Late Summer in the Vineyard

by Jo Thomas

  ‘So this is the main winery. In here we store wine made by vintners, who have made the wine on their own land. We store it here either in barrels or bottles.’

  I am even hotter than before. We’ve traipsed round what feels like every part of Featherstone’s winery. We’ve been through a myriad of rooms and had the wine-making process explained to us in mind-boggling detail.

  Charlie leads us into a room with desks and a long work bench, like a sort of laboratory setup. ‘This is where the backroom work is done, where the wine-makers work their magic, testing, checking and blending. It’s the nerve centre.’

  Then on into a huge modern barn at the back of the converted stables. There are palates of boxes, and a forklift truck is motoring noisily up and down across the concrete floor between the huge steel tanks and big yellow hosepipes snaking across the floor. There’s a smell in the air, mostly cleaning fluids, making my head ache again. I can’t remember anything of what Charlie’s told us and I feel like I’ve stepped into some futuristic city of scientific experiments and chrome.

  Despite Charlie’s smart good looks and confident delivery, nothing he says is going in. I’m hot and I have a thumping headache. Jeff, who drove us from the airport, pulls up on the forklift truck, pulls out the cigarette from his mouth, smiles, waves, calls, ‘Salut, tout le monde!’ and then drives off singing and calling out the odd joke that none of us understands. We smile and nod. My head bangs some more. Charlie leads us back towards the converted barns and offices and we stand outside in the sunshine.

  ‘My father set up this business. He fell in love with wine and this part of France. Since those early days it’s grown and grown. Now he’s taking a back seat and I am taking Featherstone’s to a whole new level. Up until now we’ve dealt directly with individual customers, shipping their orders from here to their door. I want to expand and put Featherstone’s name in every restaurant but, more importantly, the shops and supermarkets in the UK. That’s what you’ll be doing. Hunting out the customers and getting the orders in.’ His green eyes dance with excitement. It’s certainly a long way from selling toilet cleaner and loo rolls. I know I should be excited and I’m trying my hardest to look as if I’m concentrating, trying to make up for my earlier shabbiness.

  ‘In here . . .’ Charlie leads us through to the first room by the door of the barn. As he passes I get a hit of his aftershave, powerful, punchy and spicy. I feel myself dip again and remind myself it’s the heat and perhaps tiredness too. Charlie Featherstone is a very attractive man and it looks like I’m not the only one who thinks so as Candy smiles, runs her finger along her very white teeth to check for lipstick stains and pushes up her bra when she thinks no one’s looking. She knows how to do it, I think. There’s no way someone like Charlie would look twice at someone like me. I’m just another sales agent, I tell myself firmly, and concentrate! I turn away from Charlie and see Jeff climbing down from his forklift. He gives me another wave and I give an embarrassed, shy wave back with a sinking heart. I must not start fancying Charlie, I tell myself. Despite him being the type of guy that would tick all the right boxes I really don’t need to be setting myself up for any more falls right now. I’m the one with slime on my trousers and twigs in my hair, for goodness’ sake!

  We move into the shop next.

  ‘This is where we sell direct to the customers who have found us. They come here for tastings and to buy. Colette runs this area, but hopefully some of you will help out here and get to know our wines better. The better you know our wines, the better you’ll be able to sell them over the phone when you get back to the UK.’ Charlie looks around the shop, into the office and outside into the forecourt as if looking for something or someone, and frowns. Then with a flick of his head he leads us to a wooden staircase and upstairs. It smells of newly cut wood and varnish, as if this room has only just been finished. It’s all a far cry from Madame Beaumont’s chai, I think to myself. Hers is a crumbling barn with old black wooden doors that barely meet the stone door frame. I’m the last to make it upstairs.

