Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

  It’s a quiet affair, apart from the slurping and the spitting. I attempt to slurp and end up coughing and choking so I stick to clearing glasses and pouring wine instead. They have done four wines. Selina nods but says very little. Charlie has hardly touched a drop, saying he knows the wines and putting his abstinence down to his fitness regime. Isaac, on the other hand, isn’t spitting. One more wine and then it’s Madame Beaumont’s. I pour, they taste and then I collect the glasses, which clink together in my shaking hands as I go to put them in the sink.

  ‘So, just this last one. Our biggest and best seller,’ Charlie tells her. One of the glasses slips from my hands and clatters into the sink. They all turn to look at me.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, heart doing its bass beat again, deafening me.

  Charlie pours the wine. Isaac lifts a glass. Charlie pours me one and hands it to me. I take it with shaking hands and he smiles encouragingly. Isaac sniffs the wine and then swiftly looks at me, quizzically, frowning and then takes a big draw through his nose on the wine again. I follow and sniff, the familiarity of the wine’s bouquet comforting me a little. Charlie doesn’t seem to have noticed anything is amiss. He’s watching Selina, sniffing, swilling it round the glass and looking at it. Charlie doesn’t sniff it, just holds it.

  ‘Interesting,’ she says, looking slightly confused. Isaac throws me another look. He knows . . . oh God, he knows. A hot flush creeps up my chest and into my cheeks, making them burn.

  Finally, after they have swilled, studied and sniffed, Selina and Isaac sip, as do I. The taste reminds me of Madame Beaumont’s vineyard. It tastes of the sunny hillside, the wild herbs that grow there, rosemary and thyme. It’s rich and thick. I can picture the light brown stony soil that the vines have worked hard to draw moisture from and I imagine the breeze that is always there. There’s a hint of something I can’t quite put my finger on but reminds me of the sunny evenings I have spent there.

  No one says anything. Isaac is now giving me a raised eyebrow. Charlie is watching Selina. Selina is still moving the wine around her mouth and finally she swallows.

  She gives a slow nod and then looks at me and says, ‘What do you think, Emmy?’

  For a moment I’m stunned and can’t say a word. I look at Isaac. He nods at me. Charlie turns to me a little surprised and slightly nervous.

  ‘I, er, I believe it’s . . .’ I clear my throat, ‘an interesting take on the standard claret. Grown on south-facing slopes and really fabulous terroir. Practically organic, the grapes are left to grow and develop without too much intervention. Well-established vines, giving a high-quality yield.’ I omit that the vines are ancient and have a very low yield. ‘It has the traditional blend of the three grapes of the region, and then . . .’ I wonder if I’ve said too much but can’t stop now, ‘a little something extra.’

  Isaac gives an approving smile, holding the glass by the stem, swirling as he always does, before tipping the glass back and drinking.

  ‘It is easy drinking, appealing to wine lovers and the uninitiated alike. It tastes of wild thyme, rosemary, and is grown right here in Petit Frère. It has all the quality of a Saint Enrique wine without the price tag. This is a wine that’s made with love, passion and patience, and I believe it shows,’ I finally finish, and wonder whether I should have told her about Henri and Cecil and Madame Beaumont.

  Isaac slides off the work surface he’s been sitting on, puts down his glass and claps. ‘Well done, Emmy, great notes.’

  Suddenly I replay everything I’ve just said about the wine, surprising myself and actually feeling a surge of pride. I blush all over again, but turn back to Charlie, who still doesn’t seem to have realised, and my mouth goes dry.

  ‘May I see the bottle?’ Selina holds out a manicured hand.

  ‘Sure,’ Charlie lifts the bottle from its sleeve and I know I’m about to be found out. I go hot and then cold.

  ‘Sorry, there seems to be—’ he starts to say, and turns to look at me, but Selina cuts him off.

  ‘If you can guarantee a high-quality, consistent blend that matches this, and that you can provide a constant supply, I’m interested. Let me know. I have a few more places to visit but this is definitely one of my favourites on this trip so far. We’re looking for a wine that we can roll out to all our stores, a good solid claret with just a hint of something remarkable is what I’m looking for. This could be it. I’ll be in touch.’ She puts down the glass and scoops up her car keys from the table.

