Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘It adjoins theirs. They’ve been trying to buy it for years. Apparently they have vineyards all over the world.’

  ‘Yes. Well, we must look after Madame Beaumont and make sure she understands that we’re here to help.’

  I feel so much better. I haven’t messed things up then. Charlie cuts into his duck, pushing some of the straw-like French fries on to his fork, and begins to eat.

  ‘You’re in a perfect position. We know Madame Beaumont has been a small producer until now and we need to help her realise how good this could be for all of us. We use her grapes and others we can source,’ he says quickly, and I’m not really taking it all in but it sounds great. ‘Blend them to her recipe and we all get what we need. Madame Beaumont sells to us at a good price, better than before, and we’re all happy.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ I agree, savouring the flaking fish.

  ‘Isaac will be working on the blend, refining it, smoothing out the edges so it would be useful if you and he could work closely on this.’

  I swallow. Isaac and I have spent so much time avoiding each other, I wonder how we will get on working closely.

  ‘Perhaps you could assist him . . . let him know what he needs to make this work. I’m sure Madame Beaumont will be delighted not to have to work so hard. Tell her we could bring in any staff she wanted.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure she’d agree to that, not straight away. She doesn’t like change. We’d need to suggest it . . . gradually.’

  ‘Fine, well, you keep working with her. If you need to take time to be up there, just go ahead. The others can cover for you in the office.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘But my targets?’

  ‘If you manage to pull this agreement off with Madame Beaumont, you’ll blow the others’ targets out of the water. There will definitely be a place for you on Team Featherstone’s. I’d say that team leader job’ll be in the bag.’ He raises his eyebrows and flashes his wide smile, and I feel my stomach take ten floors up and down again in a lift.

  I find myself staring wide eyed. Me? Emmy Bridges. Team leader? Team Featherstone’s! I get a feeling now that it’s my time – that finally I’m going to fit in and start rising up life’s ladder – and I feel myself start to swell with pride. My shoulders drop and I find myself holding my head a little higher and smiling to myself.

  ‘I’d love that,’ I smile.

  ‘Here, try some duck.’ Charlie leans forward over the candlelit table and feeds me a forkful of the duck and prune marmalade. I close my eyes and open my mouth – just delicious – and my stomach zips up and down in the lift again.

  I ask, ‘So, what about you, Charlie, what does Charlie Featherstone want from life?’ buoyed up by crémant and a little wave of confidence.

  ‘Well,’ he puts down his knife and fork and looks straight at me. ‘For me it’s easy. I want to work hard now. Make this company as profitable as I can, sell up and retire early. Enjoy the good life.’ He smiles, takes up his cutlery again and cuts some more of his food. ‘I love to keep fit and I want to be young enough to enjoy my life. Snowboarding in the winter, windsurfing in the summer. Sadly, my wife – my ex-wife – didn’t see it like that. She couldn’t cope with the hours I worked, became suspicious when I was with work colleagues and, well . . .’ he shrugs, ‘let’s just say we weren’t working towards the same goals. She wanted me to take time off, take more time with the family. I felt it was settling for second best. I want to work hard now and then retire in style. I’m working to give my family the best I can, the best schools, the best of everything.’ He takes a sip of water.

  ‘Of course, that’s not to say I want to do it on my own. Obviously I hope to find someone to share it all with, someone who understands what it takes to get a business like this to be the best. Understand the work involved.’ He sips his water again, not letting up on his eye contact. I feel a little skip of excitement and I look down at my food to hide my blushes.

  After our main courses we share a plate of cheeses and then each have a delicious trio of desserts: a tiny tarte tatin made with pears, a small but perfect crème brûlée, and home-made ice cream with tiny black flecks of vanilla running through it.

  Charlie excuses himself to use the bathroom and I’m staring out into the dark night, no longer able to see the vineyards, just a deep inky blue sky over the surrounding countryside. No light pollution at all, just bright diamond-like stars and the orange glow of the street lanterns pouring their light down the hillside. The bells from the church next door ring out and I’m just thinking they have a lovely sound when I realise my phone is ringing.

