The French for Love (16 page)

‘Bollocks, Gina, you know I’m talking about Cédric. He’s besotted with you. He went to all that trouble to take us over there and bring us back. He didn’t need to be there at all. Probably just looking for an excuse to throw his awful harpy of a wife off the scent and spend an evening with you!’

‘Don’t say that,’ I wail in despair. ‘She’s truly, honestly not like that at all. She’s really lovely. I don’t know what’s going on, but I have to say I actually think the less of him for it. Honestly, what hope is there if even the most decent-seeming, well-thought-of, caring men behave like this?

‘I’m sick of it all,’ I continue bitterly, working myself up to a fury that surprises even me. ‘Lies, deception, cheating. It’s grubby and hurtful and... and wrong!’ I finish up somewhat lamely.

And I realise I don’t know whether I’m talking about my situation or my mother’s, whether I’m angry at Cédric or at my father and Liz. But one thing’s for sure: I can choose not to be part of anything like that. And that’s what I’m resolved to do.

♦ ♦ ♦

On the last night of her holiday, Annie takes me out to dinner at a restaurant on the banks of the river, looking back across the stretch of dark water in whose depths the lights of Sainte Foy gleam like a school of golden fish. As we walk in, a man at one of the tables stands up and says, ‘
Bonsoir
.’ It’s Robert Cortini, who shakes hands and introduces us to his wife, Christine. ‘It’s our wedding anniversary,’ he explains, ‘so we thought we’d treat ourselves.’

‘Congratulations,’ I reply. ‘Have a good evening.’ And we make our way to our table at the other side of the room, leaving them to their meal.

‘Isn’t it nice when you start recognising people when you are out and about?’ says Annie. ‘You must really be starting to feel like you belong.’

And I realise that she’s right. It’s as if this place—and the people in it—are quietly weaving silken threads, as fine as a spider’s web, that are beginning to bind me here.

We settle down with the menu. Once the waiter has taken our orders and deposited a basket of bread on the table before us, along with the bottle of chilled white wine that we’ve chosen, Annie reaches over and takes my hand. ‘Gina,’ she says seriously, ‘we need to talk.’

‘Oh no,’ I say in mock despair, ‘are you breaking up with me?’

‘Of course not, I’d never do that,’ she smiles. ‘But I am worried about you. You’ve stuck yourself away down here in the depths of France in that lonely house with only a cat for company. You’re not sleeping. And you’re not eating properly; you’re getting far too thin. And I couldn’t help but notice that casket on the table in the sitting room. I know it’s none of my business, but I’ve got a strong suspicion it’s not for keeping your secret stash of chocolate HobNobs in. It’s not healthy, you know, Gina. Having some time on your own is no bad thing, but you seem to be cutting yourself off completely. I know it’s hard for you to trust again after what that two-timing shithead Ed did to you, but you’re too young to turn yourself into a lonely cat-loving spinster with the remains of a dead person for company. Honestly, it’s like something out of a Hitchcock movie; you’re going to go potty and start murdering people. And don’t expect me to come and stay again if you do.’

I give her a watery smile, swallowing back the sudden tears that spring into my eyes. I know I’m pretty close to the edge, struggling to make sense of what my life’s become. And when she leaves tomorrow I’m going to be cut adrift again, floating aimlessly on an ocean, the solid ground of the life I used to know—or thought I did at least—having disappeared beyond the horizon. I hadn’t realised my fragile state was so obvious and thought I’d been doing a good job of keeping up the appearance of normality.

‘It’s like I said before,’ Annie continues, ‘you’ve got to get back into the saddle. Get out there again and meet somebody. Why don’t you come back to England? You can stay on my sofa bed while you look for a job. I know it’s not the easiest of times, but maybe I can help you find something in the wine trade. Or you could write, like your dad did.’

