by Jo Thomas
‘Enchanté.’ The man nods his head by way of hello. ‘I have heard of your wine-maker. Here,’ he takes the bottles from me and the envelope with Clos Beaumont’s name on it. I recognise him now as the château’s vigneron, the one driving the tractor in the fields. The one Madame Beaumont steadfastly ignores. He holds out his hands to take my infant wine, ready for its premier tasting. But I clutch the bottles, reluctant to let them go.
‘I can take these from you. They will be safe with me,’ he smiles, the same smile he gave Madame Beaumont on that first day, spraying the vines. It feels a bit like how I imagine it would leaving your child at nursery for the first time with bigger kids. I watch as he puts the bottles on the red tablecloth next to the other wines and tucks the envelope underneath.
‘Bernard, I need a word . . . erm, your advice in a while. When you’re free,’ Charlie smiles at him then back at me.
‘Bien sûr, monsieur.’ He nods and Charlie ushers me quickly along the hall but I’m trying to hang back, craning my neck, like a worried mum trying to watch the playground from a distance. But then I see a waitress in short black dress, pearl earrings and flat shoes make her way along the passage and turn into the room, holding large jugs of water, and I decide I can leave.
We follow the sound of chatter and laughter to the end of the corridor, where it opens out into a massive, high-ceilinged room. There is a huge stone fireplace and a roaring fire. There are large windows down one side, with big glass doors. Outside there are high tables, with flaming patio heaters, more flaming bamboo torches and people standing around, blowing smoke into the air, whilst holding glasses in their other hand. Monsieur and Madame Obels from the shop are there tucking into the tray of amuse-bouches as the waitress passes. As is the mayor. They raise their glasses and wave, then call the waitress back for another morsel from the tray. I’m sure that I can see our degustation guests too, our second home owners, who also turn and wave across the crowded room.
A waitress holds out a silver tray with slim glasses of sparkling wine and tells us it’s the château’s own ‘méthode champenoise’. I smile, take a glass but I’m too nervous to drink. I’m drawn to the window. Beyond the patio and the heaters are the vines, floodlit at this top end, making a fantastic dramatic backdrop. But beyond it, I can just make out Clos Beaumont.
‘You made it!’
I turn round. Nick is excitedly holding his glass by the stem whilst Candy is knocking back the last of hers and looking around.
‘You had us worried. You’re late! Is it here, the Clos Beaumont wine?’
‘Safely delivered,’ I smile, and then realise I’m scanning the room too.
‘Excuse me a moment. There’s someone I must see.’ Charlie puts his hand in the small of my back, then steps away and moves across the room. I follow him with my eyes and then I see her, dressed all in red. Selina. He kisses her on both cheeks, whispering something into her ear and as he does, she tosses her head back and laughs. Am I really pinning my future hopes on a man I don’t really know at all? After all, he never said it was Isaac who organised for my family to come over. Just took the credit. I look at him again. He looks smart. Blue suit, fitted shirt, silver cufflinks. He’s tall, smells expensive, keeps himself fit. Why then have I got this niggling feeling that something doesn’t quite fit? Was I right not to sleep with him that night in Saint Enrique? I take a sip of my drink. Something in my head, my gut . . . instinct! I hear Madame Beaumont’s voice and I practically laugh out loud, choking on my drink, the bubbles going up my nose.
‘You all right?’ A voice behind me says. Candy spins round and her face lights up. It’s Isaac. My eyes water, and I hold my hand over my mouth, trying not to choke some more. But my ridiculous heart still flips over and back again as I take him in. He’s wearing a long white linen shirt, open at the neck, showing off his leather necklaces, still entwined, a soft leather jacket and dark blue jeans. One hand is shoved into his pocket, his leather friendship bracelets poking over the top. And on his feet, chunky, black biker boots. He smells familiar, of forests and lemon. A smell I have come to know so well and that sets a fire burning in my belly and makes my body start to ache with a longing, drawing me in. I seem to have stopped breathing altogether.
‘No bandana,’ I croak stupidly through my tight throat. The last thing I want is for Isaac to have to save my life again and I take another sip of fizz, hoping it’ll clear my airways.