  ‘Hello, Dad?’ I suddenly panic. ‘Everything all right? Look I’m really sorry about earlier.’

  ‘No, love, it’s fine. As it happens, the plumber’s an old school friend of mine. Still doing a bit to keep him going in his retirement. The only thing . . . it’s the bill.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad. Tell him I’ll sort it. I’ll get the money. I think I’ve got this sorted.’

  ‘You’re such a good girl, Emmy. I wish I could do more.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad, it’s all in hand. I love you,’ I say, before putting down the phone.

  ‘Boyfriend?’ Charlie asks, returning and sitting down again.

  ‘No, no boyfriend, my dad, again,’ I say, smiling.

  ‘Oh? Well, that is good news. Coffee?’

  Did he mean what I think he meant then? I get a ripple of excitement running through me. Maybe, just maybe, everything was going to go my way for once after all.

  ‘Coffee would be lovely,’ I reply.

  ‘Of course, we could always stay if you wanted.’ He nods towards the hotel and, slightly taken aback by his forwardness I find myself blushing. Then he smiles widely. ‘Perhaps another time? Or maybe I should take you away for a weekend, down south maybe, or Paris?’ He grins again and I realise he’s joking. At least, I think he is.

  We walk back through the town after the coffees, which were delivered with a plate of pink and green macaroons, in the orange glow of the brass lanterns, under the stars like diamonds on a black blanket. People are still walking in and out of the cloisters, drinking in the coolness of the evening air. As we make our way down the steep cobbled hill, Charlie offers his arm to steady me and I take it. Then I look up and in the direction of Clos Beaumont, just visible across the valley, and feel a warm glow of contentment. The steep hill flattens out, but he keeps my arm tucked in his, pulling me closer. As we head back through the vine-lined backroads to the gîte, I have a nervous feeling of expectation in my tummy.

  ‘Well, good night, Emmy,’ Charlie says quietly as we stand in the stone shadows of the gîte. ‘Well done again today.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘for this evening.’ I’m just about to turn and go inside when suddenly he leans forward and kisses me, first on one cheek and then the other. Then, without any forewarning, he quickly moves on to my lips, kissing me more and more hungrily. He’d taken me so by surprise I wonder whether to pull away. He’d seemed interested, yes, for a man who couldn’t remember my name until today. This has come as a bit of a shock. Maybe it’s the wine, the setting or the fact that this gorgeous man wants me, but I find myself letting myself be kissed, kissing him back. Why not? I think, buoyed up by crémant and red wine, the warm evening air and smell of the wisteria tree. It’s a fabulous end to a fabulous night. Charlie fancies me as much as I fancy him. His hands start to run over my body and he moves me back further into the shadows and against the rough stone wall of the gîte, his body pushed up against mine. Then suddenly he stops, and takes hold of my hand, looking this way and that in the shadows.

  ‘Come on, come back to the house. We can make a night of it.’ He gives a tug at my hand. I’m all out of breath and find myself half wanting to carry on this moment of madness and half thin
king that I should probably stop, right now.

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Come on, it’ll be fun.’ His eyes are dancing, inviting me to dive in. He runs his hand over my back, then lower.

  And I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help but think how very nice it would be. A carefree night with a gorgeous man. It’s not like I’m a teenager. I’m a mature woman. I’m thirty-five! And it has been a very long time since I’ve spent any time with a gorgeous man, alone, without my father asking if they’re staying for supper. Except it wouldn’t be carefree. He’s my boss. And I don’t want this to be just one night.

  ‘Come on.’ He tugs again.

  ‘Hello?’ Suddenly Candy’s voice comes from the upstairs window. ‘Emmy, is that you?’ she asks suspiciously.

  Suddenly I can’t help myself: I giggle nervously.

  ‘Ssh,’ says Charlie, pushing me up against the wall again and putting a finger to my lips.

  Then the window shuts with a bang.

