by Jo Thomas
‘Oh, that, erm, I’m not sure. Gloria has it, too. She needs to go back to the gîte and then get to the pharmacy.’
‘If it’s what I think it is, you both need the pharmacy.’
‘What do you think it is?’ I ask.
‘Harvest bugs. Mites that lay eggs in warm places. There’s no avoiding them. Finish up in here and get yourself in the bath. I’ll take the others back and go to the pharmacy for you. And that’s an order,’ he says firmly, and I find myself shivering all over.
The big iron bath takes for ever to fill, and when I get in I keep slipping down under the water because my feet won’t touch the end of it. But still, it’s bliss. I eventually heave myself out, once the water goes cold. Standing on the wooden floor, I look down at my bites.
Ewww.
I dry and dress quickly, slipping on some shorts and a hoodie and some flip-flops, which seems to have become my uniform since I moved in here, and make my way outside to start washing down the chai for tomorrow’s picking. Madame Beaumont says the chai has to be spotless if you’re to make good wine. In no time at all I’m soaking all over again and cold, now the sun has gone down, and I start to scratch at the bites on my arms just as I hear a car pull up in the yard.
‘Hey!’
I turn to see Isaac standing in the doorway.
‘Come on into the house! This place is so clean you could carry out open-heart surgery in it.’
Wearily I do as I’m told. I switch off the buzzing overhead light with a clunk of the big old switch and follow him to the house.
‘OK, now then, take off your top.’ he says, dropping an overnight bag on the floor.
‘I beg your pardon!’ I’m standing in front of the wood burner, shivering. ‘Look, I’m really not interested in having a fling with you.’
‘No,’ he says flatly, ‘and I don’t want a fling with you either.’ He opens the fire, throws in some paper and kindling and puts a match to it.
I’m not sure whether to be relieved or insulted that he doesn’t want a fling with me. Relieved, I think. It’s much easier for us to work together if there is absolutely no attraction between us, but still my cheeks burn as if I’ve been slapped across them.
‘I can’t imagine how you’re such a hit with the ladies with those chat-up lines,’ I try to joke.
‘I meant,’ he sighs, ‘put on a vest top or whatever and then let me put something on your sores. It’s the mites’ eggs that are making you itch.’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ I say, mortified, and quickly run upstairs to put on a dry T-shirt and shorts and then hang my other clothes out in front of the fire on the fragile old clothes horse.
‘They’d run out of cream at the pharmacy.’
‘Oh, no. Now what am I going to do?’ I think the itching might actually drive me mad.
‘Apparently aftershave is just as good,’ Isaac tells me evenly.
‘But I haven’t got any . . .’
He pulls a small black bottle out from his bag. ‘But I have. Right, where are they?’
I show him first the backs of my legs, red, blotchy with white marks bubbling up. The aftershave stings like hell and I cry out. He looks concerned and I bite my lip.
‘OK?’ he asks before carrying on.
I nod. When the stinging subsides, it seems to draw the heat and itching from the sores too.
Then I show him the crooks of my elbows. The scent is earthy, woody, with a hint of citrus wrapping round me like a cloak, making me feel quite light headed. I pull off my sweatshirt and lift my T-shirt and he dabs gently at the bites around my middle, his head so close to mine I can feel his breath on my skin, while my lungs fill more and more with his smell and, despite me knowing how hideous I must look, a thousand volts of electricity are shooting through me again. Then he pushes up the edge of my T-shirt.
‘Undo your bra,’ he says quietly and the thousand volts just shoot off the scale. Every bit of me is shaking. My cheeks are on fire. Suddenly I ache and I think if he touches me under my breasts, where the mites itch the most, I might just explode.
‘Here,’ I say, and our fingers touch as I take the cotton wool from him, nearly making me drop it, dabbing where I can feel the worst offenders itching. It stings, makes my eyes water, and banishes the feelings that were building in the very pit of my stomach.
‘And here,’ he says, pointing, as I hold one hand over my breasts, lifting them. ‘Sorry, would you rather I didn’t,’ he suddenly says, realising the intimacy of the situation.
