by Di Morrissey
April gave a relaxed laugh. ‘How many times has someone said that to you?’
Heather rose, turned and went to the mirror to fiddle with her hair, but April could see her furious face in the mirror and knew Heather had heard that phrase many times.
‘Okay, if you want to stop at this point.’ April switched off her tape. ‘Would you like to give me the names of some friends – and enemies, if you have any – who can give me a quote or an anecdote about you?’
Heather handed over the list she had prepared. April clipped it to her papers. She had her own list of names to follow up and she doubted they’d be on Heather’s list.
‘I want to see what you write before it goes to the editor,’ said Heather in an authoritative tone.
‘Aw, come on, Heather,’ smiled April calmly, ‘Good try. You know better than that. There’s no way we’d do that. Maybe in the US the celebs demand copy and photo approval and a cover story, but not here. Even the biggest names don’t see the copy before it’s published,’ she added pointedly, hinting Heather was yet to become a big name. ‘Once one magazine caves in here, we’re all gone. No way.’
Heather snarled at her without any pretence of civility. ‘Listen, April, we had a deal to help each other . . .’
‘Did we?’ said April archly as she prepared to leave.
‘You’ve just overstepped the mark. If you write anything that will damage me, or my career, the station will sue the arse off you and I’ll make it my personal job to even the score.’
‘Tut-tut. It would take a lot more than I could do to puncture your hide, Heather. But it’s nice to see I’ve at least ruffled a feather or two. Toodle-loo.’
April shut the door to the dressing room behind her, feeling well pleased with the way it had all gone. She could write a killer article. She nodded at the photographer lounging in the hallway. ‘She’s all yours. You may have to quieten her down a bit.’ He would take the obligatory posed shot, which may appear in the article. But April had seen a terrific photo of Heather taken by one of the freelance society photographers who passed as pseudo paparazzi in Sydney. It was after the film premiere at a karaoke nightclub and Heather, very drunk, had been on stage clutching a microphone. Heather fancied she had a voice and it had amused people to see the hard-nosed journo attempting to be club torch singer. April could see her headline over that picture – ‘Heather Race – off the record’. April had every intention of writing about all she had seen and heard while partying around with Heather . . . all the ugly and embarrassing details. And she’d write it all – with such a moral tone. Ali would love it.
Miche and Jeremy were talking on the phone every other day. Their shared experience with Sally had given them a lot to talk about.
‘Larissa is going to the memorial service in Sally’s home town,’ said Miche. ‘I just couldn’t bring myself to go with her. I should have, I suppose. But I couldn’t face it. Though I would have liked the break. The city seems a bit claustrophobic.’
‘That’s rich, coming from a New Yorker,’ said Jeremy. ‘There are lots of gorgeous, uncluttered areas around Sydney.’
‘I know. Larissa’s friend, Kevin, has a boat and takes us around the harbour or up the Hawkesbury River.’
‘Sounds great. But, listen, you promised to come to the Hunter Valley. Take a long weekend. You might find a story up here. There’s a comfy B&B near us. Not flash. But comfy and not too expensive.’
‘I’m tempted.’
‘I reckon it’s time we saw each other again. Save on the phone bills,’ he kidded.
Miche wasn’t deceived by his light tone of voice. They were both curious about each other. They’d shared a lot of personal detail that bordered on the intimate. It had seemed safe and uncomplicated to do so at a distance. He’d told her he’d broken up with a girlfriend when he went to France and, while he saw her occasionally, it wasn’t the same. A year in Europe had changed him.
‘Okay. I’ll come. And seriously, it would be fantastic if you can think of any stories I could do in your neck of the woods. I can write the trip off to tax then.’
‘Terrific! I’ll fax you a little map. And dinner Saturday night is on me. Sunday lunchtime my boss always has a bit of an open house, wine tasting and so on. You’d be welcome to come along. It’s always kind of fun. I have a few chores Saturday morning, but you’ll find plenty to do.’
To Miche’s foreign eyes, the Lower Hunter was lovely – the scrubby native bushland, farms and paddocks neatly ploughed and planted. No billboards, no drive-through roadhouses. In the misty distance, the Brokenback Ranges cut into the blue canvas of sky.
