Thirteen
In her bedroom, Fiona lay propped up against a wall of pillows, her head heavy and her nose stuffy.
It was difficult to concentrate on different wine scents with her nose swamped with the smell of menthol, eucalyptus and camphor from the rub slathered onto her chest. She lifted her eyes from her book.
An early dusk seeped through the window, cold and damp.
Outside, the countryside was awash with autumn’s rich colours.
She could see a mature acer tree, its delicate leaves a stunning shade of deep red, almost purple, and nearby a beech tree surrounded by a carpet of rusted leaves.
She pulled the quilt tighter around herself, the soft fabric deliciously cool against her flushed skin, making her shiver.
The book lay open across her lap, but each word on the page seemed to blur.
‘Tannins,’ she murmured aloud, her throat scratchy and hoarse.
‘High tannin wines ... High tannin wines can taste ... What?’ She shut her eyes, picturing herself swirling a slither of wine around a highly polished tasting glass while customers waited with bated breath for her verdict.
But tonight, the thought of a complex rich Bordeaux blend made her feel queasy.
Her mind wandered to Josh. He’d made it pretty clear in their lessons that he was interested in more than just wine.
At first, despite their age gap, she’d felt a thrill of something in return, but then his eyes had roved over Kim as well, and she’d realized he was just one of those people who flirted with everyone.
She smiled ruefully at herself now, wondering if her fever was making her overly sentimental.
Josh was good looking, but he wasn’t a long-term prospect.
‘A charming rogue,’ is how her Aunt Ivy would describe him.
He wasn’t looking for a relationship, he was looking for a holiday fling before he headed on somewhere else to try out the surf.
She thought of Ru – so full of charm, laughter and a natural charisma that drew everyone to him.
The chemistry between him and Fiona had been like lighting a match; it crackled and surged.
In comparison, Josh was more like a shaft of warm sunshine on a cold day.
She sighed, feeling her eyelids grow heavy.
But maybe, to move on from Ru, and for him to understand it was really over, a holiday fling was just what was needed.
She reached for the mug of hot toddy – a soothing blend of lemon, honey and whisky – which her aunt had left by the bedside.
Wrapping her hands around its comforting warmth, she felt the heat seep into her aching fingers, easing the stiffness.
Fiona took a sip, the tartness biting at her sore throat, though the honey’s sweetness soothed a little.
She hoped her aunt had used a cheap blended whisky in this concoction and hadn’t sacrificed a malt.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the cottage’s windows.
Fiona closed her eyes, trying to picture Josh at her side.
She imagined him strolling in, pulling the curtains, plumping up her pillows, then explaining he would be back later – ‘Surf’s up’.
She winced. He wouldn’t know how to reach her, to pull her from this melancholy like Ru would.
Ru would nurse her with food. Right now, Fiona couldn’t imagine a single thing she wanted to eat, but he would think of something to tempt her with.
He would have burst in, bringing with him tantalizing smells, and presented her with a tray of something irresistible.
There would probably have been a rose in a bud vase on that tray.
There would certainly have been an eager look in his eyes, waiting for her to congratulate him on his efforts.
Fiona allowed two tears to escape from her eyelids and snake down her cheeks. Then she snuggled down beneath the blankets. Each limb felt too heavy to move. The door opened and Ivy’s voice drifted in. ‘How are you, love? I’ve brought you another hot toddy for that throat.’
The soft shuffle of slippers on the hardwood floor, followed by the clink of a mug setting down on the bedside table signalled Ivy’s approach.
A chair scraped quietly against the wooden floor.
Fiona wiped her eyes and heaved herself upright.
Ivy clearly had something she wanted to discuss. She hoped it wasn’t Ru.
But the chosen topic was worse. Without preamble, Ivy launched in. ‘When did you last speak to your parents? I think you really should call them, tell them what you’re going through with Ru and your studies.’
Fiona shifted on the bed, the sheet sticking to her damp skin.
Call them? The thought left a sour taste in her mouth.
She couldn’t remember when she had last spoken to either of her parents.
