Ten Years On (15 page)

‘He’s a top bloke,’ says Bruno. ‘When my mum was poorly, right, he gave me time out, said I must be with her.’

‘How do you know Joe?’ Luis asks, just as a customer walks in. ‘It’s a long story,’ I whisper, tying my hair into a ponytail and making sure my navy striped apron is on properly. ‘What can I get you?’ I ask, praying it’s not going to be a cappuccino.

*

The wine tasting session starts in thirty minutes, but the room is already filling up with students. The cellar looks romantic in the nightlight. I have laid the long oak tables with plates of cheese biscuits, crisps and nuts and tasting glasses.

Two smartly dressed women in their mid to late forties arrive in a waft of perfume. As I sign them in and take
their jackets, I imagine their husbands at home, told to stick the chicken pie in the oven at a hundred and eighty degrees, while they go out and have some fun. Their names are Felicity and Diane. They take their glass of champagne, and totter off in their strappy heels to find two seats together.

I sign in Scott, a young and handsome Australian with tattoos on both arms. A businessman walks in next, newspaper under his arm. The next student staggers down the cellar steps, as if drunk already. In his sixties, he looks like a mad inventor, with his wild grey hair that sticks up like mini beansprouts. His name is Henry. ‘Bravo,’ he says when I take his tweed jacket and hand him a navy Maison Joe file filled with course notes for each session, accompanied by a list of the wines tasted, which Joe sells in the restaurant. He shuffles towards one of the tables, planting himself next to an exotic-looking blonde Italian woman in a pinstriped suit and designer glasses called Monica. She glances at him, an expression of acute disappointment written on her face. I can’t help but smile when I hear Olly telling me that her plans of sitting next to a single tall, dark and handsome stranger have been cruelly shattered.

I’m so busy watching Monica edging away from Henry
that I don’t hear the last student arrive. ‘Hello!’ he says, shaking my hand enthusiastically. ‘I’m Adam.’

Adam is wearing a blue shirt and bright yellow tie with koala bears on it, half his shirt hanging out of his jeans.

‘Oh, and by the way,’ Joe had warned me last week, ‘there’s this one guy on the course, Adam. He’s Mavis’s son.’

‘Mavis’s son?’

‘She looks after my dad. Adam’s twenty-two, doesn’t have a proper job as such. He went to a special-needs school, but Mavis says he’s passionate about food and wine, so I promised her I’d give him a place.’

Adam beams at me. ‘You look just like Julia Roberts, only prettier.’

I blush, before complimenting him on his tie.

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

Joe brushes past us, telling Adam to find a seat, before saying, ‘Adam’s a ladies’ man. You’d better watch out.’

‘How many of you here don’t believe you can taste and describe wine?’ Joe asks, starting the lesson.

Many hands go up.

‘Well, the good news is you can. We all have the same equipment.’

Adam turns round and waves at me. I wave back.

‘Tasting wine just takes practice, and, to be frank, I can think of a lot worse things to practise, can’t you?’

‘Still talking like a stuffed shirt then,’ Olly says.

‘It’s not like going to the gym!’ calls out Henry, plumping out his chest and nudging Monica playfully in the ribs.

‘Exactly,’ Joe says. ‘Even the doctor prescribes one glass of red wine a day for a healthy heart. So, what you’re here to learn for the next eight weeks is what style of wine you like and why.
Why
is what counts. It’s not always the most expensive wine that you’re going to love. If you’re lucky, you may well love the cheaper wines …’

‘Here’s hoping,’ calls out Henry.

‘OK, as you can see, my assistant Rebecca,’ Joe gestures to me, ‘has laid out in front of you some tasting glasses, a bottle of water and some light snacks. There’s also a spittoon. It’s up to you whether you want to spit out or swallow. I guess it depends on whether you’ve caught the bus or driven here.’

Adam sticks his thumbs up at Monica, saying he’s caught the bus.

‘But before I get started on the grape varieties we’re covering tonight, Rebecca is going to pour you all a glass
of Chilean Merlot.’ I circle the tables, filling each student’s glass with a small amount. ‘Don’t drink it yet!’ Joe orders Henry, before continuing, ‘So, imagine this. You’ve ordered your wine and the waiter asks if you would like to taste. Many people feel rather embarrassed and rush this, but the whole point is to check the wine’s condition.’

‘Condition?’ asks handsome Scott. He’s tanned, light-brown hair streaked with blonde from the summer.

