A Vintage Affair (20 page)

Scattered all around us were huge round pebbles: inside the cracked ones I glimpsed the occasional sparkle of white quartz. ‘These big stones are a nuisance,’ I said as I picked my way through them.

‘They are a pain,’ Miles agreed. ‘They were deposited here by the Rhône aeons ago. But we need them because the heat they store during the day is released at night, which is one of the reasons why this is such good wine-growing country. Now, could you start here?’ Miles stooped to a vine, and pulled back the red-gold foliage to reveal a huge cluster of black grapes. ‘Hold them underneath.’ They felt warm in my hand. ‘Now cut the stem – no leaves, please – then place it in the first pail, with the minimum of handling.’

‘What goes in the second pail?’

‘The ones we reject – we discard twenty per cent of what we pick, and they go to make table wine.’

Around us a party atmosphere prevailed – the dozen or so workers were laughing and talking – some were listening to Walkmans and iPods. One girl was singing – it was an aria from
The Magic Flute
, the one about husbands and wives. Her clear, sweet soprano rang across the vineyard.

Mann und Weib, und Weib und Mann
…

How strange to be hearing that today of all days, I thought.

reichen an die Gottheit an
.

‘Who are the grape pickers?’ I asked Miles.

‘A few local people who help us every year, plus some students and a few foreign workers. On this estate the
vendanges
takes about ten days, then Pascal throws a big party to thank everyone.’

I put the secateurs to the stem. ‘Should I cut here?’

Miles bent down and put his hand over mine. ‘It’s better there,’ he said. ‘Like that.’ I felt a current of desire crackle through me. ‘Now snip – but they’re heavy, so don’t let them fall.’ I placed the bunch carefully in the first pail. ‘I’ll be over here,’ Miles said as he went back to his own pails a few yards away.

It was hot, hard work. I was glad of the water – and I was especially glad of the apron, which was already floured with pale dust. I straightened up to relieve my back. As I did so, I glanced at Roxy, sitting in the shade with her copy of
Heat
and her cold drink.

‘I ought to make Roxy help,’ I heard Miles say, as though he’d read my mind. ‘But with teenagers it’s counterproductive to push things.’

I felt a bead of sweat trickle between my shoulder blades. ‘And how did her ancient history project go?’

‘In the end it was fine. I’m hoping to get an A star,’ he added dryly. ‘I deserve one, as I was up all night writing it.’

‘Then you’re an A-star dad. My bucket’s full – now what?’ Miles came and sorted the less good grapes into the second bucket then he picked up both pails. ‘We’ll
take them to the pressing machine.’ He nodded at the big concrete sheds to the right of the house.

As we entered the first shed the sweet yeasty scent was overpowering, as was the noise from the huge white cylinder juddering in front of us. Beside it was a tall stepladder from the top of which a thick-set man in blue overalls was tipping in the grapes that were being passed up to him by a petite blonde woman in a yellow dress.

‘That’s Pascal,’ Miles said, ‘and that’s Cecile.’ He waved at them both. ‘Pascal! Cecile! This is Phoebe!’

Pascal gave me a friendly nod, then he took the pail that Cecile passed up to him and tumbled the grapes into the cylinder. She turned and gave me a warm smile.

Miles indicated the four vast red tanks that lined the far wall. ‘Those are the fermentation vats. The grape juice is pumped straight into them from the cylinder with that hose there. Now we go through here …’ I followed him into the next shed, which was cooler, and where there were a number of steel containers with dates chalked on them. ‘This is where the fermented grape juice is aged. We also age it in these oak casks over here, then, after a year or so, it’s ready to be bottled.’

‘And when can it be drunk?’

‘The table wine after eighteen months, the decent stuff after two to three years, and the vintage wines are kept for up to fifteen years. Most of what’s produced here is red.’

To one side was a table with some half-empty bottles, sealed with grey stoppers; there were also glasses, a couple of corkscrews and a number of wine reference books. The walls were studded with various framed
diplômes d’honneur
that Château de Bosquet wines had garnered at international wine festivals.

I noticed that one bottle had a pretty label, with a blackbird on it holding a bunch of grapes in its beak. I looked at it more closely. ‘Chante le Merle,’ I said. I turned to Miles. ‘I had this wine only last week – at the Greenwich Picturehouse.’

‘The Picturehouse chain do buy our wines. Did you like it?’

‘It was delicious. It had a … seductive bouquet, I seem to remember.’

‘And what film were you seeing?’

