I’d heard everyone’s else’s tale of how they’d met Ted. Including how Godfrey had been sitting on a bench in the churchyard after his wife died, feeling lost and lonely, when from nowhere, Starsky had jumped on to his lap. A few moments later an anxious and breathless Ted had arrived and quickly snapped a lead on to the runaway dog’s collar. The two men got talking, Godfrey confiding that he and his wife had been inseparable and he was struggling to fill the void her death had opened up in his life. Twenty-four hours later, he was given a pair of secateurs, a reel of wire and a row of Chardonnay vines to prune. He’d been a regular ever since.
It was only Roger’s link to the vineyard I hadn’t heard.
‘How did Ted look after you?’ I asked him while the others were preoccupied, handing round glasses, finding sunhats and applying suncream.
Roger’s brow furrowed. ‘We’ve been friends for a decade. I represented my school on a community committee and Ted was on it too. We hit it off straight away. Then about seven years ago I went through a rough patch with my marriage, we split up and I had a bit of a breakdown. Ted let me talk and talk. He just listened without judgement and when I’d poured my heart out he asked me to do him a favour. There was a parcel of Pinot Meunier vines in the centre of the vineyard which weren’t thriving and he told me to work out what they needed.’
‘And what did they need?’ I asked, making a mental note to check that they were still all right.
His face softened. ‘What we all need: some TLC, someone to have faith and invest their time in them.’
There was a restrained pop as Matt expertly twisted the bottle and the cork away from each other. Jensen stepped forward with glasses, Betsy asked for just a small one, and soon we were each holding a glass aloft.
‘To Ted,’ said Jensen. ‘My granddad. For creating Butterworth Wines and bringing us all together.’
‘To Ted!’ we all chorused and took a first sip.
‘And to all of you, for your hard work over the last few months, and more recently, Lottie.’ Jensen turned to me, his eyes as vivid as the summer sky and a gentle smile playing at his lips. ‘Today wouldn’t be happening without your energy and determination. On behalf of Gran, Aunt Marjorie and me, I thank you. To Team Butterworth.’
We all raised our glasses a second time and then Betsy thanked everyone for their efforts, insisting that we each take home a crate of wine of our choice as payment. And then everyone began talking excitedly. Except me. I was trying to look anywhere but at Jensen.
He was suddenly standing so close that the fine blond hairs on his arms brushed my skin and sent every nerve ending into a spin and his aftershave seemed to be doing something to my pulse rate. My sense of smell had become more sensitive recently and I now detected base tones of wood and spice with a top note of vanilla and rose. Whatever it was, it was intoxicating and I had to fight the urge to inhale him.
‘You look miles away,’ Jensen murmured close to my ear.
‘No, I’m here,’ I said, rousing myself from my secret sniffing session. ‘Which is exactly where I want to be.’
‘That’s lucky, then,’ he said, scrunching his face up as if trying to contain his laughter.
‘Isn’t it just?’ I said, my voice catching.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to fall for the boss’s grandson. For one, he lived in London, I’d been there, done that, and I had no desire to repeat the experience. Two, from what I’d seen so far, he was one of these driven types who feel like they’re skiving if they put in less than a hundred-hour week. And three, I was just getting used to being independent and not having to consider other people’s plans alongside my own. I was enjoying it and I wasn’t ready to think about anyone else but me for the time being.
Not that he’d indicated any interest in me; all he’d done was point out that I was daydreaming.
I rolled my eyes at myself just as he touched my arm as if to lead me aside. ‘Lottie, can we—’
Before he could finish his sentence the side gate crashed open. ‘Mr Cooper, Mr Cooper!’ A lanky boy bristling with excitement appeared wearing the hi-vis jacket which Roger had insisted all the boys wear. ‘We’ve opened the gates and there’s a minibus on its way up the drive. And cars. People are coming!’
Clare began collecting in our glasses and Roger and I ran out into the yard. Sure enough, the minibus was being waved into position by one of the other boys and a line of cars was snaking its way towards us.
Roger rubbed his hands together. ‘Looks like we’re in business. Action stations, everyone!’
