Late Summer in the Vineyard Page 10

  ‘Think about it. I’ll be here if you want to learn. First of all, you need to learn to trust yourself.’

  I mentally count up how many more weeks I have left here. A lot! I finish my wine, thank Madame Beaumont and stand up to go.

  On my way home I think about what Madame Beaumont has said. Could I really do it? If I learned to trust my instincts? The image of Isaac and Candy laughing at me in the restaurant the night before plays over and over in my head. Her challenging eyes. His lazy smile. The bet. I have a tiny fantasy of winning the bet, where I’m in charge of Team Featherstone’s and Candy is doing the office collection and the cake and cava run. Oh . . . that’s after she’s run through the town naked, throwing toffees and whistling the National Anthem!

  Just for the hell of it, I decide to test Madame Beaumont’s theory and trust my instincts by lifting my feet off the pedals and freewheeling down the hill, but the bike weaves and wobbles and I shove my feet back, realising my instincts are still way off the mark . . . way off.

  I’m up early again. There’s only so much of Candy’s strange night-time noises I can stand. It’s going to be another glorious day. I get up and walk to the traditional long windows and pull them open, the thin net curtains flapping in the light breeze. The pigeons are chatting away to their neighbours along the terracotta roof tiles over the office and tasting room, billing and cooing. But there’s more noise, clattering and clanging, and I look up towards the town and realise it wasn’t just Candy’s nocturnal mutterings that woke me. It’s Monday morning and there’s a market setting up in the street.

  I get dressed quickly in the bathroom and look round at Candy, who spent yesterday evening getting to know some of the local wines, and may, this morning, be regretting it. I look at my watch. It’s seven thirty and we’re not due to start work until nine. I have time to get out there and see the market. I pull Candy’s covers, which are spilling over the floor, back over her and leave. I creep down the wooden steps, just in case Isaac is still asleep. I don’t want to wake him and have to get into conversation with him. I creep out through the front door and up the road towards the fountain in the square, turn the corner, and am met by a sea of nylon knickers and bras, red and gold, turquoise and leopard print. Embarrassed, I try to skirt the hanging neon basques, flapping and wrapping themselves around my face, batting them away as I pass, eventually emerging out into the square opposite the fountain, to the amusement of the heavily made-up stallholder at the second-hand clothes stall opposite. The square is now full of stalls with red and white awnings. Along the road past the little restaurant where I saw Isaac on that first day there are rows of fruit and veg stalls. Sellers are putting tomatoes, oranges, strawberries and green beans into paper bags for shoppers. Women with bulging baskets are greeting each other with kisses and smiles. The bars are open for business and there’s a smell of hot coffee and baking bread in the air. Rotisserie chickens, turning and gleaming under the heat in their hot ovens, are tempting me further into the town.

  I wander round the clothes stalls and suddenly come across one with clothes piled high in the middle of a table, wrapped around each other like tumbling toddlers. A big cardboard sign says ‘1 euro’. I watch a couple of women riffling through them, looking for the pick of the bunch. My charity-shop habit bubbles up. I step forward and start to pick up pieces of clothing. With Candy’s words – ‘Ditch the nanny look’ – ringing in my ears, I finally find two summer dresses that I have no idea if I’ll ever wear, and another T-shirt, all for three euro. I’m buzzing from my bargain buys. Swinging my blue plastic bag beside me I walk on, past Le Tire-bouchon restaurant, the road leading to more fruit stalls, Arcachon oyster sellers, stalls of saucissons, then wriggling eels being prepared by a young woman with corn plaits and a pierced nose. I push on quickly past the big pans of paella to the flower and plant stalls, and do a full circuit of the town, arriving back where I started in the town square by the church and fountain.

  My stomach rumbles. I just have time to get something for breakfast. I look towards the boulangerie. There is a stall outside and I go over and point towards a pain aux raisins. The owner picks it up with her tongs, puts it in a bag and holds it out to me. I hold the warm, fresh pastry to my chest, pay and then, on a crest of confidence, go to the bar opposite, Le Papillon, to order a café crème to go with it. I still have half an hour before I’m due in work. What a way to start the day, I think, looking down towards the river and at the hustle and bustle as shoppers begin to fill the market and the stall-holders have finally finished setting up ready for the morning’s work. I’m just finishing my delicious pastry, warm and flaky with a bit of crème pâtissière in the middle. I go to stand up and brush off the crumbs, flicking them all over a man trying to negotiate the crowded café’s tables and chairs.