‘Oh, Annie, that’s kind of you, but I’m honestly okay here. I want to get the Master of Wine course under my belt and the studying will keep me busy in the autumn, plus a few trips back to England along the way. And I really do need some space at the moment. There are a few things I need to get sorted out in my head. Yes, admittedly I do have my aunt’s ashes in my sitting room, and I know that’s not the most normal state of affairs, but it’s only until I decide what to do with them. I just need a bit of time.’

She lets go of my hand to allow the waiter to put our starters down in front of us, and tucks in to an oyster, washing it down with an appreciative slurp of wine.

‘Well, okay, I’m going to give you ‘til Christmas. But if you aren’t looking better by then—and if you still have mortal remains sitting on your coffee table—then I’m coming over here to forcibly remove you. Deal?’

‘Deal,’ I say, laughing and holding my hands up in mock surrender. ‘Don’t worry; I’ll be fine.’

‘Well, in my opinion you’ll be fine a lot faster if you have a bit of good old-fashioned hot sex. I know, I know,’ she forestalls me as I try to interrupt, ‘I’m not saying it has to be with the gorgeous, perfectly compatible, thoroughly nice-seeming man who is obviously keen on you and whom you clearly like in return. Good grief, that would be making life far too easy, after all!’

‘Apart from the very serious complication that he’s married with children,’ I butt in.

‘Well, yes, there is that,’ she concedes with a sigh. ‘But what about Thomas Cortini? He seems to be unattached. Didn’t you like him? You’ve got his number; phone him up and say you want to come and give his sales strategy the once over. Or you need him to explain the ins and outs of malolactic fermentation. Or you’ll come and help him with his next bottling run. Whatever. Think up some spurious excuse and make a move. That’s what I’d do in your shoes.’

‘Ssh, keep your voice down, his brother might hear,’ I hiss, with a nod across the room to where Robert and his wife are tucking into their main courses. ‘And anyway, I don’t fancy Thomas Cortini,’ I protest.

‘Don’t you? I thought he was cute. But in any case, that’s not the point here. He may not necessarily be the one, but he may be able to introduce you to his other single friends. You have to make an effort, Gina, because men aren’t just going to come marching up your drive.’

‘Actually, you’re wrong there,’ I say with an airy wave of my hand. ‘Men seem to be always doing exactly that. Just not the right ones. But I do take your point and I promise I’ll make an effort. Anyway, let’s just enjoy our meal. Now, tell me, what’s on the agenda for when you get back...?’

After our meal, we emerge into the warm night air and wander across the bridge spanning the broad river, making our way back to the car. We stop beside one of the tall pillars covered with ivy and baskets of coral-pink petunias and lean on the parapet to gaze at the gold-flecked water flowing beneath us.

‘This is a beautiful place,’ murmurs Annie dreamily.

Perhaps it’s the wine making me maudlin, but I’m suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of loneliness. ‘Oh, Annie, I’m going to miss you so much.’ I lean my head on her shoulder for a second. ‘Thank you for being such a good friend.’

She puts an arm around me and we stand like that companionably for a few moments.

‘
Bonne nuit
,’ says a quiet voice beside us and we pull apart and turn to see Robert and Christine Cortini who are walking across the bridge arm in arm.

‘Good night,’ we say. ‘We hope you had a good evening.’

They nod and smile, continuing on their way, and we follow in their wake a few minutes later, driving home, under a sky filled with stars, in comfortable silence.

CHAPTER TEN

The Harvest

To-Do list:

General self-improvement—ongoing as follows
:

• •
  45 mins Pilates + 30 mins walk (frustration at impossibility of love life now becoming intolerable)—daily
  
• •
  Research online meditation courses leading to life of zen-like serenity
  
• •
  MW coursework
  
• •
  Eat properly to get Annie off my case
  
• •
  Sleep well (see above)
  

T
he house is very quiet after Annie’s gone, leaving behind her a pile of sun-crinkled, suntan-lotion-smudged magazines and a faint whiff of her Kenzo Amour perfume.