‘Right,’ I said briskly. ‘I’m on tour duty, I’ll see you later.’
‘What should I do?’ Jensen asked hurriedly.
‘You,’ I said with a fleeting glance, ‘need to make everyone fall in love with your granddad’s vineyard so they buy lots of wine to take home with them.’
‘Oh dear.’ He pulled a face. ‘I don’t have the best track record of making people fall in love.’
I found that hard to believe.
‘Never mind,’ I said with a grin. ‘Just offer them a drink. That will work just as well.’
From that moment on and for the next few hours, I only saw Jensen from a distance. The open day was a much bigger hit with the folk of Derbyshire than we could ever have anticipated. There were wine societies from miles away who had hired minibuses and organized day trips, and they left with cases and cases of wine and receipts for their pre-orders of the next vintage. There were old contacts of Ted’s who were part of an online support forum who offered to lend a hand in the winery at harvest if we needed it and excitingly there were several brides-to-be who’d decided to select our sparkling wines for their weddings. Godfrey had been delighted with the press turnout: he organized an on-air tasting for the reporter from the local radio station, Betsy and Jensen gave an interview to the Derbyshire Bugle and I lost track of the number of photographs I posed for with wine bloggers who promised to give us a glowing review.
At half past three, I was beginning to flag, and as much as I had enjoyed the day, I was looking forward to four o’clock when the event was officially over.
I spied a free chair next to Betsy and went to join her on the terrace to have a sneaky rest. There was a plate of fresh scones on the table in front of her and I realized how long it had been since I’d eaten. Perhaps I’d have a cup of tea and a scone and catch my breath for a few minutes.
By the time I’d reached her, Betsy was talking to a red-haired woman in a brightly coloured floral dress, plimsolls and a floppy straw hat.
‘I am so ready for a sit-down, mind if I join you?’ I said, as much to let Betsy know who I was as anything.
‘Oh Lottie, it’s you!’ said Betsy. ‘I’d like you to meet Olivia from … um …?’
‘Hi. Olivia Channing, English Wine Board.’ Olivia beamed and shook my hand. ‘Mrs Butterworth says you’ll give me a tour, do you mind?’
‘Lottie Allbright. And it’d be my pleasure,’ I said, eyeing the plate of scones regretfully. ‘Follow me.’
‘Butterworth’s has created a lot of interest in the industry in the last few weeks since you announced this event,’ said Olivia as we headed down the rows of Pinot Noir. She stopped every so often to examine the grapes which were starting to swell now, the first hint of redness appearing in their skins. ‘Ted Butterworth was an enigma. Reclusive, almost, as far as the world of wine was concerned. A talented winemaker but—’
She stopped herself and looked hesitant.
‘Go on.’
‘Everyone knew his sparkling wines were his passion, but beyond perfecting his blends, he never seemed interested in developing the business. That was as far as his ambitions lay. We tried countless times to get him involved with national ventures, consumer campaigns, export trips even, but his focus was always on the wine and not the consumer.’
‘And that’s wrong?’
‘Oh no, not at all!’ she insisted with a smile. ‘Not wrong; his busin
ess, he could run it how he pleased. Unusual, maybe. Our job is to promote English wine – high quality wines – to a wider audience, both at home and internationally. He always resisted our advances. Perhaps now’s the time to reconsider.’
I nodded thoughtfully. ‘It wouldn’t be my decision but I’ll talk to the family about it.’
Ted’s illness had taken everyone by surprise, including him. I still hadn’t got over the fact that all those orders had been sitting on his computer unopened, the messages on the answerphone unanswered. We’d already converted orders into cash, which had pleased the bank manager no end. Perhaps Ted’s business had simply grown out of his control: he enjoyed the practical side of making wine but not the sales and marketing aspect of it. But maybe with Olivia’s help it wasn’t too late to take it to the worldwide stage?
What we really needed, I thought, was to hear back from Sidney. If he could help us with our blending problem, great; if not, we were in trouble. Everyone had agreed it had been a good idea of mine to contact him. I’d sent emails which I could see had been opened, but had had no response. I didn’t want to push it too much; if he couldn’t or wouldn’t let us have the benefit of his experience, there wasn’t a lot I could do about it.