Her mother’s voice had always been a strange thing – so formal, so distant, like they were two people in the same room but not quite sharing it.
Fiona dredged around in her memory, deciding it was two years since she’d last spoken to them.
Two years of WhatsApp messages with pictures of glorious sunsets, two years of dwindling invitations to visit Melbourne.
That phone call had been to share the news she had passed her last wine exam.
‘Mum, I passed,’ Fiona had announced, trying to keep her voice light, hiding the triumph she secretly harboured.
‘Darling, that’s wonderful news. Your father will be so pleased! You worked hard, and it paid off. A structured approach always yields results.’
Fiona closed her eyes, replaying her mother’s words. A structured approach . Not pride, not love – just scientific cause and effect.
‘I presume this puts you on a good trajectory?’ her mother continued. ‘It’s fascinating how mastering a field is so often about disciplined study rather than innate talent. Though, of course, you have both. Darling, can I call you back? I’m late for a lecture.’
Fiona had carried around her mother’s last words for days, trying to decide if that was her mother’s way of telling her she was proud of Fiona’s achievements, but concluded it was just her mother wanting to end the call so she could get back to work.
No, the last person Fiona wanted to speak to about Ru, or about any aspect of her life, was her mother.
‘Ivy, please,’ Fiona mumbled, her throat raw.
‘I can’t ... I don’t need to talk to them.
Not now.’ Perhaps not ever. It was always to Ivy she had turned to stitch together the parts of her life that felt too frayed.
Fiona had the support of the relative she relied on.
Why would she lean on her parents, when they had abandoned her?
‘You need your parents, Fiona. That’s what you need after a big break-up. Motherly love,’ Ivy said, her tone both kind and insistent. ‘I know you think you don’t, but—’
Fiona exhaled a sharp breath, her hands clenching the sheet beneath her, the fabric cool against her feverish skin. ‘Motherly love?’ she repeated bitterly, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘As if she knows what that is.’
Ivy’s sigh came, heavy with years of history. She sat down on the end of the bed, her presence warm and familiar. ‘She’s my sister. I know she’s not great on big shows of affection, but they are your parents, Fiona. You can’t keep pretending they don’t care.’
Fiona’s chest tightened. Her parents wouldn’t relish being disturbed from their academic worlds to discuss the mess their daughter was in.
Anyway, Fiona knew what the solution was, and it wasn’t motherly love .
She turned her head towards the window, the blurry world outside her vision spinning gently.
‘You’ve always helped me. Always. What do they even know about my life?
They’ve never been here. Never helped me when I was struggling. ’
The silence stretched out, a thick pause that drifted between them like smoke. Then Ivy’s voice, softer now, but no less insistent: ‘What you need, love, is someone who truly cares. Someone who’s there. You need—’
‘No,’ Fiona interrupted, her voice sharp and desperate. ‘What I need is to rely on myself. I need to study, and then I need to pass my exam. I don’t need some ... virtual stranger from Melbourne checking up on me. I’m fine. I don’t need whatever they have to offer.’
Ivy didn’t reply right away. Fiona could hear the faint rustle of her aunt’s hand in her lap, the slight creak of her fingers tightening around a mug. After a long pause, Ivy whispered, ‘Get some rest, but think about what I said.’
The heat in the room suddenly felt stifling.
Fiona closed her eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of her own heartbeat.
She smelled the soft scent of lavender and opened her eyes.
Ivy leaned over and gently kissed her forehead.
The faint creak of the door followed as she left, then her footsteps faded down the stairs, leaving a calm silence behind.
By Wednesday afternoon, Fiona’s cold had receded to a sniffle. She felt better, so she joined Ivy and Kim for evening service. Kim seemed to have a new sparkle. Fiona wondered if something had blossomed between the youngster and Josh while she had been off ill.
The restaurant was full, and the bar area was heaving with lively customers.
Fiona, holding a notepad with increasingly illegible scribbles, pushed through the crowd.
Her cheeks were flushed, half from the warmth and half from having spotted Ru ten minutes earlier.