‘No,’ he laughs. ‘No bandana. And no red wine stains,’ he retorts, referring to my many soakings, and try as I might I can’t help but laugh, and Candy pouts.
A bell rings.
‘Dinner.’ Isaac smiles, and Candy muscles in beside him and slides her arm through his. I step back to let her through.
Nick pulls himself up from his chest, where his shoulders had just drooped and holds his arm out gallantly to Gloria. Charlie finally joins us and puts his hand in the small of my back again, guiding me into dinner, nodding and smiling, shaking hands and kissing people on both cheeks on the way.
‘Sorry, just some business I needed to address. But I’m all yours now. Let’s finally enjoy an evening out together,’ he smiles, and I wish I could, but I’m way too nervous.
It’s a glorious meal. Wonderful orange charentais melon draped with soft pink smoked ham or terrine de campagne, a local pâté, with baskets of still-warm sliced bread. Then filet de boeuf, pink on the inside, brown around the edges, wrapped in soft, flaky pastry with gratin dauphinois potatoes and roasted vegetables. There is tarte tatin, golden on the top, and big cheese boards placed down the table for us to dip into with more baskets of bread. But it’s more like a game of wink, wink, murder, than a dinner party. Nick is snatching glances at Candy, Candy is drinking in Isaac, Isaac I swear is taking sideways glances at me, and Charlie is gazing over at Selina, who keeps smiling back. Gloria, on the other hand, is sitting next to someone I’ve never met, chatting and smiling. They talk and listen to each other intently throughout the meal. I barely eat or drink, I’m so nervous, despite the wonderful food and offering of wine.
I do have coffee, and the judges are starting to gather. I take the coffee to my lips and catch Isaac’s eye. I swear he gives me a little wink and a tiny smile from the corner of his mouth. Candy has her head now leaning against his arm, staring up at him with unconcealed adoration.
‘Think I’ll get some air.’ He raises his eyebrows and motions to me to follow. I go to stand.
‘Oh, smashing, yes . . .’ Candy staggers to her feet. I’m midway standing and not sure what to do. I go to sit back down and feel Nick tense up beside me. Isaac marches outside followed by a tottering Candy.
‘You have to say something, tell her how you feel,’ I tell Nick.
‘I can’t.’ He looks pained. ‘I’m never going to be the sort of guy she’ll go for. She thinks I’m gay, for God’s sake! She’ll hate me for telling her.’
I pat his arm and Gloria pats the other. My stomach is a tight ball and I wish they’d get the judging over and done with so I can go home. I look around for Charlie, who is talking with Bernard, getting his advice, no doubt. I wonder if Charlie is always working. Was that why his marriage broke down? I notice him looking at his watch, as does Bernard. It seems quite an intense conversation considering Charlie’s asking his advice. Suddenly, Candy comes pushing past them, back to the table, sobbing.
‘Candy?’ Nick jumps to his feet and puts an arm round her, guiding her to a chair, looking round for Isaac.
‘What did he do?’ Nick demands.
‘Nothing,’ she wails.
‘Nothing?’ Nick frowns.
She shakes her head. Nick pulls out a hankie for her, she takes it and blows on it very loudly, leaving her nose red and her eyes sore and puffy.
‘I asked him to kiss me and he . . . he . . . he said no. That he was very fond of me, but he didn’t want me in that way. I
thought . . . I thought . . .’
She blows her nose again and looks up at Nick.
‘What’s wrong with me? Wouldn’t you kiss me if you were—’
She doesn’t have time to finish her sentence because Nick lifts her to her feet, takes her head in one hand, the other behind her neck and bends down and kisses her very thoroughly indeed.
‘Oh, Nick,’ Candy finally says as they come up for air, looking like both of them have had their breath taken away.
‘I have wanted to do that for so long,’ he beams.
‘In that case, I think we’d better try it again,’ says Candy, grabbing her man and pulling him to her like a praying mantis ready to devour him.
A chink on the side of a glass with a knife and the room falls silent.
‘Time for the judging,’ Gloria whispers with an excited squeak.