‘Yes, you want to make sure that the wine isn’t “corked”. Who knows what I mean by corked?’

‘Compost,’ calls Adam, holding his nose.

I find myself laughing.

‘Yes, Adam, that’s right,’ Joe says. ‘It smells “off”. It’s basically a taint in the cork that reminds you of a dank attic or wet cardboard. If Rebecca and I come across a corked bottle over the next eight weeks, I promise you we’ll keep it and hand it round. Right,’ he claps his hands, ‘first things first – you sniff the wine.’

The students sniff.

‘Next you swirl the glass, and this isn’t about pretension. We swirl to release the aromas.’ I watch Joe as expertly he spins his glass. ‘My Uncle Tom, who inspired me to learn about wine, says it’s like a wine helicopter,’ he says, Monica gazing up at him, already transfixed.

*

An hour and a half later everyone has gone and I’m washing up the glasses.

‘Adam was a character,’ I say.

After the lesson had ended he told me that he worked in the local library and volunteered at the homeless shelter, dishing out tomato soup.

Joe turns off his laptop. He’d been showing a film on grape-picking in Alsace. ‘Mavis worries about him. It’s hard. Where do people like Adam fit into this world?’

As I continue to wash up, Joe talks to me about how his passion for wine began.

‘After my grandfather died, Uncle Tom left his insurance job in England and went travelling. He ended up investing his inheritance in a farm in Western Australia. When he flew over for Mum’s funeral, he persuaded me to return with him. He had a successful business by then and he knew my heart wasn’t in medicine. Dad hated it, of course; told me I was throwing my life down the gutter. He wouldn’t speak to Tom after that, felt his brother had betrayed him.’

‘So what happened then?’

‘After three years I moved back to London, found work in a wine merchant’s, took the exams for the two-year diploma while I was working …’

‘And your father?’

‘We didn’t communicate much. He was lost without Mum. I think he’d had numerous affairs, but she’d always been at home waiting for him with his dinner on the table. He missed that, and he wouldn’t forgive me for abandoning medicine. It wasn’t until I found a decent job in the wine trade that he began to take me seriously.’

‘Why did you move back to Winchester?’

‘Dad. He’s not well.’

‘I’m sorry. Is it serious?’

‘Dementia.’

‘Oh God, Joe, I’m so sorry.’

Joe grabs a drying-up cloth.

‘That’s why I need staff I can trust. Luis and Edoardo understand why I have to shoot off sometimes and they don’t ask questions.’

‘Does he live with you?’

‘No. He’s in our old family home, but he has live-in help. Mavis is my favourite. She looks after him beautifully. Money doesn’t make you happy, but at least it gives you options.’ He slots the dry glasses back into their storage boxes, telling me they’re called Riedels, and they’re the best tasting glasses, since they’re sturdy enough to be washed over again and again.

‘I did think about putting Dad in a nursing home,
especially since we haven’t been close for years but … I don’t know,’ his voice trails off.

‘Joe?’

‘This might sound mad … you’ll think I’m crazy …’

‘Go on.’

‘I sensed my mother talking to me, asking me to forgive him and be there for him, and then this place came up. I’d wanted to run my own business for a while. The timing seemed incredible. It felt like she was telling me to stay.’

I don’t say a word.

‘Joe!’ Luis calls from the restaurant. ‘We need you a minute!’

‘I can’t believe I’ve just said that, I haven’t told anyone, not even Uncle Tom. I’ve spooked you. You think I’m mad …’ he says, halfway up the stairs.

‘No. I don’t think you’re mad, not at all.’

‘You were great tonight,’ Joe says when we’re alone in the bar at the end of the evening. It’s the first time since I’ve been working here that we’ve had a chance to really talk, and I’ve enjoyed it. ‘Especially putting up with Adam’s advances.’

‘He thinks I’m prettier than Julia Roberts. I’d say
that’s quite a good night for an old pregnant frump like me.’

‘Sit down,’ he urges. ‘Let me get you a drink. You’ve been working hard. Luis and Edoardo say you’re a natural behind the bar, by the way.’

I’m about to tell him that at last I have mastered the cappuccino machine, when I place a hand over my stomach. ‘He kicked!’ I am overwhelmed with relief, because during the past few days he’s been quiet. Mum told me that was quite normal but I can’t lose this child, not now …

‘He? Do you know the sex?’

I tell him it’s a boy.

‘What does it feel like?’ I hear Olly’s voice.