‘
Anna Karenina
.’

‘With …?’

‘Greta Garbo.’

‘No – I mean … who did you see the film with? I … was just wondering,’ he added, diffidently.

I found Miles’ insecurity touching – especially as he’d seemed so smooth and suave when I’d first met him. ‘I went with this friend of mine, Dan. He’s a bit of a film buff.’

Miles nodded. ‘Well …’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s almost six. We’d better get ready. We’ll have dinner in the village. Roxy will probably stay with Pascal and Cecile. She can practise her French,’ he added. ‘Now, I imagine you’d like to wash …’

I held up my purple-stained hands.

As we walked round to the house I saw that Roxy had vacated her seat, leaving her empty Coke bottle, the neck of which was being probed by wasps. Miles pushed on the enormous front door and we stepped into the cool interior. The hall was huge with vaulted ceilings,
exposed beams and a cavernous fireplace with a stack of logs to one side. Against one wall was a long settle made of old casks. At the foot of the staircase a stuffed bear stood guard, its teeth and claws bared.

‘Don’t worry about him,’ Miles said as we passed it. ‘He’s never bitten anyone. Up we go. Now …’ We crossed the landing and Miles pushed on a panelled door revealing a vast limestone bath, shaped like a sarcophagus. He took a towel from the rail. ‘I’m going to have a soak.’

‘Elsewhere presumably,’ I joked, wondering if Miles was going to strip off in front of me. I suddenly realised that I wouldn’t mind if he did.

‘I’ve got an en-suite,’ I heard him explain as he left the room. ‘I’m at the end of the landing there. I’ll see you downstairs in what … twenty minutes? Roxy …’ he called as he went out, shutting the door. ‘Ro-xy – I need to
speak
to you …’

I untied the apron, which had protected my dress perfectly, and wiped the dust off my shoes. I showered with the ancient-looking brass attachment, twisting my wet hair into a knot, then I dressed again and put on a little make-up.

As I stepped out on to the landing I could hear Miles’ whispered voice floating up, then Roxy’s plaintive tones.

– ‘I won’t be out for long, sweetie …’

– ‘
Why’s
she
here?
’

– ‘She has work to do in the area …’

– ‘…
don’t
want
you to go out
…’

– ‘Then come with us.’

– ‘
Don’t
feel
like it
…’

The top step creaked beneath my feet.

Miles seemed slightly startled as he looked up. ‘There you are, Phoebe,’ he said. ‘So you’re ready to go then?’ I nodded. ‘I was just seeing if Roxy wanted to come,’ he added as I came down the stairs.

‘I hope you will,’ I said to Roxy, determined to try and charm her. ‘We could talk about clothes: your dad says you’re interested in a career in fashion.’

She gave me a sullen glance. ‘That’s what I’m going to do, yeah.’

‘Why
don’t
you join us then?’ her dad asked warmly.

‘I don’t
want
to go out.’

‘In that case, have supper with the grape-pickers.’

She gave a moue of distaste. ‘No
thanks
.’

Miles shook his head. ‘Roxy – there are some lovely young people here. That Polish girl Beata is training to be an opera singer. She speaks wonderful English, you could chat to her.’ Roxy shrugged her slender shoulders. ‘Then eat with Pascal and Cecile.’ The girl groaned then folded her arms. ‘Don’t be awkward,’ said her father. ‘Please, Roxanne, I’d just like you to –’ But she was already halfway across the hall.

Miles turned to me. ‘I’m sorry, Phoebe.’ He sighed. ‘Roxy’s at that difficult age.’ I nodded politely then suddenly remembered the French expression for the teenage years –
l’âge ingrat
. ‘She’ll be fine here for a couple of hours. Now …’ He jingled his car keys. ‘Let’s go.’

Miles drove down to the village then parked his hired Renault in the main street. As we got out, he nodded at a restaurant with tables outside, the white cloths flapping in the breeze. We crossed over to it, then Miles pushed on the door.

‘Ah … Monsieur Archant,’ said an unctuous-looking maître d’ as he held open the door. ‘
C’est un plaisir de
vous revoir. Un
grand
plaisir
.’ Suddenly the man’s face cracked into a smile and the two men slapped each other on the back, laughing uproariously.

‘Good to see you, Pierre,’ said Miles. ‘I’d like to introduce you to the fair Phoebe.’

Pierre lifted my hand to his lips. ‘
Enchanté
.’