  ‘I’d better go in,’ I say, feeling like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over us, cooling things down, which probably isn’t a bad thing. ‘Don’t want them to think that I’m trying to get off with the boss and that there’s any favouritism going on,’ I add sensibly.

  ‘No, you’re right.’ Charlie runs his hand through his now dishevelled hair. ‘Best to keep this between ourselves.’

  ‘Yes, I think that’s best.’ I step away from the wall, my raging wantonness quickly subsiding. ‘We have plenty of time to get to know each other.’

  ‘Look, take down my number, call me when you can get away again.’ Charlie pulls out his phone and I do the same, saving his number.

  ‘Let’s do it again, soon,’ he says, putting away his phone and stepping out of the shadows. ‘Catch up with all the news from Clos Beaumont. Take up where we left off. I’d like that.’

  ‘Yes, I’d like that too,’ I say with a shiver of excitement.

  He gives me another killer smile. ‘Why not take tomorrow to go and see Madame Beaumont, get things moving?’

  ‘Sure,’ I reply through numb lips, sore lips.

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise,’ I assure him.

  And then he disappears round the corner to the Featherstones’ house. I stand for a moment and touch my swollen lips. I can’t believe that just happened. One minute I’m hiding bottles down my trousers, thinking I’m going to get the sack, the next I’m having dinner with the boss and practically crawling into his bed. Charlie Featherstone is drop-dead gorgeous with those amazing eyes, he’s successful and, what’s more, he fancies me. Yay! Slowly and slightly stunned at the turnaround in events, I let myself into the gîte.

  Inside, Isaac is in the kitchen, feet up on the table, playing guitar.

  ‘I understand we’re going to be working closely together from now on,’ he says without looking at me and I wait for one of his jokes. But nothing comes. Instead I blush and turn and make my way up to bed where I know Candy will be waiting to interrogate me, wanting a full report on my evening. A report she’ll get, but it won’t be full one.

  ‘Bonjour, Madame Beaumont,’ I try to say breezily as I step in through the French doors the next morning, and down the three steps into the living-cum-kitchen-cum-bedroom, feeling like I have a guilty secret, wishing I could tell her outright about the supermarket buyer, but I know that I need to put this idea to her gently.

  Then I realise that’s not the only reason I’m feeling a little guilty this morning. That kiss. It was just a kiss, I remind myself, but a very passionate one, and I can’t help feeling it was all a bit quick. I had no idea he even liked me!

  The door to the rest of the house is firmly shut as it always is, and the big wood-burning stove with its silver snakelike flue going up the wall to the outside is flickering pathetically. Despite the days still being warm, the nights and early mornings are cold.

  ‘Bonjour, Emmy.’ Madame Beaumont kisses me, looking surprised. ‘You’re not usually here in the morning. No work today?’ she asks.

  ‘Just . . . a day off,’ I tell her. I don’t tell her Charlie told me to come. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ I suddenly worry.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Shall we walk the vines?’ I ask brightly, and she nods, pleased.

  ‘Bien sûr. Actually, I would like to walk to the graveyard, through the vines,’ she says, standing stiffly. Then she looks at me. ‘Perhaps you would like to join me?’

  ‘Oui. Absolument. That would be lovely.’ I know Charlie’s keen to tell Madame Beaumont about the buyer and to get working on this year’s vintage. I have to speak to her today and this is the perfect time. I promised. The memory of Charlie’s kiss comes back to me but instead of making me feel excited, I feel a little embarrassed about that too. Snogging outside the front door like a teenager. And to think what might have happened if Candy hadn’t interrupted us.

  Madame Beaumont and I walk through the vines, in more silence than usual, both of us thoughtful. The ever-present breeze up here runs through my hair. There is a hint of autumn in the air, a feeling of change, letting us know September is over. We walk all the way through the vines, across roads and between vineyards on the well-worn track to town and the graveyard. Passing through the big wrought-iron gates, which squeak on their hinges, we reach the black shiny headstone and stop and stand beside it, taking in the peace and quiet.