Every time she was in the kitchen, he seemed to watch her.
The sight of him still made her stomach flip.
She entered the kitchen stealthily, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ru unobserved.
The bright lights and the warmth hit her.
The smells were almost overpowering – sizzling meat, onions, a heady mix of spices.
George was plating food with the precision of a surgeon, Ru was searing fish, while Josh was scrubbing pots at the sink.
Kim was at the serving counter, somehow managing to look busy despite doing nothing.
‘Ready with those fish?’ boomed George.
‘Yes, Chef,’ said Ruben.
‘Table 7,’ called George. Four plates clattered onto the counter.
Fiona picked them up, balancing two skilfully on each arm.
But as she squeezed past Kim, she felt a sharp tug on her apron strings.
The knot came undone. With her arms full, Fiona was powerless to prevent her apron slipping down, catching on her hip, and a cascade of pens, notepads and even her lipstick tumbled across the floor.
‘Oh dear, you dropped something,’ Kim murmured in a sugary tone, giving her a sly smile.
Fiona replaced the plates, and knelt, feeling heat creep up her neck as she gathered her things in full view of Ru, who was chuckling, arms crossed, and one eyebrow arched.
Josh skidded to a stop beside her, crouching down.
‘Need some help?’ he asked, handing her a stray pen. She shot him a grateful smile.
‘Thanks, Josh,’ she muttered, shoving her apron on with all the dignity she could muster and making a mental note to double tie the knot in the future.
Half an hour later, Ivy pressed lightly on Fiona’s arm. ‘Customer’s asking for the 2005 of this wine,’ she said, holding up a bottle with a pink foil cap. ‘I couldn’t find it. I brought this instead. Will it do?’
From the distinctive pink cap, she was sure it would be Vieux Chateau Certan, but Fiona quickly checked the label. It was, but the vintage was 2017. ‘It’ll be lower down the rack. The older wines should be stored at the top, but I haven’t had time to shuffle them around yet.’
Ivy frowned. ‘Hmm, I did look. I’ll try again, shall I?’
‘Let me.’ It would be faster. If the wine was misplaced, Ivy could be down there for hours. Her aunt handed over the key and Fiona trotted off.
Down in the cellar, Fiona flicked the light switch, illuminating rows of dusty pine cases and racks of bottles, allowing the cool, moist air to sooth her.
She jogged down the steps and over to the correct bin.
Crouching, she replaced the 2017 and took out the bottom bottle.
It too was a 2017. Her mind raced, searching for explanations.
She tried the next one up, and the one above that, but every bottle was from 2017.
She was sure she’d counted half a dozen of the 2005 last week.
Had there been a flurry of wine enthusiasts while she was ill, all wanting the same wine, from the same vintage?
Wondering what to propose as an alternative, she pushed herself onto her haunches.
Her eyes fell on a nearby pine box of 2005 Chateau L’évangile, one of the top wines of Pomerol .
The top was askew. She nudged it aside and pulled out a bottle, wondering why the box was open but still full.
At the top of the stairs, thinking she was about to sneeze, her hands rose instinctively, her nose twitched, and she caught sight of the label and froze.
The bottle shook. It wasn’t a 2005 L’évangile.
It wasn’t even a more recent vintage. This was the house red.
Fiona felt dizzy. She retraced her steps, and collapsing beside the pine box labelled L’évangile , setting the bottle down carefully on the floor.
She pushed aside the lid and stared at the remaining five bottles.
All were house red. With her heart racing she removed each one, peering through the slats at the six bottles stored below.
Each should have been worth more than ￡250.
None had the distinctive minimalist sketch of the famous chateau on their label .
The entire box was full of bottles of house red wine.
She did a mental calculation: over ￡2000’s worth of wine was missing.
Fiona swept a shaky hand over her forehead.
It was worse than that. This wine wasn’t missing .
Someone had removed expensive bottles and replaced them with cheaper ones.
There was only one explanation – someone had stolen the wine and hidden the evidence.
But who? Why? And was the sommelier going to be the prime suspect?