Soon she was driving past trellised rows of low nubby vines, and near the entrance to the first winery she passed, she saw a sign announcing she was in the Home of the Hunter Wines.
Several of the wineries looked quite large and sprawling, but there was no sense of age as there had been in France. Even so, it was picturesque. Seeing a small restaurant with a courtyard shaded by grapevines, Miche pulled in for lunch.
There were several tourists wandering about, the cellar shop was crowded and the restaurant half full. The waitress was busy but pleasant. She gave Miche a menu and the wine list that featured mostly local wines. She was trying to decide what to try when an older man stopped to ask if he could help her select a wine.
‘I’m new to the country, first time in this area, so the names mean very little I’m afraid,’ smiled Miche. ‘I was using the same method I do to pick horses – whatever name appeals.’
‘Could have merit,’ he agreed with a big smile. ‘You really can’t go wrong in this area with the local vintages.’
‘Well, a glass of something local, light, crisp and dry,’ said Miche closing the wine list. ‘Surprise me.’
‘Wonderful. I’ll do that. Are you staying here for a while or just passing through?’
‘I’m visiting a friend. He works in a vineyard.’ Miche had to think for a moment. ‘It’s Palmerston Wines.’
‘Ah, Steve and Helen. Know them well, great people. Excellent wines. Who’s your friend?’
‘Jeremy Foster. We met in France.’
‘Young Jem. Good lad, he’s coming on well. One of the local flying winemakers. That’s what we call them. They go overseas to have a bit of European training. But, frankly, I think we can teach the Europeans a thing or two these days. You interested in the wine business?’
‘Not really. Though I’d like to learn more. I’m a journalist. Looking for a story,’ said Miche.
He saw the waitress trying to catch his eye. ‘I’ll choose a wine for you. And think about a story. This area has a very colourful history.’
Her meal was delicious and the wine exactly what she wanted. She made a note of it so she could order it with Jeremy and not seem the wine neophyte she was. Miche lingered over her lunch, enjoying her own company, the pleasant surroundings and being away from the city. She realised she’d been pretty strung out since arriving in Australia; still mourning her mother, the concern over work, the death of Sally. This time out was exactly what she needed. And there was the anticipation of seeing Jeremy.
The restaurant was less busy, the tourists didn’t linger. Her host, as she assumed, returned to refill her glass.
‘Compliments of the establishment. Maybe you’ll write about us.’
‘I’m not a foodie writer,’ confessed Miche. Though it seemed a good idea. She’d heard that food and travel writing was the best meal ticket in journalism.
‘So who do you write for? I’m John Sandgate, by the way. This is my place. Started as a hobby and has become the love of my life.’
‘I’m Michelle Bannister. Please, join me, seeing as I’m enjoying your wine,’ said Miche. ‘I’m a freelance writer, but work mostly for Blaze.’
‘I’m impressed. So what do you write about?’
‘Well, I suppose what interests me,’ said Miche slowly.
‘My wife subscribes to Blaze. I usually browse through it. Would I hav
e seen anything of yours lately?’
‘Maybe. I did a story about a young Australian model in France. Sally Shaw, sadly she . . .’
‘Oh God, yes, she died. Suicide or overdose or something. I saw it on the news.’
‘I had already been thinking of writing about tragedy and violence in the lives of young people when it happened,’ said Miche sipping her wine.
‘Can spring out of nowhere,’ said the vintner, who found the subject rather disconcerting. Vineyard visitors were usually more upbeat, enjoying a day or so away from the rat race.
‘Road rage, hostage crises, plane hijackings, can happen anywhere.’ Miche looked around the gracious vineyard setting. ‘Though not in a place like this, I guess.’
‘Oh, we’ve had our share of dramas in this neck of the woods.’
‘Like?’
‘Well, let’s see. Fires – suspected arson. Drought and floods. Industrial espionage where someone turned a tap and we lost a whole sublime vintage. A murder and a couple of spectacular divorces.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘All good material for a soap opera, eh?’