  ‘Fini?’ he asks; then, ‘You leaving?’

  I look up, my heart stopping for just a split second. It’s Charlie. He’s been jogging, by the look of it. Hot, glistening in the morning sunlight, dressed in loose joggers and a white, crisp T-shirt. His dark hair is as neat as ever, despite his exertion, judging by the flush in his cheeks.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I say looking at the crumbs I’ve brushed off in his direction. ‘Um, hi,’ I manage.

  ‘Hi. Emily, isn’t it?’ I obviously haven’t made a big enough impression for him to remember my name yet. ‘Everything all right in the gîte?’

  ‘It’s Emmy,’ I correct. ‘And yes, thank you.’ I nod, putting my hand over my mouth as I quickly try to swallow the last mouthful of delicious pain aux raisins. He smiles politely, and me trying to smile back doesn’t help me swallow what’s left of my pastry, which is now sticking to the roof of my mouth.

  ‘Take your time,’ Charlie says, looking around for another seat, and when he doesn’t see one he asks, ‘May I?’ and points to one of the empty chairs at my table. I nod. Absolutely. I glance quickly at his toned and glistening forearms, suddenly in very close proximity, as he sits and puts his newspaper on the table, a British paper, and I wonder if that means that this isn’t home for him, just somewhere he visits for work. Not like his parents, who clearly love it here. He crosses his foot to rest on his knee.

  ‘So . . .’ He looks as if he feels he should make polite conversation when he’d rather be sitting quietly with his paper. Suddenly feeling nervous – after all, this man has my future in his hands, and anything else if he asked, I shock myself by thinking – I swallow and wash down the last of the pastry with the dregs of my coffee. ‘Um, another?’ he points and asks. I quickly put up my hand and refuse. He looks at his watch.

  ‘You still have time,’ he says. ‘And the boss isn’t there yet,’ he adds in a friendly manner. I smile and he orders an espresso and a glass of water, points to my cup and the waitress understands that I’d like another café crème and I smile gratefully.

  ‘So, everything’s cool in the gîte, all happy?’ he asks, looking round the square as it begins to fill.

  ‘Yes. Lovely.’ Then when he doesn’t ask anything else I try to make conversation by asking, ‘You like to keep fit then?’ I nod towards his trainers and the little hand weights he’s pulled from his pockets and put on the table. He nods.

  ‘My father’s stroke was quite a wake-up call for me. Good living is all very well, but well . . . seeing him like that . . . I don’t want to be in the same boat. I’m determined to be fit enough to enjoy myself when I finally retire.’

  ‘Yes, dads can be a worry,’ I say, knowing exactly what he means and realising we have something in common. It’s like he’s letting me glimpse under the professional surface. A young man worried about his dad too. He’s mature and, well, in control of his life. He’s stepped in to help out his dad’s business. I’m still trying really hard not to find the man incredibly attractive, and failing. He’s my boss, after all, I keep reminding myself.

  ‘Was it hard to drop everything and come out h
ere?’ I ask.

  He gives a shrug. ‘Dad needed me . . . and, frankly, the business did. It was the right time for me. My wife . . . ex-wife . . . and I had just split up. She found my long working hours too much to deal with. She liked the money, but not the hours I put in to make it.’

  ‘Oh, that’s terrible.’

  He shrugs again.

  ‘But the timing worked out. Dad had his stroke and, as I say, Featherstone’s needed pulling out of the Dark Ages!’ He gives a little laugh as our coffees arrive.

  ‘Your dad must have been really grateful for you coming over and taking it on.’

  ‘Ha,’ he laughs again. ‘Let’s just say Dad and I have slightly different opinions on the direction the company should take.’

  I take a sip of coffee and so does he.

  ‘So . . .’

  ‘Do you?’ We both go to ask a question at the same time. He laughs and so do I. He holds out a hand for me to speak.