Tears come to my eyes. I can’t stay mad at Olly for long, when he’s the baby’s father and he’s missing out on this. ‘Olly would have made a lovely father,’ Joe states, as if reading my mind. He curls his hand into a fist. ‘I wish I’d seen him. I let him down. I know why you ignored my message, so I did the easy thing. Pretended I’d tried, decided to move on. I shouldn’t have given up.’

‘It wasn’t all your fault,’ I say to him. ‘If I’d had the courage to tell Olly about that night … I didn’t handle it well. I ruined everything between the three of us.’

‘I wish I could talk to him, say how sorry I was for being such a bad friend.’

I have to tell him.

‘Joe? There’s something you need to know.’ I fiddle with the strap on my handbag.

Joe waits.

‘When you said that thing about your mother, that you sensed her talking to you …’

‘Yes?’

‘I hear his voice in my head. At least, I think I do.’

‘What do you mean, you think you do? Who else is talking to you if it’s not me?’

‘Whose voice?’ Joe asks.

‘Olly’s.’

‘Rebecca …’

‘I know it’s weird!’ I say in a rush when I see his shocked face. ‘That’s why I haven’t told anyone, not even Kitty or my parents. But when you said that thing about your mum …’

‘What’s he saying?’

A small smile surfaces as I listen to Olly. ‘You’ve put on weight.’

‘Bastard!’

‘One too many peanuts at the bar?’

Joe looks at me incredulously, and I can read what he’s thinking: that’s exactly what Olly would say.

Yet he goes on to suggest that I could be imagining it. He didn’t actually hear his mother talking, only sensed her presence, and the fact that this place came up for rent could have just been a coincidence. In the face of doubt, I explain about Jim and Noodle. I haven’t seen them since that day. It was as if they came to deliver a message and now they’ve gone.

‘Maybe there are things we can’t explain,’ I say, realizing how much I want someone to believe me. ‘Perhaps this life is more mysterious than we ever imagined?’

Over the next hour Joe and I talk at the bar, any awkwardness dissolving between us now that I’ve confided my secret. He is the only person I will tell. I don’t want anyone doubting me or telling me this is a reaction to grieving, that it’s all part of the process. As much as I love Kitty, she can be too black and white. Joe promises he won’t say a word to anyone.

We talk about the past ten years. I describe my time in Florence. The art studio was in an old restored church. I stayed in a shabby apartment in the centre of Florence, close to the Ponte Vecchio. I made new friends and enjoyed walking from piazza to piazza at night. Hours
slipped by in wine bars like minutes. I ask Joe if he still plays rugby. He tells me he hasn’t had enough time since moving to Winchester, finding a flat to rent and starting his business. Moving on to his love life, ‘I met someone out in Australia,’ Joe confides. ‘She was the daughter of one of Uncle Tom’s friends, Camilla. She was beautiful and fun. We were together for a couple of years in London, but in the end she didn’t want to settle over here for good, and I didn’t want to live
down under
. I guess you have to really love someone to leave your world behind,’ Joe reflects. ‘We didn’t love each other enough, but it hurt at the time.’ He pauses. ‘Anyway, I’m with Peta now. It’s early days, but I’m happy.’

We talk about his father. Joe says the early warning signs of his dad’s condition were when he kept on heading into Winchester but forgetting what he’d come in for, and not being able to find his way home. A few of his father’s friends would call, saying they had found his Dad in Marks & Spencer, clutching a pair of maroon socks in a daze at the checkout, the staff patiently telling him that unless he had money to pay for them, he had to put the socks back where he’d found them. He became a danger behind the steering wheel too. Drove round a roundabout the wrong way.

‘In his old age he’s mellowed,’ Joe admits. ‘It sounds a strange thing to say, but we get on better now. Perhaps he’s forgotten all the times I’ve failed him.’ Joe confides that his father put money into Maison Joe. ‘I didn’t intend to stay here, but like I said, it just happened.’

I confess that being back in Winchester is both a good and a bad thing for me. When I’m walking in the meadows, by St Cross, I see Olly and me on our wedding day. I’m in my ivory dress with lace sleeves, approaching him at the altar. He turns to me, a proud look in his eye. The reception was held in Winchester College. My favourite part was when Olly played Bob Dylan’s ‘Make You Feel My Love’ on the piano. Sometimes memories make me feel close to Olly; other times I wish I were as far away as possible.

Joe’s mobile rings. He takes the call. ‘That was Peta,’ he says when he hangs up. ‘She’s on her way.’