‘It could be interesting.’ Miche decided to ask Jeremy more about the area. Maybe there was a story here.
She paid her bill and John Sandgate handed her a bottle of the verdelho she’d enjoyed at lunch. ‘Share it with young Jeremy. And tell him if he ever wants to move over from Palmerston’s I’ll give him a job here in a flash.’
After settling into her Bed and Breakfast – in a quaint old farmhouse – she drove to meet Jeremy at Palmerston Wines.
A wall of slim poplars bordered the road, sandstone pillars held gracious wrought-iron gates that stood open, a white gravel driveway edging smooth green lawns that curved out of sight. It looked luxurious.
She drove past several utilitarian-looking buildings, noting the vineyards and what appeared to be the main house in the distance. A small stone building with several cars out the front was signposted ‘Office’. Next to it was the cellar shop. She walked into the office and asked for Jeremy, but someone had followed her indoors and a cheerful voice behind her called her name.
‘Miche! I saw you drive up.’ He pulled a stained and battered broad-brimmed hat off his head and in a blur she was instantly reminded of her first vision of him coming into the dim dining room of the French chateau – fresh air and sunshine.
‘You look just the same!’ She felt it a silly thing to say, but Jeremy was giving her a warm hug that set off a confusion of feelings.
He stepped back to look at her. ‘You don’t look the same. You look even better than I remember.’ He took her arm, ‘Come on, hop in the wagon and we’ll do the tour. I have to check on a few things as well.’
He helped her up into the four-wheel drive and threw his hat onto the back seat. ‘Settled into the B&B all right? Did you have lunch?’
‘It’s perfect. I treated myself to lunch at one of the vineyards. I met John Sandgate . . . who said he’d hire you in a flash if you’re interested.’
‘John’s a top bloke. I’m well settled here with Helen and Steve, they’ve invested a lot in me. John’ll probably come over to lunch on Sunday. Now, let me fill you in. It’s going to be a boom year, I reckon. We’re experimenting with different blends of grapes with our merlot. The shiraz is going to be great this year and the semillon looks good too. We’re having a big wine tasting in a week or so.’
‘For tourists?’
‘No, chefs and waiters from Sydney’s best restaurants and hotels. You’ll have to come along. There’ll be a few of the prominent interstate vignerons as well. They’ll also be checking out the food. There are a couple of terrific eating places around here. Regional cuisine is being teamed with the wines and it’s turning out to be a winning combination.’
‘It’s very pretty . . . I was winding around little back roads that seemed in the middle of nowhere, then you spin around a corner and there’s a vineyard. They all look rather new and very neat.’
‘It’s becoming a bit too trendy, if you ask me. Little country clubs, and golf courses, lodge retreats and hobby places – and weekenders are popping up everywhere. Too close to Sydney in one way. But the tourist trade is a big part of the marketing scene now. Mind you, back in the 1850s there were over thirty vineyards in the area. It dropped off until the sixties when the boutique wineries started. They compete with the old, established boys.’
‘Do you want to start your own place one day?’
Jeremy thought for a moment. ‘Well, if I win Lotto I may think about it. I’d need big investors. I’m happy just learning all I can, and experimenting with varieties at the moment. It’s a fast-changing industry.’
They drove to cellars, the crushing plant, fields, dams, pumps and high points of land simply for the view.
She was enchanted by his enthusiasm and knowledge as he talked about the varieties of grapes, the climate, the differences between French and Australian winemakers. ‘You know that’s something I’d like to do – spend a season in the Napa Valley in California. They know a thing or two that may work here. Similar environments. You been there?’
‘I’m an easterner I’m afraid.’
‘You miss New York?’ he asked gently.
‘I miss my mom. And it’s been a bit hard settling in here with my godmother away in Croatia. But I’m liking it. There’s just the little matter of work and money.’ In their phone talks, Miche had discovered how easily she could open up to Jeremy. It was comforting to share what was going on in her life. She hadn’t yet found a circle of friends her own age. She missed chattering with her two college girlfriends and emails just weren’t the same.