  ‘So, you enjoy keeping fit then?’ I say, kicking myself for asking the same question but not sure what else to talk about.

  He nods. ‘Helps me think. Work through business ideas and plans I have in my head.’

  I nod as if trying to relate to it. But I can’t.

  ‘What about you, do you keep fit?

  ‘Well, um, no, not really, not unless you count running for the bus most mornings,’ and then kick myself again, hoping he doesn’t think I’m always late. Thankfully, he smiles at my joke. I find myself relaxing a little.

  ‘But I have a dad, too, one that needs me. So . . . I know what it’s like . . .’ I start to tell him when his phone rings.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says and looks at his text, rolling his eyes. ‘My ex. Seems she still can’t understand that we’re divorced and I can’t just nip round whenever she needs me.’

  ‘And your children?’

  ‘Phoebe and Henry. Great kids. They love coming out here. I divide my time between here and the UK, so it works out.’ He looks down at his watch and knocks back the last of his coffee. ‘OK, best we get to the office.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ We both go to stand. I gather my shoulder bag and blue shopping bag. He picks up his weights and paper, and holds his hand up when I offer some money for the bill. Then we walk into the square, past a Moroccan stall with wonderful long tops, trousers and scarves, the big orange sun warming our faces.

  We pass a number of stalls with wine bottles, large vats and some with presentation boxes. Charlie greets them all, shaking hands and kissing the women on each cheek.

  ‘Local wine-makers,’ he explains to me. ‘We work with some. Not all, but it’s good to know them.’ He grins, seemingly feeling he’s teaching me about the business and I’m keen to show him I want to learn. So when I see a window of opportunity to make an impression on him, I swallow hard, deciding to take it, and point to one stall.

  ‘Château Lavigne?’ I ask with more confidence than I’m feeling.

  Charlie raises an eyebrow and nods. ‘Yes,’ he confirms. ‘You know it?’

  I swallow again, hoping it’ll help my dry mouth.

  ‘In Saint Enrique,’ I say. Then, ‘One of the biggest châteaux in the area.’ I check sideways and see Charlie looks suitably impressed. ‘They have vineyards all over the world. They make a sparkling wine. It’s said the wine is still hand-turned, thousands of times.’ I give the same slightly doubtful grin that Madame Beaumont did and Charlie raises his eyebrows even further. ‘That the men have arthritic fingers from the many times a day they have to turn the wine. But it’s a good wine.’ And then, taking a deep breath: ‘If a little overpriced,’ I say finally.

  Charlie stops and turns to look straight at me with those green lagoon eyes and I feel a little buzz of excitement as he smiles, like he’s seen me properly for the first time since I’ve arrived.

  ‘You’ve been doing your homework.’ He taps his newspaper against his thigh and nods his head in pleasant surprise. I feel a little skip of excitement in my tummy.

  ‘Keep it up,’ he smiles again, still looking straight at me and it feels like the hustle and the bustle of the market just fades away around me. ‘We need someone who knows what they’re talking about to lead this team.’ The little skip of excitement in my tummy turns into a jump. ‘I look forward to hearing more from you,’ he adds.

  Suddenly I’m tingling all over. What if . . . what if I could do this? What if, like he says, I really could do the team leader’s job? What if I could win that bet? I’m so excited I could . . . kiss him! But I won’t, obviously.

  ‘I enjoyed our chat,’ Charlie says.

  ‘Me too.’ I smile and hold my breath, hoping he’ll suggest we meet for coffee again, waiting for him to speak, when my phone rings, making me jump, and I grapple for it in my bag amongst the brown envelopes, bringing me back to reality.

  ‘Hello, Dad?’

  Charlie smiles, gives me a knowing nod, and then holds up a hand, indicating he’s going to jog on and leave me to my call. I nod and wave, and watch him turn away and break into a gentle jog, disappearing off, leaving me feeling like a deflating balloon.

  Could I finally have met someone who understands what it’s like to have a dad that needs looking after? Could he possibly be interested in me? I might just finally have met someone I’d like to get to know better and that hasn’t happened in a long time. Just maybe there was a good reason for me coming out here.

  ‘Yes, go on, Dad, I’m all ears . . .’ And I wander back to Featherstone’s, swinging my bag of bargain buys, past the fishermen, who look at me with interest, with a little spring in my step.