  ‘Is it someone in your family?’ I look at the gold writing on it. She nods and then, as I’ve seen her do from Featherstone’s window, pulls out her duster from her basket to polish it. I look up at Featherstone’s building and swear I can practically feel Candy glaring back at me from indoors as she works on the phones. I look back at the headstone.

  ‘My mother was cremated,’ I say suddenly.

  Madame Beaumont looks up. ‘Tell me,’ she says.

  ‘I think I told you it was when I was much younger. She died when I was nineteen, going on twenty. Sixteen years ago now. I’d just retaken my A levels. I got just enough to get to study nursing. It was hard. I’m dyslexic, which is why I’m not great at books and all of that. But I did love the idea of nursing.’

  She says nothing and I find myself just talking.

  ‘I think money was tight and with a family to feed . . .’ I still find it hard to talk about. ‘My sister wanted to go on a school trip and my mum was working extra hours to pay for that and extra tutoring for me. It was hard. There was a silly row, but it was over nothing. They were great parents to both of us.’

  ‘It’s sad you don’t see your sister these days. Is there no way of putting things right?’

  ‘She married young,’ I raise my eyebrows, ‘got pregnant at twenty-one. She had hoped to go to college, but well . . . that didn’t happen. But she was happy.’ I find myself smiling at the memory. ‘He was a promising footballer. She got pregnant and they decided to marry.’ And that’s when she left us, I think.

  ‘Go on,’ Madame Beaumont encourages and I sit on the grass just beside her and sigh.

  ‘They were girlfriend and boyfriend at school. But then her husband, Dion, had an injury, on a skiing holiday. It finished his career. He couldn’t play any more without the injury recurring. It was really sad. But they stayed together even when he was finding life tough. And then he went into business. Property development. He needed some money to invest and, well, Jody asked Dad. He gave her the insurance money, Mum’s insurance money. It was meant to pay off the mortgage after her death, but he lent it to Jody. She promised to pay it back almost straight away. Dion was investing with some other guys who’d done this kind of thing before. Buying at auction, doing up the houses, selling them straight on.’

  ‘And did she? Pay your father back?’ Madame Beaumont brings out a peach from her basket and a small knife and cuts it, offering me half.

  ‘W
ell . . . that was four years ago. And no, they didn’t pay it back. Now we’re about to lose the house because we’re behind on the mortgage payments.’

  I bite into the juicy, sweet peach, sucking up the juice from my fingers, letting some slide to the ground over my hand.

  ‘I have a nephew; two, actually, but one I’ve barely seen. One’s six and the other must be four now.’

  ‘And your mother? How did she die?’ Madame Beaumont asks. We might as well get it all out in the open.

  ‘A car crash. It was wet. A terrible night. My dad . . . well, he’s never got over it. Actually, none of us has. He told me not to go after her. That she’d come back. And he believed she would. I still think he does.’ I give a half laugh, half hiccup.

  ‘And so you look after him?’

  I nod.

  Madame Beaumont rearranges the flowers on the gravestone.

  ‘Don’t you want to leave, make a life for yourself?’

  ‘One day. But right now, he needs me.’ I shrug. ‘Without Mum and Jody, he has no one.’

  She finishes the flowers and goes to stand. I put out my hand to help her up, but she ignores it and pulls herself up. She looks up at the sky and then out at the busy road; tractors laden with grapes from all the vineyards and châteaux pass by at speed. The harvest has begun in earnest.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be starting too?’ I ask, looking at the tractor passing along the road, bouncing this way and that with a trailer of green grapes.

  ‘It’s nearly time,’ she says. ‘We will harvest soon.’ And I breathe a sigh of relief. I was worried she was going to leave it too late. I’d hate for her grapes to spoil. ‘But not yet,’ she adds, ‘not until after the full moon,’ and gives me a little grin.

  We walk back through the vines, she leaning heavily on her stick.

  ‘And what of your father now?’ she continues.

  ‘Actually, I’m a bit worried,’ I find myself telling her. ‘He rang me yesterday to say there was a problem in the house. But I couldn’t talk. Now I can’t get hold of him.’