‘Pierre and Pascal were at school together,’ Miles explained as Pierre showed us to a corner table. ‘We all used to hang out together in the summer holidays, what, thirty-five years ago, Pierre?’

Pierre blew out his lips. ‘
Oui – il y a trente cinq ans
. Before you were born,’ he added to me with a chuckle. I had a sudden vision of a fifteen-year-old Miles holding me, as a baby.

‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ Miles asked me as he opened the
carte au vin
.

‘I would,’ I replied carefully. ‘But I probably shouldn’t as I’ll be driving back to Avignon.’

‘It’s up to you,’ Miles said as he put on his reading glasses. He peered at the list. ‘You’re having dinner, after all.’

‘I’ll just have one then – but no more.’

‘And if you decide to get hammered, you can always stay at the house,’ he added casually. ‘There’s a spare room – with a big trunk!’

‘Oh, I won’t be needing that – I mean the room,’ I corrected myself, blushing. ‘I mean, I won’t be staying, thanks.’ Miles was smiling at my embarrassment. ‘So … you said you help with the harvest every year?’

He nodded. ‘I do it to keep the family connection alive
– the estate was founded by my great-grandfather, Philippe, who was also Pascal’s great-grandfather. And I come because I was left a small share in the business so I like to feel involved.’

‘So Château de Bosquet is
your
“village vintage”.’

‘I suppose it is.’ Miles smiled. ‘But I love the whole wine-making process. I love the machinery and the noise and the scent of the grapes and the connection with the land. I love the fact that viticulture involves so many things – geography, chemistry, meteorology – and history. I love the fact that wine is one of those few things that time improves.’

‘Like you?’ I suggested playfully.

He smiled. ‘Now what are you going to drink?’ I chose the Châteauneuf-du-Pape Fines Roches. ‘And I’ll have a glass of the Cuvée Reine,’ Miles said to Pierre. ‘I drink non-Bosquet wines when I’m out,’ he told me as I picked up the menu. ‘It’s good to know what the competition’s like.’

Pierre placed our glasses of wine in front of us with a plate of fat green olives. Miles raised his glass. ‘How lovely to see you again, Phoebe. When I was having dinner with you last week I hoped to see you again, but I
never
imagined that we’d be… oh.’ He reached into his pocket for his BlackBerry. ‘Look, Roxy,’ he whispered as I studied the menu, ‘I did tell you where I was going – I did – we’re at the Mirabelle.’ He stood up. ‘You
were
invited.’ I heard him sigh as he headed for the door. ‘You
know
you were, darling. What’s the point of saying that
now
?’

Miles stood outside chatting to Roxy then he returned, looking exasperated. ‘Sorry about that,’ he sighed as he
pocketed his phone. ‘Now she’s cross because she didn’t come! I have to say, Roxy can be rather awkward sometimes – but at heart she’s a very good girl.’

‘Of course,’ I murmured.

‘She would never do anything …’ Miles hesitated ‘… wrong.’ Pierre came to the table again and we placed our orders. ‘But I’d like to talk about you, Phoebe,’ Miles went on. ‘When we had dinner last week you fended off all my questions – I’d love to know a bit more.’

I shrugged. ‘About what?’

‘Well … personal things. Tell me about your family.’ So I told Miles about my parents, and about Louis.

Miles shook his head. ‘That’s a tough one. And it must give you a conflict,’ he added as Pierre brought our starters.

I spread my napkin on my lap. ‘It does. I wish I’d seen more of Louis, but it was all so awkward. I’ve decided I’m going to visit him more often and just say nothing to my mother. In the normal way, she adores babies,’ I added, ‘but how could she ever adore this one?’

‘Well …’ Miles shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘She feels very vulnerable now,’ I went on as I broke a bread roll in half. ‘She says she never thought my father would leave her; but if I think about it they didn’t really
do
anything together – or hadn’t done for years; not that I can remember, anyway.’

‘It must still be hard for her though.’

‘It is – but at least she has her work.’ Now I told Miles about Mum’s job.

He picked up his soup spoon. ‘So she’s worked for this chap for twenty-two years?’

I nodded. ‘It’s like a professional marriage. When John
retires, she will too – but as he says he wants to work until he’s seventy, that’s some way off, thankfully. She needs the distraction of work and the money’s useful, especially as my dad’s having a … career break,’ I concluded carefully.

‘And there’s no chance that your mum and her boss …?’

‘Oh no.’ I laughed. ‘John adores her, but he’s not really into women.’