  There, in front of us, is a big picture window, looking out over the Dordogne river. There are boats, with two and four rowers in them, followed by a little motor boat and a man with a loud-hailer. There are fishermen on three-legged stools, sipping from flasks on the banks of the fast-flowing river. In the middle of the room are four desks with phones, two of the desks already occupied. Behind us is another big window, this time looking out over fields of vines behind Featherstone’s: row upon row, lining up like soldiers in dark green uniforms, protecting bunches of green grapes, standing proudly with their feet in light brown, sun-kissed soil. The vineyard rolls up and down towards the back of the big church, guarding the smart, well-kept cemetery, and beyond that, to the left, is the town with its colourful red, green and white awnings.

  ‘This,’ Charlie announces proudly, ‘is where you will work.’ He holds out a hand to let us take in our new surroundings and I stare practically open mouthed at the views. ‘You’ll be expected to help out in all areas of the winery. You’ll be learning about the wines and then you’ll be putting your knowledge into practice and selling it here. Do you think you can sell our wines from here?’ He turns to look out of the window at the stunning view and smiles widely. We all nod silently. It’s a long way from our city-centre offices, overlooking the car park and rubbish bins and the tiny piece of green space I could see between two tall buildings if I craned my neck. We all mutter our approval to each other and look around, delighted with our new surroundings.

  ‘This is Hannah and Ben,’ Charlie introduces an older couple, maybe in their early sixties, on the phones, who each wave a free hand cheerfully at us. ‘Hannah and Ben took early retirement, moved here from England and have been the permanent selling staff on site for a couple of years now, selling directly to our regular customers. However, they are moving on. Greece, isn’t it, guys?’

  They nod and Ben gives a thumbs up.

  ‘They’re buying a B&B out there. You’ll be taking over their regular contacts as well as making new contacts with bigger buyers.’

  The couple look tanned, relaxed and happy as they chat to customers on the phones. Hannah is wearing khaki shorts and a white vest top, showing off her tanned, toned legs, and Ben is in calf-length combats, stroking his long beard as he talks. I look out of the window towards the vines. If I can’t become a top-selling agent here, then I don’t know where I will ever do it.

  ‘You’ll work here on the phones, take it in turns in the shop downstairs, help out in the winery if needs be and get a feel for what we sell here. You’ll have wine lessons with our new wine-maker . . . when he gets here.’ Charlie looks at his watch, large and quite possibly very expensive, and a flash of irritation crosses his face. Then he looks back at us and switches on his smile, which once again lights up the room.

  ‘And here’s the thing.’ He pauses and then looks at each of us. When he looks at me I get a fluttery feeling in my stomach and blush. ‘Of the four of you, the person that proves themselves to have understood our wines and sells the most will return to the UK as a team leader. That, of course, will include an attractive salary and a bonus at the end of these twelve weeks as well.’

  Suddenly the chatter and appreciation for the room stops and a cloak of seriousness descends. Candy actually licks her bottom lip, as though she’s ready to be let out of the starter’s blocks. An attractive salary! No more basic wage and commission. And a bonus. So this is what Trevor meant when he said that there was a pot of gold riding on it. My heart quickens and my spirits suddenly lift. That would certainly help sort out the mortgage arrears. Gloria looks down at her feet and Nick looks at Candy, then at me and then back at Candy. I think about my bag stuffed with bills – particularly the red one that I still haven’t opened that was on the mat before I left this morning. And then of course there’s the office collection. I really need this promotion. Maybe, finall
y, a bit of luck is going to come my way. I need to be more like Candy if I’m to be in with any chance here. I must try for an air of professionalism. No more slime on trousers or twigs in hair.

  ‘Here are your sales details.’ Charlie turns to the table he’s leaning against and picks up the pile of huge bound and printed books.

  ‘You mean our scripts,’ Nick corrects him in a know-all way, and I’m not sure Charlie’s impressed by his comment.

  ‘I love learning scripts,’ Candy simpers, to which Charlie looks much more impressed and gives her a special smile all of her own as he hands out the weighty documents.

  Gloria says nothing, just takes hers as it’s handed to her, pulls out her glasses from her bag, slides them on and begins reading. In her other hand she has her hand-held battery-operated fan held to her face. She must have brought a case full of batteries to keep that fan running. I can practically see her mind whirring, already taking in and digesting the information.