‘Gloria, who was that man you’ve been talking to all night?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’ She squeezes my shoulder and looks across at Monsieur Lavigne, who is holding three envelopes in his hand.
The atmosphere in the room is electric. There’s the occasional excited whisper as wine-makers and sellers shuffle forward to stand shoulder to shoulder in front of Monsieur Lavigne and his table, where a glass, silver-topped decanter is sitting. I close my eyes, feeling the anticipation in the air. This announcement could change a wine-maker’s life. We are all standing in the middle of the crossroads.
‘Mesdames et Messieurs . . . Ladies and gentlemen. This award is for an infant wine, a new wine in which we see great potential,’ says Monsieur Lavigne.
I hold my breath and hold the curly E of my necklace to my lips.
‘We have tasted for aroma, texture and the balance of tannins and acidity,’ he continues, and my legs start to jiggle. Get on with it, I think, my eyes screwed up tight.
‘The winner will take home the medal and also a contract to supply Morgan’s Supermarkets back in the UK.’ The room falls silent as he struggles to open the envelope with a glass in one hand and trying to put his spectacles on his nose from round his neck.
‘And the winner of the Morgan’s Supermarkets wine medal for this new vintage, is . . . Featherstone’s Wines for their Clos Beaumont wine!’ he says loudly but with a hint of surprise in his voice.
‘We won! Clos Beaumont won!’ I hear a voice telling me, and I’m being bounced around from neighbouring shoulders.
I force my eyes open. Gloria is hugging me, as are Jeff and Colette. Someone shoves a glass of fizz into my hand, I’m not sure who, but it slops everywhere with the hugging and shoulder pattering. Charlie’s up with Monsieur Lavigne accepting the silver-topped crystal decanter trophy, shaking hands and posing for photographs.
I am stunned; I can’t even speak. We did it. I stand on tiptoes and look around for Isaac. I just want to share this moment with him. It’s as much his celebration as it is mine. But he’s not anywhere to be seen. At least he’ll get his new job now. He’ll be able to go, I think with a mix of pride and overwhelming sadness. Then I spot him. He too is now being congratulated by Monsieur Lavigne. He’s nodding but not saying much, he’s looking around too and then our eyes meet and hold each other’s gaze. He smiles and I smile back. We did it.
Everyone is congratulating us. Local wine-makers I’ve never met, shaking my hand and patting me on the back. It’s hot and I start to move towards the long French windows where it may be cooler, away from the throng around Charlie and the Featherstone’s gang. We did it, I think again, exhilarated. I realise I’ve never felt anything like this: as if anything is possible now.
I turn to look out on the valley below, back towards Clos Beaumont. I can barely see it but I know it’s there.
I did it, Madame Beaumont, I did it . . . I look out on the lights moving down in the valley. It almost looks like they belong to a tractor. And, if I’m not mistaken, they’re heading towards the Clos Beaumont vines. Why would there be lights down in the valley at this time of night? Suddenly my blood runs very cold.
‘No!’ I grab and turn the handles to the big double doors and push them wide open. The thin, white voile curtains fly up in the wind and the partygoers all turn in the direction of the wind, their hair, jacket tails and skirt hems lifting. I run out on to the patio, to the surprise of the smokers there, and Nick and Candy who are still practising their kissing.
‘This was all planned to get me out of the way!’ I say to Charlie, who has followed me out. The smile slips from his lips and he starts to look uncomfortable.
‘It wasn’t planned, Emmy, but it’s what we agreed: that Featherstone’s would take over the running of the vineyard.’
‘No! We didn’t agree it. It’s what you wanted but it was never agreed. I’m just here as your date to keep me out the way. You’re not interested in me, you just want to get your hands on those vines.’
‘That’s not true. Look, Emmy, calm down. Have another drink.’ He holds out a glass of fizz, which I push back at him, spilling it over his blue suit.
‘I don’t want a drink,’ I say firmly. ‘I want you to stop. Stop that now!’ I point towards Clos Beaumont.