The August heat continues day after day and, despite the odd rumble of thunder carried on the thick night-time air now and then, there’s no rain. By the end of the month even the vines are starting to look parched, the green rows dusty and a few leaves starting to bleach and fall. It’s perfect weather for finishing off the ripening of the black Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon grapes though, concentrating the flavours and sweetness into the promise of a full-blooded, heady vintage.

I’ve grown so used to the quiet company of just an old black cat and my own thoughts that I jump out of my skin when the chirp of the telephone suddenly breaks the silence one morning, almost tripping over the threshold as I dash inside to answer it.

It’s Cédric.

Sadly he’s not calling to say that Marie-Louise has left him and would I like to move in. (I know, I know. Sorry, but I’ve got far too much time on my hands right now and it’s bloody lonely. So yes, I admit I have whiled away the odd hour indulging in various highly unlikely fantasy solutions to my rapidly encroaching spinsterhood.) I try to calm my breathing—panting is distinctly un-cool, after all. And I’m only out of breath as a result of my run to the phone, honest.

I smile into the handset, expecting Cédric to say he and Pierre will be along tomorrow to finish putting up the plasterboard. And so I’m disproportionately disappointed to hear him explain that Raphael has had an accident and they won’t be able to come for several more weeks as they are now busy covering other jobs.

‘I’m
so
sorry,’ I say with heartfelt sincerity. ‘I hope Raphael is okay. Was it serious?’

‘A stone fell and landed on his hand. An occupational hazard in our line of work. He has a broken wrist and two fingers were quite badly crushed. But he’s tough and it’ll mend. It’s going to take a while though and we’re very behind with several jobs that we need to get finished before the autumn. I’m really sorry, Gina, but we have to prioritise. If you like I can give you the number of a plasterer who might be able to come and finish the work for you sooner.’

‘That’s okay,’ I reply. ‘It’s not urgent after all. I’ll wait until you can do it, if that’s all right.’ And I’d rather have you in my bedroom than anyone else, I don’t add.

‘Once the weather changes, we’ll have more time for indoor work. I’ll call you. And I really am sorry, Gina.’

Not half as sorry as I am, I think as I put down the phone. I wander back out to the terrace and pick up my book, the enticingly entitled
Concepts of Wine Technology
, whose complicated chemical formulae I have, quite literally, been sweating over.

I sigh and put the book straight back down again, feeling disappointed and disgruntled.

And then a small rectangle of card that I’ve been using as a bookmark catches my eye. Thomas Cortini.

I hear Annie’s voice urging me to call him up on some pretext or other. My heart’s not really in it, but the prospect of the empty weeks stretching away before me suddenly makes me crave company. I look up, gazing absently at the view beyond the garden. Of course! The harvest is rapidly approaching, judging by the darkly ripe grapes on the vines all around me. I’ll volunteer my services as an extra pair of hands. Despite my career in the world of wine, I’ve never actually worked a harvest. This is the perfect opportunity to learn a whole lot more about the detailed intricacies of winemaking first-hand. And it should be far more interesting seeing it done for real rather than trying to read about it in a book.

‘Gina, how good to hear from you.’ Thomas’s voice is genuinely warm. ‘How are you? Annie has returned to England now I suppose? You must be missing her. The harvest? Why yes, if the current weather holds, we’ll be starting on the whites next week or the week after. It’s been so hot and dry the grapes are slightly small, but in wonderful condition. We’d be delighted to have another pair of hands in the
chai
. I’ll call you when we have a confirmed date, but
en principe
it’ll be a week next Monday.’

♦ ♦ ♦

I’m surprised at how cold it is at six thirty in the morning. Until now the days have still been beautifully warm, but then I’m not usually up this early. I nip back into the house and grab a fleece jacket before jumping into the car and driving to the Château de la Chapelle to report for duty. ‘Come about seven o’clock,’ Thomas instructed me yesterday. I’m early, eager to create a good impression on my first day. As I drive into the yard, I’m surprised to find it already a hive of activity.