  My heart sinks as I take my script and open it. Thousands and thousands of words dance across the page in front of my eyes. At Cadwallader’s call centre it’s all about consistency and I’m guessing it’s going to be the same here. You have to answer the phone exactly the same way.

  ‘Hello, Cadwallader’s here. Emmy calling. I’m ringing today for your weekly advertising/insurance/pet food supplies/wine (interchange for which department you work in) weekly health check.’ Candy is great at the script, by all accounts. Me? I keep forgetting what I’m supposed to be saying and end up asking my customers how they are, and talking them out of spending any money. From now on, though, I need to stick to the script.

  ‘OK, so you have your homework. But as it’s Saturday,’ Charlie claps his hands, jolting us out of our individual thoughts, ‘I suggest you go back to the gîte and get yourselves settled in. Then meet us back here at six for aperitifs and then I’ll be taking you to Le Tire-bouchon. For those of you without French . . . yet,’ he throws out another killer smile, ‘Le Tire-bouchon means The Corkscrew. It’s the restaurant just down the river here. We’ll be going there for a welcome meal.’ He smiles and claps his hands together again and glances at his watch. We all turn to go, taking our ‘bibles’ with us.

  ‘And, Emma, is it?’ he calls after us, and I turn back, my heart giving a silly skip and I smile, delighted to have caught his attention.

  ‘Emmy,’ I correct him. ‘Everyone calls me Emmy.’

  ‘Well, Emmy,’ he gives me a half-smile, ‘you seem to still have half a bush in your hair and some sort of slime down your trousers. You might want to take a look at it before dinner.’

  Great! If he didn’t know my name and who I was before, he does now! My heart plummets. As first impressions go, I think we can agree I could have done better. I’ll have to work really hard if I’m going to be anywhere in the running for the team leader’s job. I dread to think what the alternative is if I don’t.

  Back at the gîte, I run up the stairs and throw myself into my little shower room. Finally pulling off my hot and sweaty clothes, I drop them on the floor, turn on the tap to the shower under the eaves and then throw myself into the warm water and let the gentle trickle wash over me. Not a power shower, but just as welcome, none the less. I let the water run over my face and over my short, curly bob, wondering what to wear tonight. Trevor’s words are still ringing in my ears. I need to be more like Candy, I think, if I’m going to get this team leader’s job and finally be able to crawl my way out the pit of debt I’m in. I am determined to do better than I did today, that’s for sure.

  I pull a towel from the towel rail and wrap it round me, stretching it over my pear-shaped bottom, and step out into my little back bedroom. I look in the mirror on the wall, just inside the door, and stare. My fair skin is pink and tingling from the midday sun. I hold my hair back with one hand whilst the other is holding my towel. Then I turn slightly, look in the mirror and see if I can attempt a Candy pout, first left and then right. How does she keep her lips like that all the time?

  ‘Very nice. But I don’t think I ordered room service,’ says a sleepy American voice.

  ‘Shit!’ I spin round to what I thought was my pile of luggage that I’d left on my bed ready to unpack but it isn’t a pile of luggage at all. My luggage is now on the floor. My heart starts thundering like a young horse in its first Grand National. My eyes open wider and I clutch the towel more firmly.

  It’s a person, a body, a man . . . in my bed! I must be in the wrong room. Then I look at the pile of luggage again. The old holdall from the attic with my worn and faded Stereophonics sticker on the side is definitely my luggage. Yes, lying in my bed is a man, propping himself up on one arm. About thirty-five, he has dark hair, and he pushes the unruly mop of loose curls back off his long tanned face. He has dark stubble around his jawline, his chin and his top lip. He rubs his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. He has a long straight nose and, when he opens them again, I see very, very brown eyes, like dark chocolate, framed by thick eyebrows, and dark smudges under them. There’s a brightness in those eyes that makes them look as if they’re laughing, presumably at me, despite his having obviously just woken up. He runs his hand up his high forehead, showing off his high cheekbones to match. He’s wearing a white vest T-shirt showing off his rounded shoulders and on one of them, a small tattoo that I can’t quite make out. Round his neck are two or maybe three short necklaces, one of beads and one leather with a small silver charm on it. He doesn’t say anything, just grins at me.

