Chapter 8
Eliza sprang out of bed with a bounce. This past week in the country had felt like a wholesome, delicious retreat, and now the weekend dawned with the joy of golden sunlight pouring through her window – and, yup, a wedding to organise.
Nothing thrilled Eliza more than a wedding.
She was a hopeless romantic, and her computer and notebook were always stuffed to the brim with Pinterest boards and dress sketch ideas.
Agatha used to tease Eliza that she was born to coordinate nuptials, and lately she’d come to agree.
Up until now she’d billed herself as an all-purpose events guru, a sort of miracle worker for conferences, product launches, and gala dinners.
But now she no longer worked for Julian, she could do anything she wanted.
She’d already delivered a handful of spectacular weddings for other people, and starting small on her own by making Fenella’s celebration absolutely perfect felt like the right thing to do.
It was time to go independent and be brave – and at this point she had nothing to lose.
Just as she tugged on her favourite dress and padded downstairs to send Fenella a text message, her phone buzzed with yet another bank alert.
Yes, she knew she was in debt. Yes, she needed to start chipping away at it.
But the daily, guilt-laden reminders felt borderline cruel – surely the bloody bank understood her balance was in the red and she simply couldn’t pay it off all at once. Did they think she’d won the lottery?
She was determined not to let it spoil her mood – after all, she had a May wedding to plan, and Fenella hadn’t arranged much beyond booking the venue and rounding up family, which basically meant the wedding wasn’t arranged at all.
Just as she reached to put the kettle on the stove, her phone rang.
It was from an unknown number, and her stomach lurched; it was bound to be another stern courtesy call from the bank demanding she set up an unrealistic payment plan.
‘Hello?’ she answered tentatively.
‘Eliza, thank god!’ Eliza’s heart stuttered.
It wasn’t the bank. But Fenella sounded incredibly frantic.
‘I forgot to tell you about the special wine tasting today and I need you there. Jean Pierre’s going to officially let me be the first bride to celebrate her wedding with his new champagne!
’ Fenella squealed and Eliza couldn’t help laughing.
‘Fenella? Hi! Well, that’s amazing—’
‘Sorry, sparkling wine, Ross says it’s sparkling wine if it’s British. Yes, I know – urgh sorry, Eliza, Ross keeps trying to talk to me. Go away and look at some fish or something, Ross!’
Eliza beamed – she loved weddings and she also loved enthusiastic, down-to-earth brides, of which Fenella was definitely one.
‘Seeing as you’ve been totally amazing and agreed to help with the wedding, I obviously need you with me for the tasting!
I know nothing about wine and Dan mentioned you know quite a lot, so I was hoping you were free to meet us at the vineyard at two this afternoon?
I don’t know my chardonnay from my pinot noirs, but I have a feeling you might,’ Fenella pleaded.
‘Everyone will be there. It’s Jean Pierre’s annual harvest celebration, but we have a private tasting just before – what do you reckon, can you make it? ’
If Eliza knew one thing about weddings, it was never say no to the bride.
‘Well, I do love a spot of wine tasting. Of course I’ll be there!’ she answered, delighted that she was getting to go to yet another country affair. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world!’
A few hours later, Eliza’s car tyres crunched along the gravel drive of Jean Pierre’s winery.
Her jaw dropped as she drove in. The Georgian manor house loomed grandly ahead, with a beautiful limestone facade gleaming in the afternoon sun.
It was surrounded by perfectly manicured gardens that seemed to stretch for acres.
Rows of meticulously tended grapevines rolled across the hillside beyond. It was like something out of a movie.
She was also excited to finally meet the mysterious Vivi – Jean Pierre’s wife who everyone whispered was half his age.
Looking around, she hoped Vivi liked him for more than his enormous pad!
Eliza caught herself mentally calculating their age gap and then stopped herself.
Who the hell was she to judge? Her own ‘appropriate’ relationship had ended with Henry’s boxers around his ankles and his secretary’s lipstick on his cock.
She felt an unexpected flash of fury. She’d had a nice future planned out for them, and then overnight it was gone.
And now what? He got to stay in London and screw his thirty-three-year-old secretary while she was here, in the countryside, having to find a new dream?
But Eliza forced her mind to drift to Luke, and the magical things his tongue had done to her, and she instantly felt better.
Maybe a glass of Jean Pierre’s delicious wine would help ease any leftover irritation.
