Two
With her sandals in one hand and Ru’s warm fingers intertwined in the other, Fiona walked steadily along Brambleton Beach. The soft sand felt silky and warm between her toes, yielding gently beneath each step. Under the intense summer sun, the grains sparkled as if someone had scattered crushed glass along the shore, forming a glimmering path above the waterline.
It was Saturday, and the beach seemed to pulse with energy. Locals and tourists alike were lounging in canvas beach chairs under colourful umbrellas or sprawling on towels behind striped windbreaks. Some were absorbed in books, others napping. Near the water’s edge, children were building sandcastles, wet sand slipping through their fingers as they shaped towers and moats, their giggles drifting up over the steady rhythm of waves breaking on the sand.
The air carried a medley of scents: the salt-laden sea breeze, coconut-scented sunscreen, and the earthy tang of damp seaweed. Fiona smiled to herself; at least today, no one would ask her which wines those scents might evoke. It was a perfect, sunlit morning; everyone seemed at ease. She looked around at the kaleidoscope of relaxation and contentment. Swimsuit styles may have changed over the years, but the scene was reminiscent of Fiona’s childhood summer holiday walks on this very beach. She could almost hear the soft hum of her aunt Ivy’s favourite hymn, the one she used to sing under her breath when they strolled toward the ice cream shack, their traditional destination.
It felt fitting, somehow, that Ivy was the first to learn the investors had agreed to back her and Ru’s new restaurant. Earlier that morning, Ru had delivered the news while whipping up a fluffy soufflé omelette in Ivy’s kitchen.
‘Well done, love!’ Ivy exclaimed, pulling Fiona into a warm embrace. Her arms were strong and reassuring, and Fiona couldn’t help but melt into them. ‘Hopefully that’s the last exam you ever have to put yourself through.’
Fiona hesitated before mumbling, ‘No. I didn’t pass.’
The words hung in the air for a moment as she glanced up at her aunt, whose face softened instantly with a gentle smile of understanding.
‘Well, you tried your best, and that’s all anyone can do,’ Ivy said, her tone filled with quiet encouragement. ‘Besides, didn’t you tell me that only 25% of people pass the sommelier exam first time?’
Ivy didn’t say any more, and Fiona felt a wave of relief. Ivy’s unspoken acceptance was as comforting as the summer sun streaming through the window. It reminded Fiona why this place –and this person – always felt like home. Still, she was disappointed in herself to have messed up the exam. She really had tried her best, yet she’d still failed. Wasn’t that the worst possible outcome? Was it any surprise that a little worm of doubt had now wriggled into her mind, whispering that she simply wasn’t good enough? She shook the thought away and tugged her shoulder bag closer, feeling the reassuring sharp edge of the books inside. She would soon be studying again – and if she passed next time, she would feel a lot better.
‘And the good news is,’ said Ru, sliding a perfect omelette onto a warm plate, ‘it doesn’t matter.’ Giving Fiona a pointed look, he put down the frying pan and bounded across the room, scooping her into his arms, lifting her off her feet and kissing her. He set her down, saying, ‘The investors are still stumping up the money for the new restaurant.’
That was a careful choice of words, thought Fiona.
At the kitchen table, Ru sliced the omelette. ‘Come on, let’s eat; Ivy has a meeting to get to, and’ he said, excitement clear in his voice, ‘you and I have a date with a beach. Ivy, do me a favour and pass me that shoulder bag. That is not going with us.’ Ivy chuckled, and Fiona managed a smile. One day off wouldn’t matter.
Ru’s voice brought her back from her worries about the exam. ‘Happy?’ he asked.
She told herself it felt good to be on holiday, with the sun on her back and the man she adored beside her, not toiling in the fuggy heat of the cramped London restaurant. But she dodged his question.
‘Fancy an ice cream?’ she suggested.
He wrinkled his nose. ‘Real ice cream? Or hydrogenated trans fats?’
She punched him playfully on the arm. ‘Proper Devon dairy ice cream made with real milk from local cows, of course. They’ve been selling it here for nearly a hundred years.’
‘Well, how can I turn down the chance of that!’
They reached the ice-cream kiosk, a shack painted in mint green and pale pink. It had a weathered wooden exterior, and white slatted shutters pinned back to let the cooling sea breeze inside. Above the entrance, on a large board, someone had written the flavours and prices in pink chalk: classic varieties like vanilla, strawberry, rum n’ raisin and caramel, alongside local specialties like Devon clotted cream and elderflower.
Inside, vintage glass jars stuffed with toppings lined the shelves. The staff wore striped aprons just like the ones Ru’s team wore in London, and she gave her head a tight shake to dislodge the association. She didn’t want to ruin today by constantly thinking about work.
‘ scoops of caramel, please!’ she called cheerfully to an attendant, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She wanted to enjoy this moment with Ru, to bask in the sun’s warmth and the sweet innocence of ice cream. She glanced sideways at him, his face a mask of quiet determination, though she sensed an underlying anxiety.