  ‘Pick me, pick me!’ Candy is waving her hand in the air. She’s wearing a white low-cut summer dress with large brush strokes of colour all over it and I’m worried that her bosoms bobbing up and down may make a bid for escape at any minute. I turn away and catch Nick’s eye, both of which appear to be standing out on stalks, as if he’s mesmerised and terrified at the same time. He looks away quickly when he sees me, coughs into a cupped hand and suddenly furrows his brow and fiddles with his smart ink pen.

  ‘We’ll take it in turns,’ Isaac says, laughing, obviously enjoying Candy’s enthusiasm. They seem to have become quite friendly over the last two nights. Staying up late, drinking. Candy is being flirtatious, and Isaac, although he doesn’t seem as flirtatious back, seems to be enjoying her attention. Nick, on the other hand, has suddenly become quite introverted, different from the confident Nick who arrived here organising us all on Saturday morning.

  ‘So tell me what you know about wine, what you like, what you don’t like, what you know about French wine in particular. It’ll give me an idea of where the gaps in your knowledge are, what we need to work on,’ Isaac says, suddenly quite serious.

  We’re sitting around in a circle of office chairs up in the new call centre room. We’re by the window looking out over the vines and up towards the cemetery with the market square beyond, to the left. Hannah and Ben are taking occasional calls whilst packing up their desks, smiling kindly like old sheepdogs watching the new pups, cluelessly enthusiastic.

  Isaac is standing, wearing below-the-knee khaki shorts, a loose shirt over a white tight-fitting T-shirt. His long dark wavy hair, still damp from the shower, is pushed back off his face by his blue, mirrored wraparound sunglasses. He’s holding a coffee in one hand and a pile of papers in the other.

  ‘Candy, tell us about your experience of wine. You work in magazine advertising, is that right?’

  ‘Yes. I work on trade magazines. One of them is Pick ’n’ Mix Monthly. I know how to sell food and drink to customers. I know what people want.’

  ‘And what about wine, Candy, any experience there?’ Isaac is reading the papers in his hand and sipping from the white mug he’s cradling in the other.

  I’m feeling nervous, very ne
rvous. I really don’t want to make a fool of myself but frankly the closest I’ve got to any wine knowledge is that it comes in bottles with either a cork or screw top. I try to recall what I learned during my day with Madame Beaumont.

  ‘I don’t drink wine. I’m more a vodka-and-Coke girl, but I know that red wine gives me a banging headache, white wine tastes better after an hour in the freezer and rosé can be made if you mix red and white. My Dean taught me that.’

  Isaac shakes his head, then throws back his head and laughs. ‘Holy shit!’ When he stops laughing he asks, ‘Do you think you can make enough sales to get the team leader’s job, Candy?’

  Candy lifts her chest and, I swear, runs her tongue quickly across her top lip. ‘I know I can. I can sell sand to the Eskimos, so my Dean says,’ she says without missing a beat or realising her mistake. I’m dumbfounded. How does she do it? She has such high sales figures. She drives a car I can’t even dream about owning the wheels on.

  ‘Thank you, Candy. I’m liking your chutzpah.’ Isaac raises his cup to her.

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiles. ‘What’s one of them?’ she turns and asks Nick. Isaac smiles into his coffee and reads his list again. I take a deep breath in and hold it, waiting for my cue.

  ‘Nick?’

  I breathe out.

  Nick cuts off his explanation about chutzpah, much to Candy’s chagrin.

  ‘Yes, hi,’ Nick adjusts his glasses and clears his throat, sits up straight and with a quick sideways look at Candy, clearly intends to impress. ‘I like wine. I drink red mostly, Jacob’s Creek, Hardys and Penfolds.’ Nick finally smiles and adjusts his glasses again.

  ‘All Australian then, great!’ Isaac raises his eyebrows and gives his head a shake. Nick blushes uncomfortably.

  ‘Gloria, what about you? What’s your knowledge of France and its wines?’

  We all turn to look at Gloria, who straightens the edge of her light green blouse, switches off her fan, puts it in her lap, clears her throat and, without looking up, starts.