  Charlie is stunned, still holding Madame Beaumont’s bottle. I want to squeal with excitement. Isaac is grinning broadly.

  ‘Well, that’s fantastic.’ Charlie spins to me on his heel and then back to Selina.

  ‘I have another meeting to make, a wine-maker in the next town,’ Selina says. ‘Nice to meet you, Emmy,’ she smiles, ‘Isaac.’ She lingers on Isaac’s name a little longer and gives him a nod of the head goodbye. Charlie seems a little flustered, dumbfounded. He opens the door for her.

  ‘Thank you. Great. We’ll be in touch soon,’ he says as she steps out.

  ‘Emmy, we’ll talk,’ he turns back to me and suddenly my little happy bubble is burst and I’m gripped by dread. Shit!

  ‘I can explain!’

  ‘You know,’ he says, putting his head back in through the tasting-room door. ‘You’ve obviously learned enough about wine to know it was no mistake that bottle was there instead of the other one.’

  I cringe.

  ‘But luckily for you, it looks like things might just have worked out for the best, so like I say, we’ll talk.’ Then Charlie breaks into a massive smile. ‘Over dinner. My treat,’ he beams, and I smile widely back as he goes to wave goodbye to Selina.

  Suddenly there is silence in the tasting room and a great big elephant is standing in the middle of it between me and Isaac.

  ‘Well,’ Isaac says, and then tips back his head and drinks the last of Madame Beaumont’s wine. He smacks his lips. ‘This will be a great wine to work with.’ He looks as if someone’s just dared him and he’s well up for it.

  ‘Pull this deal off and you could get your job and your man,’ he says, for once without smiling, and lollops out of the tasting room, back towards the lab.

  I pull out my phone and try to ring home. I need to take my mind off Isaac’s words running through my head, ruining what just happened, and I need to put things right with Dad. But this time his phone just rings and rings.

  The bubbles tickle my nose like a feather duster as I take a sip of the amber liquid.

  ‘Crikey,’ I say, holding the back of my hand to my mouth and hoping the bubbles don’t make me hiccup.

  ‘Everything all right?’ asks Charlie, putting the bottle back in the wine cooler and covering it with a thick, white serviette.

  I nod and take away my hand.

  ‘It’s not like the Jolly Sava Cava I buy for the call centre.’ I look at the glass. I’m twittering, I know. Charlie holds his glass up and then meets my gaze with his sparkling green eyes, burning a hole in my soul, and I’m suddenly silenced. His silver wine bottle cufflinks catch the light. He gives me one of his wide, cheeky smiles.

  ‘It’s Château Lavigne. Only the best. Here’s to you, Emmy. You did a great job today.’

  ‘I really am sorry I swapped the wines.’

  ‘Like I say, it could have been a very different story. You could have totally stuffed things up, but I like your balls. You showed a lot of passion for the product in there today. You killed it! I didn’t know we had such a star player in our midst.’

  I feel the bubbles of excitement fizz up inside me.

  Holding the glass by the stem, Charlie takes a tiny sip.

  ‘The crémant – the sparkling wine,’ I say, just in case my accent has let me down. ‘It’s delicious.’ As he sips he holds my gaze. I copy him and I think the bubble
s of excitement might just explode in me. I take away the glass from my lips and this time I do hiccup and then blush.

  ‘Shit,’ I say under my breath.

  He laughs, looking straight at me, those eyes gleaming. He looks different, interested, attentive. His face more relaxed away from the office. He holds my gaze once again, making me feel like I’m the only person there in the busy hilltop town, in the bustling restaurant. My insides melt and I don’t want the evening to end.

  The table for two is on a terrace under a patio heater, looking out over the town of Saint Enrique. The early October evenings are beginning to lose their heat and I’m glad I’ve brought a jacket. Brass lanterns light the way down the steep cobbled streets like molten lava rolling through the tiny, tight alleys, passing the low-ceilinged, busy shops cut into the steep hillside. I can see why this is seen as Petit Frère’s better-known neighbour.