When their ice creams arrived, they took them outside. Ru chose the table furthest from the shack, and they slumped into deck chairs, digging their feet into the sand. Fiona took a tentative lick, the ice-cream melting into her mouth, sweet and silky smooth. As she savoured the moment, she reached for his spare hand, feeling the warmth of his skin against hers. She could tell that something was bothering him. This was rare –he was usually so easy-going and confident – but she decided not to ask, certain he would tell her when he was ready.
‘I spoke to Ben this morning,’ said Ru.
Ah, thought Fiona, Ru’s troubles must be work related. Ben, Ru’s sous chef and best friend, was running the Fork the investors are backing our business.’
Except they weren’t. The message from the investors was clear; they would back Ru, but not Fiona, claiming she didn’t carry the same weight as him. Ru was now officially the owner of the new restaurant. Just like Ben and the rest of the team, Fiona would be his employee, not his partner. That wouldn’t have happened if she had passed her advanced sommelier exam.
‘Fi, please, don’t dwell on that exam.’ He pushed his sunglasses off his face and his eyes sparkled with his enthusiasm. ‘We’re a team, and an amazing one, that’s what the investors saw and that’s what they’re backing. We are equal in this venture, what’s mine is yours. Anyway, come on, you don’t need a piece of paper to say you’re the best sommelier in town.’
‘The investors think I do.’ Fiona wasn’t surprised – in fact, she agreed with them. Certificates were there to prove one’s worth. To separate the successful from failures like her. Her mother and father had proved that with their own careers, gradually accumulating more letters after their names as they advanced in the field of neurogenetic research. They hadn’t taken much notice of her as a child, finding discussions of amyloid plaques much more alluring than reading bedtime stories, but they’d always been proud when she came home from school waving a certificate.
‘Are you really going to pour yourself into study? You’ll never have time to enjoy life.’
Fiona sighed. Hadn’t he realised she’d been doing that all her life? In fact, it was Ivy who suggested a teenage Fiona channel her efforts into academia. Whether she did so to keep her niece busy, or because she knew it was the only way she could earn the sporadic attention of her parents, Fiona wasn’t sure. Either way, it was addictive. Her parents applauded each exam passed, every qualification she achieved, but like brief rays of sunshine in a dreary summer, they withdrew their affection once the triumph was celebrated and buried themselves back in their own work.
On turning eighteen, when Fiona left home to study for sommelier exams in London, her parents emigrated to Australia to take up a research post at the Florey Institute, a global leader in neurodegenerative diseases. Fiona couldn’t help but feel they’d been waiting for the opportunity ever since she was born. Communication dwindled to a text on her birthday, and a phone call to congratulate her on each academic milestone: passing her levels 1, 2, 3 and 4 WSET Wine exams, and later her Introductory, and Certified, sommelier exams. With no more progress to report, Fiona realised she hadn’t heard from them in nearly a year.
A football thudded in front of Fiona, startling her and bringing her back to Brambleton bay. She watched fondly as a boy in faded knee-length swimming trunks traipsed through the sand towards his toy. The child looked about ten, with gangly limbs, and a skinny chest. Behind him, his mother was following, dressed in a pink bikini and stepping gingerly on the hot sand.
Ru bent and picked up the ball, handing it to the boy.
‘What do you say Mark?’ instructed the mother. She looked from her child to Ru, then did a double take. ‘Oh, my goodness ... it’s you, isn’t it? From the Fork he wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t believe her. He would assume she wanted to hurt him, and she didn’t want to do that.
‘Why?!’ he demanded, and there was a hint of despair in his voice now, which sent a chill through her body. ‘Why won’t you marry me?’
Silence hung between them, a chasm too wide to breach.
Ru was the one to break it. ‘If you can’t even explain yourself to me, don’t bother coming back to my restaurant.’ His lip curled, distorting his lovely features, as he channelled his pain into anger. ‘And yes, you heard right. It’s my restaurant. As you keep reminding me, you’re just the wine waiter.’
Fiona gasped and burst into tears. She tried to swallow, but her throat felt too dry. How could he be so cruel? Yes, she’d said she couldn’t marry him, but she’d expected him to row back from the proposal, revert to their easy, relaxed relationship, perhaps make a joke of it all. The taste of her tears was a salty reminder of her failure and her sorrow. Ru reached out a hand for her, but she pushed him away, evading his encircling arms, like a wild animal desperate to break free of its captor. Fiona tore up the beach, still sobbing, her chest heaving with each step. She heard him calling out to her to stop, to come back, to talk to him, but she raced on, her eyes swollen with tears. The damage was done. He’d finally spoken the truth, and he couldn’t take that back.
Above her, seagulls cried out as if in sympathy with the lonely figure below them. Her chest ached with the weight of her decision, her heart torn between love for him still, and the unbearable truth she couldn’t escape. But she had said no . Their relationship was finished.
Listening to the waves crashing against the shore, she felt as though the sea itself was mourning her loss, the pull of the tide mirroring the emptiness inside her. She had given him up –given them up – every footfall in the sand was another step further from a life she didn’t want to lose.
Somewhere in the distance, a ship’s horn sounded, deep and mournful, and she collapsed to her knees on the sand, sobbing into her hands. She would never see the man she loved again, feel his arms around her, his lips on hers.
What had she done?