbling past. A splash from the riverbank – a fish maybe – and another, and the quack of ducks pootling around, like
they’re having an evening stroll out. As earlier, rowers glide past, two and four in the boats, and behind them the whizz of the small motor boat with the man in it still shouting instructions into a loud-hailer, cutting through the chatter of the ducks and scattering them on their evening stroll. But even so, his French instructions seem to add a charm to the lovely atmosphere.

  I breathe in the evening air. I won’t be getting to eat out like this again while I’m here. Thank goodness the company are paying for this. I really haven’t got any spare cash for meals out, especially in places as smart at this. My friend Layla and I used to go to a local pizzeria every so often: I’d usually have a starter and say I was on a diet. She always ordered chips and two forks, knowing I wasn’t. I must text her later, I think to myself.

  ‘Bonsoir, Messieurs, Mesdames,’ says a smiling, friendly woman, with short hair, glasses, clutching a big pile of menus to her chest, and she holds out an arm to show us to our table. I follow our party as we’re guided through the large glass fold-back doors that lead from the decking into the restaurant. Inside, the hubbub of happy diners is even louder. Such a warm, welcoming sound. A smell of warm cream and zesty lemon wraps around me like a hug. There is a long table right in front of the doors. Sitting at the head of this is a man holding a walking stick. He looks up at me and smiles broadly. This must be old Mr Featherstone, Charlie’s dad. Beside him is a woman, and Charlie is there, too. Right, I think, and swallow down my shyness, smoothing my dress. This is my chance. It’s time to do some networking of my own.

  ‘Mr Featherstone?’ I smile, and hold out a hand, despite my nerves.

  ‘Good evening.’ He speaks slowly, and with effort. He doesn’t put out his hand and I realise he might not be able to. It looks like one side of his mouth and body are drooped. But he attempts a smile none the less and his eyes light up, just as his son’s do.

  ‘I’m Lena Featherstone,’ says the small, smart lady next to him, and shakes my hand. Charlie stands up and greets us all.

  ‘I’m Emmy Bridges from Cadwallader’s call centre,’ I try to say confidently to Lena Featherstone.

  ‘Well, pull up a seat, dear, and sit down. The food here is excellent and it’s so lovely to look out at the river.’

  A waitress passes by with a plate of fillet steak, little neat stacks of creamy sliced potatoes and firm green beans, and I nearly pass out from hunger with the smells from the garlicky glossy red wine sauce.

  ‘À la bordelaise,’ Lena Featherstone tells me, and points to the passing plate as if helping me to choose what to have already. ‘A Bordeaux speciality.’

  In her other hand, as the waitress passes between the tables and seated diners, is a plate of white filleted fish covered in a light yellow cream sauce, a sprinkling of bright green parsley and a slice of lemon on the side, and my mouth waters like it’s sprung a leak.

  Candy grabs a seat next to Charlie and pulls Isaac with her. Gloria is busy looking around at the lovely surroundings of the restaurant, seemingly drinking it in and smiling softly to herself. From the open kitchen a big smiling chef in glasses, his whites stretched over his belly, waves a hand while standing over a hot, fiery grill, hissing and spitting out red and orange flames. The friendly woman in glasses, who I’m thinking might be his wife, is handing us menus. Gloria looks like she’s in another world, looking everywhere and finally accepts the menu with a ‘Merci, Madame’.

  ‘Charlie,’ says Isaac, ‘how’s it going?’ He sticks out a hand.

  ‘Isaac?’ Charlie looks Isaac up and down, taking in his leather necklaces and casual attire with a slight frown of disapproval. Then says, ‘You made it,’ and smiles.

  ‘Yeah, man. Sorry I didn’t catch up earlier,’ Isaac says in his easy-going Californian accent, and puts a hand on his hip and runs his other over his hair. So that’s who Charlie was waiting for when he showed us round Featherstone’s earlier. And suddenly I remember, it was Isaac I saw in the restaurant, before I went to Madame Beaumont’s. He’d obviously had lunch and gone for an afternoon nap – in my bed. Charlie looks as if he’s awaiting a little more of an explanation or apology, but when it doesn’t come he steps out from the table and puts out a hand to shake Isaac’s. Isaac, however, grabs hold of Charlie’s hand and pulls him towards him, bumping shoulders and slapping him on the back. Charlie is only slightly caught off guard before giving himself to the embrace and slapping Isaac on the back too.

  ‘Here, sit down. How was your flight? Delayed?’ I get the impression Charlie’s taking that as the reason for Isaac’s casual look. ‘Did you find the gîte OK? Settled in?’

  Isaac gives me a sideways lazy grin that make my hackles rise again.