  I pull the pashmina I’ve borrowed from Gloria around me. It’s getting cooler. There are big cream candles burning all over the terrace, creating a golden glow off the cream stone-work. There are huge cream cushions with twisted cord edges on the black wrought-iron chairs. There are black settees under an arbour, draped with cream awnings where people are enjoying aperitifs and coffees. This must be the most expensive restaurant in the town. Its location is amazing. Over the stone wall surrounding the terrace, as far as I can see, are neat rows of vines, and big cream châteaux dotted across the patchwork quilt of vineyards. It’s like looking at a painting. I find it hard to drag my eyes away to the menu. There are no prices on mine.

  Tourists are walking past, stopping to read the framed menu outside and looking in enviously at the busy yet serene ambiance on the restaurant terrace. I’m feeling very lucky – I look at Charlie in the golden candlelight – very lucky indeed.

  I’ve covered myself in the insect repellent Gloria offered me, just to be on the safe side. I look down from the beautiful view to the menu, and it’s still all gobbledygook to me.

  ‘So, what do you fancy?’ Charlie is reading the menu and I find myself having a really naughty thought that says, You! Then I quickly tell myself that the champagne may taste nice but it’s clearly having a rather loosening effect and I take a sip of water instead.

  The waitress is beside us. I don’t want to look stupid, not now. And I don’t want to say, ‘I’ll have what you’re having.’

  ‘Madame?’

  ‘I’ll have what the chef recommends,’ I say with a smile I hope looks confident, handing back the menu.

  ‘Of course, très bien,’ the efficient but not smiling waitress replies.

  Charlie raises an impressed eyebrow. ‘I’ll do the same. Moi aussi. Merci,’ he says, handing back the menu.

  ‘Bien sûr, monsieur,’ smiles the stick-thin, olive-skinned beauty, taking away the menus and making a jotting on her electronic notepad.

  ‘So, you know about wine? I didn’t realise.’ Charlie leans forward, twisting his glass of sparkling water next to his practically untouched crémant. ‘Isaac never said.’ At the mention of his name I feel a strange shifting inside me again. Not so much irritation any more. I can’t help but think fondly about the smile he put on Madame Beaumont’s face when he told her he liked her wine. I take another swig of the glorious fizz and wonder whether to lie to Charlie and tell him I’ve learned all about wine, but I’ve diced with danger once already today when I hid that bottle. I won’t risk it again.

  ‘Actually, no, I don’t know about wine,’ I say honestly. ‘Just that wine.’

  ‘Ah yes, Madame Beaumont’s wine, not our best seller, which I thought Selina was trying.’

  I feel like a naughty schoolgirl in the headmaster’s office. I chew my bottom lip. It was always the same at school: I’d get into trouble for not doing my school work, or getting it wrong. Or standing up to the boys who pulled my thick curly hair in class, or for defending my sister when she started school and the same gang would tease her because of her pigtails and glasses. They should see her now – stunning! And then of course, after Mum died, well, I had to be there for Jody. I didn’t mind if I got into trouble. Nothing the teachers could say to me could be worse than what had already happened.

  When Mum went out that night, Dad kept telling me she’d be back soon. I wanted to run after her, tell her not to go, but he told me not to, she’d be fine. They’d had a silly row. Mum had been working a double shift, Dad was supposed to be doing the tea. He’d put the sausages on the side and next door’s cat stole them. I think it was just the last straw. Money was tight; they were working all they could. Dad was being forced off his patch by another sweet sales rep. They were stressed. It was just a stupid packet of sausages. But it was all they had for tea. Mum went out to buy some more.

  It was wet and miserable. A huge thunderstorm. Dad said she’d be back soon. And maybe she would’ve been if the driver coming towards her hadn’t been driving too fast in the rain. It was just after my A levels retakes. I was due to start a nursing course. Mum and Dad were so proud of me. I started, but Dad wasn’t coping and I hated seeing him that way. The school were worried about Jody, so I came home. Just until things settled down and then I’d go back. It was never meant to be for ever.

  ‘So how do you know Madame Beaumont and her wine?’ Charlie interrupts my thoughts and is topping up my glass, and I push them to the back of my mind, letting myself enjoy feeling deliciously light headed. ‘Dad says she doesn’t like to deal with anyone but him usually.’