The vast doors of the winery stand open and the bright lights inside throw a sharply defined rectangle of illumination onto the white dust before the entrance. A conveyor belt has been positioned just inside and at the far end the de-stemming machine waits, silent for the moment. A pump sits underneath it and a long stainless-steel tube runs from here to the top of one of the lofty metal tanks. Thomas and his father, perched on the metal walkway suspended above the
cuves,
are heaving the far end of the heavy pipe into position above the vat’s open lid.

‘Ah, here is our beautiful helper.
Bonjour,
Mademoiselle
Gina!
’ calls Patrick and he picks his way down the ladder-like stairs to come and greet me. Thomas follows behind him, having fixed the pipe in place.

‘Gina, thank you for coming to help,’ he smiles. ‘Let me introduce you to Jacqueline, our assistant in the
chai
.’ A stocky, cheerful-looking young woman emerges from the office. A gleaming golden tooth embellishes her friendly grin, giving her a faintly piratical air.

A tractor pulling a large, deep-sided trailer behind it swings into the yard and I glimpse Robert at the wheel. He reverses neatly, precision-perfect as he lines up the back of the trailer with the end of the conveyor belt.

‘Come on,’ says Jacqueline. ‘We’re on the sorting table. You stand on that side.’

Robert jumps down from his cab and opens a round hatch in the end of the trailer while Jacqueline attaches a plastic pipe to an outlet on the underside to capture the juice that is already starting to run from the bunches of golden-green grapes. Catching sight of me, Robert comes round to say hello, then reaches back into the cab of the tractor to flick a switch. The trailer’s internal screw mechanism begins to turn, disgorging its load in a steady stream onto the belt which Jacqueline has set running. She hits a button on the de-stemmer and another on the pump and the machinery leaps into action with an ear-splitting din.

Thomas appears at my side. ‘Take out any large sticks and leaves, and any bunches of grapes that don’t look good,’ he shouts above the noise. I nod, concentrating hard on the moving belt before me and trying to pick though the heaps of fruit as nimbly as the other two. I find it hard to follow the fast-moving stream and rapidly begin to feel queasy with the movement and the noise and the fact that I didn’t really feel like eating any breakfast at such an early hour this morning.

Jacqueline grins across at me, waving a hand to attract my attention. ‘Gina, are you okay? You’ve gone as white as a sheet. Don’t try to follow the motion of the belt. Fix your gaze on one point, like this. That’s better. You’ll find it easier now.’

Actually there isn’t much debris to remove at all. The grapes are beautifully ripe, with no signs of mildew or rot and there are just a few leaves and the occasional woody bit of vine to take out. The bunches of fruit then fall through the de-stemmer which spits the stems into a bin, the loosened grapes pouring into the hopper of the pump where they are seized by the machinery and fired through the long pipe into the gaping mouth of the vat.

At last the stream of fruit coming out of the trailer dwindles and then stops and Robert nimbly switches off the screw, shuts the hatch and disconnects the hose from underneath, before hopping back into the cab and driving off for the next load. The last grapes drop into the pump and Thomas hits the off switch on the machinery, leaving us standing in sudden silence, the only sounds the soft dripping of juice into the vat and the ringing in my ears.

‘Let me show you the control panel for the
cuves
,’ offers Thomas, leading the way to an efficient-looking array of lights and buttons fixed to the
chai
wall. ‘Five years ago we replaced our old
cuves
with thermo-regulated stainless-steel ones, so we can control the temperature in each from here. The white grapes need to be kept cool to preserve the very delicate flavours of the fruit—that’s why we start picking them so early, before the sun begins to warm them up—so we’re chilling the vat they’re going into. We’re starting with the Sauvignon Blanc and it’s vital to keep the grapes cool if you want to try to catch those elusive elderflower and gooseberry notes in the final wine. We’ll easily finish the Sauvignon this morning and then change over vats to begin the Sémillon.’

I nod. ‘Who’s picking the grapes?’ I ask.