Olivia and I walked back up to the marquee where Roger was holding a group tasting session. I picked up a bottle of the chilled Classic Cuvée and poured her a glass.
‘Great colour. Pale straw.’ She held it to the light, swirled it round and then blinked. ‘Oh. Not joining me?’
I hesitated. ‘Of course.’
I poured myself a small amount and positioned a spittoon discreetly on the barrel table.
She slurped the wine, making little noises of pleasure before swallowing it. ‘Honeyed oats, nice creamy mousse, plenty of fruit – quince and almond. Delicious. Definitely falls into the category of high quality that I’m looking for.’
I did the same, aiming mine neatly into the spittoon rather than swallowing it.
‘You are good.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘I’ve booked a cab to pick me up; my first visit to Butterworth Wines was such a good opportunity that I wanted to make the most of it.’
I walked her across to the winery. ‘I only have a few steps to make it home,’ I said, pointing to my little abode as we crossed the courtyard. ‘The Stables comes with the job.’
‘That’s handy,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You know, you could look into wine tourism if you can offer accommodation too. People will pay to stay there and work for free.’
I laughed in surprise. ‘People do that?’
She nodded and waved an arm around at the crowds which had thinned now as the event was beginning to wind down. ‘Half of your visitors will go home tonight and dream about starting their own wine business. It’s right up there with running your own guest house or restaurant. Aspirational. And international interest in English wine has never been so high.’
‘Really?’ I bit my lip. ‘I’m ashamed to say I’d always been a bit snooty about it until I came here.’
She leaned closer. ‘Believe me, even the French are sitting up and taking notice of us these days. In fact, I’m hosting a delegation from Russia later this year, maybe I could include Butterworth Wines in the itinerary.’
‘I always think of Russia as a nation of vodka drinkers,’ I said, making a mental note to google it later.
‘They were.’ She nodded sagely. ‘But Moët hopes to double their Russian exports of champagne in the next five years. My job is to convince Russian buyers that an English sparkling wine will fit the bill just as well.’
‘Oh, it will,’ I said confidently.
Olivia shook my hand and laughed. ‘That’s exactly the spirit we’re looking for at the English Wine Board.’
I left her in the winery with Clare who automatically pressed the poor woman’s arms to check for sunburn and headed back outside.
Wine tourism, exports and a place on the international wine stage … I stifled a yawn; I was exhausted just thinking about it. I was planning my escape to The Stables when I spotted Jensen waving off a minibus-load of ladies from the Flittham Wine Society.
‘Lottie, do you have a minute?’ he called.
‘Sure.’
We wove our way through the parked cars towards each other. He looked as cool and fresh as he had done at noon. I felt hot and bedraggled in comparison.
‘I need to leave soon,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a party in London tonight.’
Of course he did, I thought enviously. I bet where he lived in London was a world away from the place I’d rented with Harvey. He probably had an amazing apartment overlooking the Thames with a pool, a gym and an underground car park. He’d mix with crowds of rich, successful and handsome people just like him and have strings of drop-dead gorgeous women trailing in his wake at all times. Whereas I was a slightly plump and extremely clammy labourer for his gran.
‘Lottie?’ He bent down to peer at me and his bemused laugh brought me out of my reverie. ‘You really are tired, aren’t you? You didn’t hear a word I said.’
‘I did, you said …’ My mouth had gone dry and I swallowed. ‘I am a bit weary, now you mention it.’
He placed his arm loosely around my shoulders. ‘Come on, let’s find a seat. You’re trembling. Have you eaten anything today?’
I shook my head, realizing that I might be on the verge of tears. I wasn’t sad, but he was being so kind and I realized suddenly how much I’d missed being held by someone. He spotted a rogue tear on my cheek and looked horrified.
‘Oh God, did I do that?’
‘No, you’ve been very kind.’ I wiped my eyes. ‘I always do the Paddington thing myself, but when the tables are turned, I can’t cope with it.’