I look out across the patio. It’s very dark out there. Then big blobs of rain start to fall, just occasionally at first, plip, plop over the terrace paving slabs, like bullets, hitting the ground, creating little craters of water where they fall. The onlookers move inside until it’s just me and Charlie here. Ripping my gaze away from the trundling tractor, I glare at him, fury tumbling through my veins.
‘Why today?’ I practically growl. ‘Why now?’
‘Well, since Madame Beaumont is due home tomorrow, I thought it best to get started. No need to upset her any more than necessary. This way, we’ll get the new vines in and take over on all the grape growing and harvesting. She’ll be paid for her wine.’
‘You mean your wine, the one you want her to make! Your bland blend wouldn’t win medals.’
‘Well, I think you’ll find it just has,’ Charlie smiles smugly.
‘Everything all right out here?’ Isaac appears in the doorway, framed by two floating curtains.
‘Fine, Isaac, yes, nothing to worry about. Oh, by the way,’ Charlie turns to him and pulls an envelope out of his inside pocket. ‘As promised, a cheque and a reference. Well done.’ He slaps him on the shoulder. Isaac stares at the envelope and then at me, and I turn away. How could he take it? Did he know about this too?
‘No, everything is not all right,’ I spin back. ‘He’s about to rip out Madame Beaumont’s vines! Isaac, can I have the van keys, please?’ I hold out my hand. More rain starts to fall, soaking my palm. The wind whips higher and I shiver.
‘The keys?’ he asks.
Suddenly there’s a rumble down below: the tractor has made it to the parcelle below us.
‘Now, Isaac!’ I shout.
‘But you can’t drive.’
‘I just said I didn’t drive.’ I thrust my hand towards him and he reaches into his pocket, pulls out the keys and drops them into my hand.
‘Look, I can—’ He goes to step forward.
‘No, I don’t think so! And anyway, you’ve been drinking.’
‘Look, Emmy, let’s go inside and let them do what they’ve got to do,’ says Charlie. ‘You’ve done well. We’ve got your future to plan with Featherstone’s. I think we can announce that team leader’s job is yours now and perhaps finally take that weekend away, for you and me; finally get this relationship started, anywhere you fancy. Paris?’
I look down at the keys in my hand. My hair is getting plastered to the side of my face. Just like the night my mother left.
‘Come on, let’s go inside.’ Charlie is trying to usher me, just like my father did that night, ushering me back inside, telling me everything will be all right.
I take a deep breat
h. ‘Y’know what, Charlie?’
‘No, Emmy, I don’t know “what”?’ He smiles, one of his full, pulled-back-to-the-ears smiles. ‘But I’m glad you’re seeing sense. We’re going to make a great team, you and I.’
‘Charlie? What’s going on, honey?’ Selina is at the doorway, holding on to the frame, looking out into the now heavy driving rain.
The fury in me bubbles over like the fermenting grape juice, red, angry and ready to explode.
‘You know what, Charlie? You really are a pillock! An absolute pillock!’
And with the rain flying in my face I put my hand up to cover my eyes and run through the puddles towards the car park, as fast as I can, until, like Cinderella running from the ball, I ditch the high heels and run barefoot to the van.
‘Emmy!’ I hear Isaac’s voice behind me but I don’t turn round. He’s got what he wanted – his cheque and his reference – but all I know is I have to try to stop them ripping up those vines.
‘Come on, come on!’
The key is slipping and sliding in my shaking hands and I can’t get it into the ignition. But at least I am now sitting in the correct side of the car. In my rush, I’d opened the car door, got in and realised there was no steering wheel. Now I’m locked in and trying to start it. I’ve never driven abroad, but I’ll just point and drive. What else can I do? I can’t sit back and do nothing! The key is still slipping and sliding as the rain falls hard, and suddenly the image of my mum running to the car and starting the engine comes back to me. Her face, as clear as if it was yesterday at the wheel of the car, smiling, telling me everything would be fine. She’d be back soon and starting the engine in haste. My hands are shaking. My heart is thundering; I’m right back there. I can’t do this! I drop the keys in the footwell. Stop! I tell myself. Enough! I take a deep breath, reach for the keys and then, breathing deeply, try again. It’s time to step forward.