‘We use a local contractor, Benoît Michel. All our grapes are machine harvested nowadays. The technology is so good now it doesn’t harm the vines the way some of the old
vendangeurs
used to. And this way we can get our grapes in at the very best moment when they reach optimum ripeness. So we have just two people working in the vines today, Benoît driving the
vendangeur
and Robert bringing in the trailer-loads of fruit. The turnaround is very efficient.’

And right on cue we hear the tractor manoeuvring the next trailer into position at the end of the sorting table. We hurry back to our positions as the stream of green-gold fruit starts to pour onto the conveyer belt and the machinery roars into action once again.

Two trailer-loads later, Christine Cortini appears in the doorway, a large wicker basket over one arm. She does the rounds, greeting each of us in turn and then busies herself in the office. A delicious aroma of percolating coffee wafts in our direction. Suddenly I realise how cold my hands and feet are from standing on the cement floor at the sorting table, my fingers and the cuffs of my sleeves stickily damp with a mixture of chilly grape juice and dew. The last of the batch of grapes trundles along the conveyor belt, then rattles into the de-stemmer and the fruit cascades into the pump. Jacqueline nips round to hit the off buttons on the machines and gestures towards the office with a tilt of her head. ‘Coffee time.’

I rinse my hands and then rub my neck, which is beginning to ache, trying to roll the stiffness out of my shoulders. I glance at my watch. It’s not even ten o’clock and I feel like I’ve done a good day’s work already.

Christine is pouring strong, hot coffee into cups and hands me one. I clasp my hands around the small cup to warm them, wishing it was a large British mug with a generous slug of hot milk added. But in my cold, tired state, the shot of scalding, tarry liquid is the best cup of coffee I’ve ever drunk. The men come in from the vines, Benoît shaking hands all round, and the whole team stands around the desk drinking coffee and munching flaky croissants which Christine produces from her basket. Patrick, who has been everywhere this morning, darting from sorting table to trailer to
cuve
, and even popping out into the vines to supervise activities there, is euphoric about the quality of this year’s harvest. ‘A wonderful year, even better than 2005, you’ll see. Gina, you’ll be able to boast to your friends that you have had a hand in making some of the finest wines of the century!’

‘And the century is not even ten years old yet,’ remarks Thomas drily.

‘It is going to be an outstanding year though,’ says Benoît (another thick
sud-ouest
accent for me to try to decipher). ‘Especially for the reds. I’ve never seen such clean Merlot. And the Cabernet Sauvignon is going to be superb. Perfectly ripe.’

‘Yes, as long as we don’t get thunderstorms next week,’ says Robert, shaking his head. ‘A downpour at this stage and in this heat can rot the grapes overnight. With the sudden rain they can swell and split,’ he explains to me. ‘You can even get hail sometimes, which is disastrous. All that work and care throughout the year and then you can lose the whole lot just before the harvest.
Vignerons
don’t sleep well at the best of times, and at this time of year hardly at all.’

‘Pah!’ exclaims Patrick. ‘Don’t you worry; we’ll get the harvest in all right. And just you wait and see. It’s the vintage of the century I tell you! Right, back to work everyone.’

Robert already has another trailer-load of grapes waiting for us, so we get straight back down to it. Revived by the break, I sort the fruit with new energy and am gratified to notice that my fingers are now working almost as fast as Jacqueline’s across from me. The coffee has warmed me up and the sun is beginning to heat the air outside the entrance. We work on cheerfully for another hour and then the rhythm of our work is broken as Robert announces that that’s the Sauvignon Blanc finished and they’re about to start bringing in the Sémillon.

As he drives off with the trailer, there’s a flurry of activity in the
chai
. We have to change over to another
cuve
, which involves repositioning the huge metal pipe. Thomas nimbly climbs up onto the walkway in the roof and manhandles the top end, while Jacqueline and I wrestle with the bottom. There are a series of joints in the piping, each closed with a strong metal clip, and we have to release these to swing the steel tubing round to reach the new vat. I strain to undo one clip, scraping my fingers and breaking a couple of nails, while Jacqueline competently manages the others. We get the pipe into position just in time as Robert arrives with the next trailer-load.