I swallow, hard. ‘No, no, of course not. Please . . .’ I must try to be a grown-up here. I can’t do this without him.
‘OK,’ he holds my gaze for just a minute with those dark eyes, the colour of chocolate hazelnut spread.
I can’t understand why I’m shaking so much.
‘And here,’ he points. I lift my breasts higher. Don’t touch me, I’m thinking as he points towards my breast. My lips are even starting to ache. Suddenly aching with a desire to be kissed. I have no idea what has come over me. It must be heat stroke.
‘No, here,’ he takes my hand and directs it towards another bite, and I’m grateful for the stinging, eye-watering smack back to reality.
I need to distract myself from these ridiculous feelings I’m having.
‘So, erm . . . about the next stage,’ I try to say casually, but my voice comes out as a weird kind of nervous squeak. ‘What about using the wild yeast instead?’
He shakes his head and I swear his hair is going to tickle my tummy, making me feel ticklish and tingly at the thought.
‘And by wild yeasts I presume you mean adding no artifical yeasts at all. Just what’s found in the vineyard on the grapes?’ He raises an eyebrow, then shakes his head again. ‘Too risky. We need to get the yeast I’ve brought into the vats tomorrow. Those grapes have been sitting for a few days. They need to start their fermentation. Like I say, we want a nice controlled fermentation over the next ten days, two weeks. It’ll make it a more controllable wine when we come to blend, and then next year when we roll it out and blend it with bought-in grapes.’
‘But I thought that using just the wild yeasts makes a more complex wine, gives it better character?’ I still try to sound casual. ‘Ouch,’ I wince as he dabs more aftershave on the cotton wool and hands it to me and I place it on a bite.
‘Top marks, Miss Bridges,’ he smiles, and I really hope I don’t have to stand up because my legs are jelly and if he touches me again, I’m going to melt. I feel my arms and legs have become all disjointed and there is a fireball rolling round my stomach and up and down my thighs.
This time when he hands me a piece of cotton wool he doesn’t let go and I don’t pull away either. He looks at me and even if I wanted to I wouldn’t be able to pull my eyes away. The wood burner suddenly bursts into life, throwing reflections of orange flames across his dark, shiny skin and his bright eyes. My head moves slightly closer to his and I’m sure his moves closer, too. I know I shouldn’t but I just can’t seem to stop myself edging a tiny bit closer and then looking at his lips, soft and glistening in the firelight. The pain from the bites has all but gone, but my breasts remain on high alert.
My head is swimming with excitement.
‘Hey!’ The French doors fly open. ‘Not disturbing you, am I?’ Charlie jokes as he breezes in, bringing in a blast of cold air. I yank my top back down and fall back in the chair.
‘No, not all,’ says Isaac coolly with just a hint of fluster, turning his head away quickly. ‘Just giving Emmy something for her mite bites,’ he adds, dropping the top to the aftershave on the floor and looking down and around for it. I feel like the bubble we were in has burst and all that’s left is its debris to clear up.
‘Jesus! It smells like a brothel in here.’ Charlie waves his hand around. ‘Just thought you’d like s
ome cheering up,’ he says, and flourishes a bottle of wine and a small box of chocolates at me. Then he grimaces as he takes in the blotches covering my body. ‘But I can see you’re probably not feeling up to it.’
‘I’ll be off,’ Isaac says, packing up his bag. ‘I’ll see ya in the morning. Good night,’ he says to me, then: ‘Charlie,’ he says stiffly as he brushes past him to leave, and I suddenly feel hugely disappointed.
‘Hang on,’ says Charlie, and I’m hoping he’s going to persuade him to stay. ‘I’ll come with you. Fancy one at Le Papillon?’
‘Sure. But are you sure you should be leaving Emmy? Those bites are pretty bad.’
‘You’ll be OK, won’t you, Emmy? I want to have a catch-up with Isaac, find out how it’s all going here,’ he beams, putting down the wine and chocolates. ‘You’re doing brilliantly, by all accounts. Apart from sending back my staff like the walking wounded.’
Isaac doesn’t move.