  ‘Oh, yeah, made myself at home, no problem. I just think my room may have been someone else’s before I got there,’ he jokes, then laughs and I cringe. ‘Ah, come on, Goldilocks, it was a genuine mistake.’ He opens out his palms and shrugs, still laughing. ‘I just took the first room that I saw, like Charlie said, to make myself at home when I arrived. I had no idea you were going to come in and go straight . . .’

  My toes curl, my neck burns hot. Stop now, I will him.

  ‘I just needed to get some shut-eye. No sleep, see. It was some leaving party.’

  ‘Ah,’ Charlie says, flicking out his napkin, and I swear I see another slight frown. He’s obviously a man who takes business very seriously. And why not? I think. That’s obviously why he’s doing so well.

  ‘So it’s bye-bye California, hello France for the next couple of months. Let’s hope the welcome back party is just as good!’ Isaac laughs again. Clearly he is a man who doesn’t take anything seriously. Candy joins in the laughter. ‘Ah, come on, Goldy,’ he says to me. ‘I haven’t scared you off already, have I?’ He stares at me teasingly, grinning, and I hold his stare, feeling just like I did at school when the boys teased me about my hair, pulling the ends of it and getting me into trouble for fighting back. I want to tell him a simple sorry for the misunderstanding earlier would’ve worked fine, but bite my tongue really hard. I can’t let him get to me.

  ‘It’ll take a lot more than the sight of you in your boxers to scare me off,’ I answer back with a plastered-on smile and a raised eyebrow, and then turn away, my neck and cheeks and even the tips of my ears burning with embarrassment.

  I turn back to Mrs Featherstone. ‘How long have you been in the area?’ I ask, clearing my tight throat, hoping the blush in my cheeks will die down, just as I’m offered white or red wine and point to the white, which is poured into my glass over my shoulder. I catch a glimpse of Charlie, who is giving Isaac a sideways look as if trying to weigh him up. Isaac is leaning back in his chair, Candy hanging on his every word as he describes the Californian wine house he’s just come from, where he’s been working for the last few months. I can’t help but find myself looking just a little longer than I should at Charlie’s profile. He really is a very attractive man.

  Mr Featherstone leans forward to me, jolting me from my thoughts and speaks slowly and deliberately. ‘Since 1982. Charlie was a boy,’ he says with effort.

  ‘We’ve always loved it here,’ says Mrs Featherstone. ‘But we divide our time now between here and the UK.’ She looks at her husband brightly and puts her hand on his. ‘We have summers in the UK, especially with the grandchildren being there,’ she tells me.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ I look at Charlie, who is now deep in conversation with Isaac, as he asks about the wine made at his last place, their practices and production levels. He’s married, of course he is! I tell myself off again for even letting myself find him attractive.

  ‘And since his divorce we make a special effort to stay close to them.’

  Oh, divorced! I quickly look at the menu to hide that I’ve probably been staring at Charlie and then realise I can’t understand a word of it. I try to pull up my schoolgirl French again, but instead decide to order exactl
y what Mrs Featherstone is having.

  ‘Soup and steak à la bordelaise.’

  ‘It’s wonderful.’ Mrs Featherstone leans into me. ‘Rich red wine sauce. And the steaks are cooked over vine cuttings.’

  The friendly waitress smiles and takes my menu from me. Nick is loudly translating the menu for Candy’s benefit. Candy tells Nick to order for her, but nothing with a head on it.

  Gloria quietly but confidently slips effortlessly into French with a soft, gentle accent and says, ‘Bonsoir, Madame. Je voudrais le confit de canard, au miel et au romarin, avec frites et haricots verts. Merci, Madame.’ Then, for the first time since we’ve been here, breaks out a big smile. The waitress smiles back.

  ‘Bien sûr, Madame.’

  So, Gloria speaks French, of course! That’s why she’s here.

  ‘Lucky you, speaking French; wish I could,’ I say, forgetting I was going to keep my distance but I can’t help but be impressed.

  ‘Duck confit,’ she tells me. ‘In honey and rosemary. I’ve . . . I’ve holidayed here a lot,’ she says by way of explanation, spreading her napkin over her thighs, surprising me. ‘Not recently, though,’ she adds thoughtfully.

  So that’s why she’s up for the job and, as impressed as I am and pleased for Gloria, inside I wilt a little bit more. Looks like everyone has their secret weapon. Gloria has French, Candy is a top-selling agent and will use all her charms to get what she wants, and Nick, well, by the way Nick’s studying the menu and referring to his translation app on his phone, Nick is a bit of geek and likes to know the details.

  ‘Charlie is taking over the running of the business so we can take it a bit easier,’ Mrs Featherstone continues as she hands her menu back to the waitress. I’m sure I hear Mr Featherstone harrumph. I catch his eye just briefly and then think maybe I imagined it.