  ‘What the . . . ? Shit . . . excuse me . . . what the . . . ?’ I splutter, wondering if Candy and Nick are going to appear, laughing at their joke at any minute. But they don’t.

  The man sits up and grins again, a very white bright smile, and pulls a shirt on that he’s picked up from the floor beside him, where he had clearly just discarded it. Then, clearly having discarded his manners somewhere too, goes to pull back the covers.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say loudly, putting up a hand in disbelief, feeling outraged and flustered all at the same time.

  He stops and lets the cover drop back down.

  ‘Oh, sorry, of course.’ He smiles lazily again, as if teasing me.

  We look at each other, me waiting for an explanation or an apology for him being in my room, in my bed. And he . . . well, waiting for me to leave, by the looks of it. He tugs at the corner of the cover impatiently and raises an eyebrow. The leather bracelets on his wrist jostle with each other.

  ‘Bathroom,’ he says by way of an explanation, nodding towards the small en suite to which I’m standing in the doorway. I’m tempted to stand my ground but he waggles the corner of the thin cover again and sticks a foot out. Oh God, who knows what he’s wearing under there, if anything? I lurch forward, grab my holdall and the towel tightly, and run out of the room to the sound of his laughter.

  Isaac rubbed both his hands over his face. He was tired. It had been quite a journey to get here, and quite a party before he left, too. But, like a swallow who knows when the seasons are about to change, Isaac could feel it had been time to leave. Any longer and he’d have felt he was living back in California, and that would never have done.

  He felt better already, knowing there were new wines to discover, new territories to explore. He could feel his interest reignite. A fire starting in his belly. He loved the feeling he got arriving somewhere new. And, let’s be honest, he’d clearly set the cat amongst the pigeons with his arrival already. He hadn’t meant to scare the poor woman. He’d just been in such a deep sleep, he’d almost forgotten where he was. Last time he was in a bed, he’d been slipping out of it before its other occupant awoke and had been on the plane before he could even text her goodbye. It was better that way. He didn’t do long goodbyes. They hurt too much. Anyway, he’d be back at the end of the season, maybe. But he needed to focus on being in France for the next few months. This was a big opportunity for him
and if he played his cards right, it could take him on to bigger, greener pastures, and California would be just another chapter in life, just the way he liked it. He smiled and finally slipped out of bed to the bathroom.

  ‘A man! In your bed!’ Candy shrieks.

  ‘Ssh,’ I tell her. He’d probably love the fact we’re talking about him, I think. He is that sort: cocky and confident. I sling my case down on what I think is the spare bed in her room, although, judging by the amount of clothes, shoes and hair apparatus on each bed, I’m not entirely sure. I pick up a pile of assorted outfits and look this way and that for somewhere to put them.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Candy stops tonging her hair. She’s wrapped in a small towel, with two large rollers on top of her head. Her body is an all-over unnatural orange colour.

  ‘Looking for somewhere to put this,’ I say, stating the obvious. Candy may be one of the call centre’s best-selling agents, but common sense isn’t something she rates highly in.

  ‘If someone is in my bed then I’m going to need somewhere to sleep,’ I tell her, still rattled and irritated, balancing her clothes between the bedside table and a corner of bed space by her pillow.

  ‘You can’t stay here. There’s nowhere near enough room,’ she wails, going back to tonging her white-blond hair.

  ‘This is the biggest room,’ I point out patiently. It’s twice the size of my room back home, maybe more. But then, I am still staying in the room I had when I was growing up, the one that looks over the back garden. Dad has the middle room, which used to be my sister’s. Now she has a suite of rooms for her bedroom, en suite and dressing room, his and hers. She emailed me pictures not long after she married. She used to send pictures of my nephews too, to show them to Dad. That was before all the trouble. She doesn’t now. I’d have liked to have sent some photos of here, I think sadly, looking out of the window to the fast-flowing river, and tell her what I’m up to, but there’s been too much hurt for a catch-up email now.