‘Sure you’ll be OK?’ He looks straight at me and asks gently. And right now I know that if he stays, I’ll do something I’ll regret.
‘You will, won’t you, Emmy?’ says Charlie.
‘Go!’ I say jovially. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Have fun. I’ll be fine!’
But I suddenly feel like I’ve been left standing on the dance floor on my own before the song has finished as I wave them off. I must think about Charlie. Why did he turn up here tonight with wine and chocolates? Is he interested in me, or is this just about the wine? My head is whirring. He’s good looking, after all, and he has dreams. Charlie’s making a future for himself. And he’s looking for someone to share it with. Isaac, on the other hand, is just living in the moment. And I certainly don’t want to be a notch in Isaac’s travelling bedstead. Charlie is clearly someone with prospects, family business, smart, ambitious. It’s a no-brainer. He ticks all the boxes. He’s clearly making an effort and I should too, a voice in my head says loudly. He turned up with here with chocolates and wine. I have all the answers I need. He likes me! But the question is, of course, would Charlie have spent the evening dabbing aftershave on my mite bites if I’d asked him? And I have a feeling I know the answer to that too.
That night in bed I am wrapped in a cloak of Isaac’s aftershave. A wave of excitement takes me off to sleep, occasionally waking to thoughts of what it would have felt like if Isaac’s lips had met mine. And for the first time in ages, I sleep. I sleep as if his arms are wrapped around me, telling me everything’s going to be just fine.
The next morning, every part of my body aches and itches, but the mite bites are looking a lot less angry and red. And a night’s sleep has done me the world of good.
Isaac arrives in the van at speed. The doors open.
‘Morning.’ His usual cheeriness has all but disappeared. He’s polite but distant.
Nick gets out stiffly and then straightens, putting his hands in the small of his back and wincing. Candy follows, limping, her foot still swollen. Gloria looks red and swollen all over too.
‘I’m so sorry, Emmy, the doctor says I’m to stay out of the sun for a few days.’ Gloria looks really sorry. ‘But I can still cook.’
‘Don’t worry.’ I try to smile but I am worried. Really worried. We’re dropping like flies and I’m never going to get the grapes in at this rate.
‘And maybe . . .’ She hesitates.
‘Yes?’
‘Well, it’s been a while, but maybe I could take a look over Madame Beaumont’s books, straighten out the accounts,’ she says shyly.
‘That would be great, Gloria. I’m sure Madame Beaumont won’t want to have to come back to lots of paperwork. I think they’re in a box in the living room.’
Gloria beams. ‘I’ll get on to it.’
‘I can’t pick, but I’ve been setting up a blog,’ says Candy.
‘Yes, and once the painkillers kick in, maybe I could get back to picking,’ Nick says, holding his back.
‘I think you’d better lie down. I’ll take care of you,’ Candy smiles like he’s a cute puppy she’s going to fuss over all day.
Isaac gets back in the van and starts the engine. I run round to the van window.
‘Can’t you stay?’ I ask.
He shakes his head.
‘What am I going to do?’
‘Just make a start. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’ve left the yeast in the chai for you. It needs adding to each of the vats. There’s a measure there. We may need to pump it over then. Get one of the walking wounded to help you.’
‘Add the yeast, OK. Pump it over . . . right. How was Charlie last night?’ I ask quickly, wondering whether he mentioned me.
Isaac chews his bottom lip. ‘Seems to think you’re doing this for the “Featherstone’s team”. Talked a lot about what a great girl you are and how he hadn’t seen it straight away. Just talked about if we win the Morgan’s Supermarkets wine medal. We’d get prime position on the shelves and loads of publicity. It could really put a little family-run company like Featherstone’s on the map. Growers will be knocking at his door to get them to make their wine. He’s in touch with a big wine company in Australia. Really big. If I can get in there, well, the world’s my oyster!’
‘That’s great!’ I say, but despite hearing everything I wanted to hear, for some reason I can’t feel as happy as I want to.
‘Yup! We’ll all do well out of this,’ he says without looking at me.