  ‘She’s been helping me . . .’

  The waitress arrives with our starters. ‘Et voilà. Fois gras avec truffes.’

  It looks wonderful. A small square of pink pâté, with shavings of black-edged truffle on a bed of curly, green salad leaves. She places a basket of sliced French bread in between us, soft and fluffy inside, and glossy and crunchy on the outside.

  ‘Merci,’ I smile at the non-smiling waitress. ‘She’s been showing me about the vines and the wines. Helping me learn.’

  ‘Hasn’t Isaac been doing that?’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s not that . . . it’s . . .’ Oh shit! I can’t tell him I find learning from the page hard – that I’m dyslexic – it would be professional suicide. Exams were always particularly hard. I used to learn stuff by sticking it on Post-its all around the kitchen. Dad would sit with me when I was writing out homework late into the night, even if there was nothing he could do to help. And Mum would try to get me to make up songs to remember stuff. Maybe I should try that with the Featherstone’s bible now! But instead I tell him what the voice in my head is saying.

  ‘How can you sell what you have not experienced?’ I say with a rather exaggerated Gallic shrug, and I realise I am completely channelling Madame Beaumont now. Definitely the champagne talking.

  Charlie lifts his eyebrow again and nods in agreement. In the background there is a pianist inside playing soft and gentle jazz music.

  ‘So you’ve become good friends?’

  I don’t know about friends but I tell him the story of the purse and then me knocking over the bottles and going back to help put them back. But it had already been done and I wanted to help out.

  ‘She’s an old lady. I thought she might find it hard to cope alone. I wanted to help.’ How little I knew, I think.

  ‘This is excellent.’ I’m not sure if he’s talking about Madame Beaumont or the fois gras. ‘And I understand the terroir is pretty amazing up there,’ Charlie says.

  ‘How do you know that? Sorry, I’m even sounding like Madame Beaumont now,’ I say, and he laughs.

  ‘Isaac,’ he answers.

  Oh, Isaac, of course.

  ‘He says you gave him a tour. Perhaps I should come and talk to Madame Beaumont, tell her what’s on offer. If she lets us take over the care of the vines, the harvest, produce the wine, we can make it consistent and quicker.’ Charlie suddenly
sounds much more business-like.

  I find myself laughing.

  ‘I don’t think she’d take kindly to that. I mean, I’m sure she’ll be really appreciative that you still want to take her wine, but, well . . . she’s not too keen on strangers. Ask Isaac.’ I smile at the image of Madame Beaumont holding him hostage with her thumbstick, his hands in the air, and jumping this way and that as she swipes at his ankles with it.

  The starters finished and cleared, glasses now topped up with a thick, gutsy red, Charlie nods, listening.

  ‘So how should we handle this?’ he asks.

  ‘Voilà!’ says the very skinny waitress, seamlessly putting down large white plates in front of us.

  ‘For Madame, wild seabass,’ she announces with a flourish. The smell hits my senses before she’s even taken her hand away. ‘With fresh herbs, caviar from Arcachon, wild rice risotto and leeks. For Monsieur, magret de canard, a local speciality. With mushroom from the region, prunes, frites and petits pois. Bon appétit,’ she says, refilling our bread basket and checking we have everything before turning away.

  ‘Wow, this looks amazing,’ I sniff it in and then look at Charlie’s.

  ‘C’est bon?’ the maître d’, in short-sleeved white shirt and waistcoat, stops and asks us.

  ‘Bon,’ I agree, and smile.

  ‘So she’s not going to jump for joy at this proposition.’ Charlie frowns, knife and fork poised, bringing us back to Madame Beaumont despite the seducing smells from my plate.

  ‘She just needs careful handling,’ I tell him. ‘She’s very suspicious.’ The wine is loosening my tongue. ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong,’ I say quickly, ‘she needs the business.’ I cut into the fish and take a mouthful. It’s wonderful, filling my mouth with buttery fish flavour and herbs. I finish my glass and then carry on. ‘She’d go out of business without Featherstone’s. And then the château would want to take over.’ I stop.

  ‘So Château Lavigne want the land?’ Charlie tops up my glass.