‘Paddington. Right,’ said Jensen, clearly mystified. He steered me to two chairs and a small table which our young car-park attendants had set up for themselves under a parasol and we sat down. Alarmingly there were a couple of empty bottles under the table; I hoped the boys had gathered up empties as part of their rubbish-collecting duties and not drunk them themselves. Our knees were touching and I wondered if Jensen was as aware of the sensation as I was.
I gave myself a little shake and then wished I hadn’t because I really did feel quite light-headed.
‘You were saying,’ I prompted, ‘about the party with the gorgeous women?’
‘I was?’ He looked puzzled. ‘Actually, it’s my boss’s fortieth wedding anniversary.’
‘Ah yes, I remember,’ I said vaguely. Everything had gone slightly hazy and echoey.
‘Look,’ he shifted in his seat, ‘I’ll get to the point. Can I have your number? I’d like to call you.’
‘My phone number? To call me?’ Did this mean he was attracted to me the way I was attracted to him? And if so, should I really be encouraging it? He seemed nice and fun and he was definitely good-looking, but I’d only been single for six weeks or so, I really wasn’t looking for romance.
Jensen’s eyes sparkled. ‘That is the usual reason.’
‘Sure.’ I swallowed nervously. ‘The thing is, I’m not in a great place right now. I’ve just split up with someone.’
‘Fair enough.’ He rubbed his chin and cast his eyes down. ‘But I’d like to get progress reports from you: whether Gran is all right; how sales are going; what’s happening in the winery. That sort of thing. I’ll give you mine too, in case you need to get hold of me.’
I just about managed not to groan out loud. He wanted my number for professional reasons; of course he wasn’t asking me out.
‘Good idea.’ I recited my number to him and watched him tap it in.
‘All my numbers are on here.’ He passed me a business card. ‘And perhaps when you’re in a … better place, you’d consider having dinner with me.’
This was obviously part of his checking-up activities.
‘Thank you.’ I beamed, thinking how long it had been since I’d been to a restaurant with a man who wasn’t my dad. ‘That would be lovely.
’
He shook his head, bemused. ‘I’ve never been good at reading signs from women, but I think I’m getting mixed messages. Am I?’
I stared at his face. The first time I saw him, when he’d bounded into Betsy’s kitchen and swung her around, he’d seemed so exuberant and confident. Seeing him less certain of himself all of a sudden was new to me, and it made me like him even more. I felt a tug inside and itched to lean across the gap between us and kiss him. Could I do that? I wondered.
‘Yes,’ I found myself saying.
He laughed softly. ‘Yes to dinner, or yes to mixed messages?’
I didn’t get the chance to answer because a taxi pulled to a squeaky halt in the yard just inches from our chairs and a spritely old man got out and slammed the door. In a creased ivory linen suit, cravat and crumpled panama hat, he looked like he’d come straight from a game of cricket with Jeeves and Wooster.
‘Jensen? Young Jensen Butterworth?’ said the old man. His face was tanned, but his eyes were bright and his top lip sported an enormous twirly white moustache. ‘Is that you?’
‘Yes? Mr Buxton? Good grief!’ Jensen leapt up to greet him, laughing in disbelief. ‘Lottie, this is my grandfather’s friend, Sidney Buxton.’
‘Absolutely delighted to meet you, Lottie.’ Sidney lifted his hat to reveal a perfectly bald head then did a delightfully old-fashioned little bow.
‘What a lovely surprise!’ I got to my feet, shocked by the turn of events, and felt my head spin.
The world tilted as if I was on a fairground ride and I staggered forward into the metal pole of the parasol. My legs crumpled and there was an echo of someone shouting my name as I hit the ground.
The noise of my alarm clock was hideous. Why wouldn’t it stop? And what on earth had happened to my pillows? They were really uncomfortable. I flapped my arm to try to turn it off, but someone caught hold of my hand. The skin was dry and exceptionally soft and I recognized it as Betsy. The knowledge that she was there brought a rush of tears to my eyes.
‘Look, she’s coming round now. Thank God,’ said Betsy, sounding relieved.
‘Still, it’s best to let the paramedics check her over.’ That was Marjorie.
A Vintage Summer Page 17