I can’t help but think there’s a bit of sting in what he’s saying.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Just sayin’, we all get what we want, that’s all.’ Isaac is staring straight ahead, holding the steering wheel. He’s right, we do. So, why don’t I feel more pleased?
‘Where are you off to? I need help here. If we are all to get what we want.’ And now there’s a sting in my voice.
He looks at me, then suddenly the corner of his mouth pulls back into a smile. He puts the car into gear, drops off the handbrake and starts to drive off.
‘Don’t forget the yeast!’ he calls out the window. ‘I’ll explain what else you need to do when I get back.’
‘Isaac! Where are you going? How long will you be?’
‘To find you more pickers.’
I watch as the little van disappears down the lane.
He’s right, if I want this wine in, I’m going to have to do as he says. I’m going to have to add the yeast. And let’s be honest, will Madame Beaumont really know?
It’s not as hot in the vineyard today, which means I can work faster. But as it’s just me, no matter how hard I pick, progress is slow – very slow. I am never going to get this done in time. There’s just too much to do.
‘I know it’s not your fault, it’s just there’s so many of you and only one of me,’ I tell the vines, wondering if they have become bilingual. ‘If only Isaac was here. Then at least we’d get it done twice as fast. I just don’t know how I’m going to do it all.’ Snip, snip. Snip, snip.
I can’t help but feel utterly beaten, and really cross. Isaac went off ages ago to find me pickers and hasn’t come back. I can’t believe he’s let me down like this.
‘Allez, Henri,’ I call to the horse, and he slowly moves between the rows of vines.
‘Woah!’ I call again, and he does.
‘I mean, it’s complicated. On the one hand he frustrates me with his silly jokes and his laid-back attitude, but when it comes to the wine, everything has to be done just so. Charlie. Charlie doesn’t infuriate me like Isaac does but he doesn’t . . . well . . .’ My mind flips back to Isaac dabbing the aftershave on me last night. I can still smell it now, making me feel like it’s put a sway in my hips. ‘Stupid, I know,’ I tell the vines as I pick, drop the grapes into the bucket and then load them on to the crates on the trailer. I push the memory of last night
out of mind, just as I promised myself I would, but somehow my hips keep swaying as I walk.
I’m just following Henri up the fourth row of vines when I hear a car pull up in the yard. Thank God! Isaac!
I put my secateurs in the pocket of my shorts, pull off my baseball cap I bought in the market, gather my now longer hair together and push the cap back on again, pulling my ponytail out through the gap at the back. Henri stands patiently and waits. I pat his big hind quarters.
‘Tu attends. Bon garçon. I’ll be back in a minute.’ My trainers are dark and stained from the earth, and look worn and tired. A bit like me. But the sway in my hips and the smell of the earthy, woody aftershave, still lingering on my skin, keeps me moving on up the hill. I arrive at the top of the slope, slightly out of breath and stop and look at the yard. It’s not Isaac. It’s Charlie.
He’s getting out of his car, pulling off his aviator sunglasses. Cecil pulls himself up on to his two big front legs, lifts his head and lets out a jowl-swinging round of barks. Charlie sidesteps him as he starts to get his back legs to join his front ones and stand. As usual there is a trail of drool hanging from Cecil’s mouth.
‘Hi,’ I smile, and raise a hand, feeling a little disappointed. He doesn’t look as if he’s come dressed for picking either, I think, taking in his smart, sharply ironed pink shirt, open at the neck, the cuffs neatly folded back. And his dark suit trousers and chestnut-brown shiny shoes. Now the weather is cooling, Charlie looks much more in his comfort zone when it comes to his wardrobe.
‘Hi,’ he beams, and holds my shoulder, kissing me on both cheeks. His aftershave is tropical, floral and warm. He frowns. ‘What’s that smell?’ He sniffs me again, wrinkling his nose, and I realise it’s Isaac’s aftershave he can smell.
‘I thought you might be here to help me pick,’ I say, realising he’s just come to check on progress, which frankly right now is really slow. ‘I know it looks like I’m only about halfway through, but I’ve got a lot of it already starting to ferment.’ I quickly try to put his worries aside. ‘Isaac’s gone to find me some more pickers.’