‘You’ll find your niche, Miche,’ said Jeremy. ‘Go with the flow as they say. Come on, let’s go back and I’ll introduce you to everyone. Sixish, I’ll take you back to the B&B and wait for you to change or whatever and then we’ll go out somewhere nice for dinner. I have to show off our little valley to you.’
‘Sounds fabulous. Thanks for going to so much trouble.’
Jeremy laughed. ‘Taking a friend to dinner – that’s no trouble.’ Then he added shyly, ‘I’ve been looking forward to this all week.’
‘Me too,’ smiled Miche and felt herself relax. A small bridge had been crossed.
Miche rang Larissa on Sunday morning as she sipped her tea. ‘I’m sitting in the sun outside my room with a home-cooked breakfast – and still in my PJs. Couldn’t wait to tell you how fantastic this is. Dinner was divine – you have to come up here, glorious vineyards, terrific people.’
‘Sure, sounds great. What about your guy?’
‘Jeremy?’ she laughed. ‘He’s gorgeous. Just lovely. I don’t know why it didn’t register with me so heavily when we were in France. I guess I thought we stuck together then because we were the only normal people in that mad group.’
‘Normal is lovely. Hang on to him, Miche. Well, see how it works out. Just enjoy the company and the break,’ cautioned Larissa. With a pang she remembered how she’d fallen in love with Gerry. How shy he’d been. They’d met at an art gallery opening and it was his reticence, his refusal to try hard to be entertaining and clever that had appealed to her. Her gradual discovery of his warmth, charm and humour had been such a joy. She did love him. She really did.
‘I am just enjoying it all, Riss. But I can’t wait to see him again. I think he’d like to see me too. He’s talking of coming to Sydney.’
The Palmerstons’ Sunday lunch turned into quite an event. Twenty people spread around the garden where a buffet table was set up under a vine-covered terrace. One table held a variety of wines for tasting and around it a knot of serious wine buffs knowledgeably discussed the merits of each bottle.
Miche popped into the big kitchen and asked Helen Palmerston if she could help in some way.
‘It’s under control, thanks Miche. Plenty of spare hands in here. Go and decorate the terrace, everyone is keen to meet you. A new face.’
‘I feel like I’m being scrutinised . . . in a
nice way,’ she laughed.
‘Oh you are, dear girl. Been a long time since Jeremy has brought a girl to lunch. We’re like family, so you must be special.’
‘Oh, we’re just friends from France, you know how travellers all connect up.’ But she couldn’t help feeling pleased.
John Sandgate, from the winery where she’d had lunch, singled her out. ‘You know, Miche, I’ve been thinking about our talk. Why don’t you write up the history of this area for Blaze? Be interesting to see it through your eyes – a well-travelled young person, new to Australia. As I mentioned yesterday, its history is quite colourful. And so are the characters.’
Miche thought for a minute. It was an idea worth considering.
‘It does sound appealing,’ said Miche. ‘I’d have to do a lot of research, I don’t know a thing . . .’
‘That’s what you journalists are best at. You’d have all the help you need. There’s a lot of archival stuff, historical photos and most of the old vignerons kept diaries. Not just about their wineries, but about life in the district. Like I said, it’s as good as any soap opera.’
Miche saw Jeremy wending his way towards her. She’d talk it over with him. ‘I’ll have to run it past my editor, but thanks for the suggestion.’
Jeremy was all for the idea. ‘But then, I’m biased,’ he added.
‘Because you work in the wine business and you love this area?’
‘Partly. But it would mean I’d see a lot more of you.’ He kissed her long and hard as she stood by her car, ready to drive back to Sydney.
Miche returned his kiss, then grinned at him. ‘I’ll think about it as I drive back to Sydney.’ She waved to him as she drove away. She could only think of positives. How she longed to talk to Nina. But in her heart she already knew what Nina’s answer would be.
TAKE TWENTY-ONE . . .
Was it the sense of freedom after being incarcerated, living with an ever-gnawing fear, that suddenly made Nina feel so free, so light-hearted? That made the unfolding scenery as they climbed into the hills so breathtaking? Or was it sitting beside Lucien, her hand resting on his leg?