And maybe if everyone was going to be there this afternoon, Luke might be up for a repeat performance.
That was definitely something worth looking forward to . . .
She was knocked out of her reverie by a bang on her window, which seemed to be a recurring form of communication in the countryside. Jean Pierre had come running out to greet her – he really was a total sweetheart.
‘Darling, you are here! I love your vintage wheels,’ he said, as he stroked Daisy’s bonnet. ‘So very Parisian. And now the sun is shining, and England, it looks so glorious. Please, come with me and meet my beautiful wife Vivi.’
He ushered her along, his hand gently guiding her towards the enormous front door, painted in an eye-catching burgundy, opening inwards to show off a long, grand corridor full of some of the most beautiful artwork she had ever seen.
Trying not to look too shocked by how gorgeous it was, she simply said, ‘Lovely to see you again too, Jean Pierre, and your beautiful house, or should I say chateau! How long have you lived here?’ Beautiful didn’t seem to be the right word, breathtaking might be better, she thought as her eyes were drawn from one stunning painting to the next.
‘Oh, about eight years,’ he responded, while scurrying ahead of her to lead the way. ‘I always dreamt of living in a big house in the English countryside – I wanted to be, you know, Lord of the Manor, and now here we are!’
Eliza giggled. He was quite ridiculous, and she loved it.
‘Vivi!’ he called out, his voice echoing through the tiled foyer. ‘Are you there? Eliza is here, you must come and meet her.’
Eliza had no idea what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t the very pretty, down-to-earth woman she saw walking towards her.
She was gorgeous and smiley, wearing a pair of fitted jeans and a crisp, white linen shirt.
Pretty much channelling every hot American supermodel Eliza had ever dreamt of being.
‘Eliza, so lovely to meet you. I’m so glad you could come a bit early. I have heard so much about you!’
‘And you,’ she responded, as she was embraced warmly. ‘I have to admit I was expecting you to be French with a name like Vivi, but you sound like you might be American?’
‘Correct! All the way here from Texas! This little Parisian ball of fire nicknamed me Vivi, and it seems to have stuck!’ She grinned as she gave Jean Pierre’s bottom a little squeeze.
Eyes wide, Eliza quipped, ‘From Texas to Farmington! Wow, that’s quite a change. I hate to ask, but I’m desperate to hear how you two met. I adore a good love story.’
‘Everyone always is,’ she laughed. ‘At twenty years his junior it’s a big age gap, and everyone is always fascinated by the idea that I’m sleeping with an old man!
Come on, let’s grab a drink and I’ll fill you in on all the details.
I can’t believe Dan hasn’t told you yet – he loves nothing more than telling a good story, especially where Jean Pierre is concerned! ’
‘I think I need to corner Dan at some point for more local gossip – if he’s not surrounded by too many willing widows that is,’ joked Eliza.
They settled down into a couple of large squashy sofas, with the March sunlight pouring into the room through the floor-to- ceiling windows, beautiful views of the Downs surrounding them from every angle.
Vivi slipped off her shoes and curled her manicured feet up under her as Jean Pierre went off to get them all a drink. Everything about her seemed so elegant.
‘So, it’s a rather unusual story,’ Vivi started.
‘I love wine as much as JP, but my love for it is perhaps more personal. My great grandparents were winemakers in Napa Valley where they made incredible Cabernet Sauvignon, and there was one particular vintage they produced that was greatly admired. However, there are very few bottles of it left, so it’s incredibly hard to track down.
I had made a promise to myself, that if I could afford it, and there were bottles in the open market, I would always try and acquire them.
At this point, I had not managed to find a single one. ’
‘Oh, this is like a mystery!’ exclaimed Eliza. ‘How much is a bottle worth?’
‘Well, bottles from domains that are no longer operational can be very valuable – in fact would you believe that the highest price ever paid for an American wine at auction is $500,000? How crazy is that? But my grandparents’ wine, the Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon, should have been max $50,000. ’
‘Oh,’ said Eliza, ‘don’t tell me, Jean Pierre has it all stored in his basement?’
Vivi laughed, throwing her head back in a wild yet somehow utterly elegant way that Eliza envied.
‘Not quite, but there was an auction being held here in the UK to sell off some valuable wines, and one of the bottles being sold was the Screaming Eagle. I knew I had to come and bid on it, in case it was the only bottle in existence.’