Sixteen #2
Kim trotted back into the dining room, carrying a glass.
‘George says he’ll be out shortly. They’re a bit behind on preparations.
’ Kim angled her head towards Fiona while spinning the wineglass in her hands.
Fiona blinked, suspecting she knew what was coming, and sure enough, Kim added tartly, ‘Apparently Josh was a bit late for work.’
Rose’s eyes flickered between the two younger women, as if sensing that one was willing her to enquire why Josh had been late for work and the other praying she wouldn’t probe.
Rose took a breath before speaking. ‘I understand from Richard Hastings there was a mix-up over their wine on Saturday night, which Kim helped resolve.’
Fiona frowned; she would have preferred Rose to ask what caused Josh to be late for work.
That wine incident was Kim’s work, and Kim had done nothing to resolve it, but Fiona had no proof, and decided it was better to simply take the blame.
‘I fetched the wrong bottle. Mrs Hastings was a lot more understanding than her husband.’
The kitchen door opened, and George strode out, followed by Ru, then Josh.
‘Just be more careful next time, please. He is our landlord,’ said Rose.
‘It was quite a drama!’ said Kim, in an unnecessarily loud voice, a smile twitching at her lips.
‘What’s this?’ asked George scowling.
‘Did someone say drama ?’ drawled Josh.
‘We were just discussing Fiona’s wine mistake on Saturday night,’ said Kim.
‘Orchestrated by you,’ Fiona snapped. The words were out before she could stop herself, and she instantly regretted them.
There was a collective gasp. Rose trained her eyes on Fiona, then spoke gently. ‘We’re a team. Please don’t be prickly with Kim.’
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Fiona.
‘Once I explained to Cora and Ricky that she had failed her Advanced Sommelier exam they were very understanding,’ said Kim in a sympathetic tone.
Biting her tongue, Fiona took the clean glass from Kim’s hands, setting it down on the table a fraction more forcefully than she normally would.
‘Shall we talk about the specials?’ suggested Josh.
While George extolled the virtues of the evening specials, Kim scribbled notes with an attentive expression painted on her face and asked questions like the class swot.
Was the fish from Brambleton Harbour itself?
How was the duck confit made? And which farm was the meat from?
Fiona diverted her mind, focusing on pairing food flavours with wines.
‘Any more questions?’ asked George.
‘Yes, can someone lend me a pen, please,’ laughed Rose.
Josh plucked one from behind an ear and tossed it over.
Kim put up her hand, making Fiona cringe.
‘Sorry, but Ruben, could you please run me through how that duck confit was made?’ She waved her hands as if dismissing everyone else.
‘I don’t want to keep you all waiting, but it sounded amazing, and I didn’t take proper notes.
’ She smiled at Ru. ‘If you could spare a couple of minutes ...?’
‘Sure,’ said Ru.
Fiona hesitated, watching Ru lean on the bar and hearing Kim chuckle at a shared joke.
She noticed the other woman put out a hand to touch Ru’s arm, and he didn’t pull away.
Kim tipped her head back and giggled. Fiona crossed her arms, feeling a burning sensation in her chest. If the key to a man’s heart was through his stomach, the key to a chef’s was through an interest in his cooking.
Fiona’s interest in Ru’s food had always been genuine, but it looked suspiciously like Kim was interested in the man, not the food. Despite her brain warning her to leave them alone, her heart dragged her towards them like a puppet tugged by strings it cannot see or sever.
‘It’s an interesting dish to pair a wine with,’ said Fiona.
‘Here she is,’ said Kim light-heartedly, ‘the woman who doesn’t think wine under ￡50 is worth drinking.’
Ru laughed. The sound sliced Fiona’s heart open like a wolf’s claw raking across ice.
Fiona defended herself. This had been her undoing in her Advanced Sommelier exam, and she was now all over the topic of regional and New World wines.
‘A Pinot Noir from Burgundy would be the classic pairing with duck confit, and you’d be lucky to get away with ￡?? , but there are several excellent options that pair beautifully for a modest budget, such as a Pinot Noir from Oregon or New Zealand, which provide similar elegance and complexity at a more approachable price point.
Of course, if a customer was open to sampling a different grape, I’d also recommend exploring reds from Italy’s Trentino-Alto Adige region, such as wines made from the Teroldego grape.
Or for a touch more tannin, try wines from Spain’s Ribeira Sacra, where they grow the Mencía grape. All very cost-effective.’
There was a sour expression on Kim’s face. ‘Must be a huge cellar Rose has if they’ve got all those stored down there,’ said Kim, the tension radiating from her. Ru’s eyes swivelled between the two women as if concerned he might have to prevent a fist fight.
‘Gotta get on,’ he said, walking away, a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He glanced over his shoulder, clearly savouring the flicker of competition between Kim and Fiona.
‘Show off,’ hissed Kim, her voice barely a whisper.
Fiona responded, ‘Just let me do my job and you stick to yours,’ she muttered, but goaded, her voice was louder than she intended, and Ru spun around.
‘That was spiteful, and your earlier speech was frankly a bit arrogant, Fiona. We can’t all spend our time swotting up on obscure grapes.’
Beside the counter Kim smiled coquettishly: ‘Thanks for standing up for me, Ruben.’
Fiona’s insides curled as the truth settled. Ru had moved on, and she’d missed the signs. His continued presence in Devon wasn’t a symbol of lingering love; it was a sense of duty. Having promised to help George, he wouldn’t renege.
A hollow ache spread through her as she accepted that he wasn’t coming back – not for her, not anymore.
She looked away. Being around him every day was tough.
Their relationship had become like a decanted wine left too long – the initial complexity had separated, leaving only a harsh, bitter residue to endure.
At least she had her CMS exam booked, and this time she was not telling anyone.
As arranged, Fiona met Rose outside the cellar at 10 a.m. the next morning.
Her boss unlocked the heavy wooden door with a methodical turn of the key, switched on the lights and the pair padded down the stone steps.
For once, the familiar earthy dampness that usually whispered of hidden mysteries felt oppressive, clinging to Fiona’s skin like a shroud.
She was dreading what they might discover.
Rose, however, seemed in an ebullient mood. ‘It’s our anniversary soon. George wants to put a little table for two down here. He says he thinks its romantic.’ She sighed. ‘I hope he’ll still think so when he learns how much of his precious wine is missing.’
Fiona closed her eyes and imagined the cellar bathed in warm candlelight.
A couple sat at a small table, their quiet laughter echoing softly against the stone walls.
Wine crates, repurposed as side tables, the couple holding elegant flutes filled with Champagne, the fine mousse unfurling like lace, trembling as it drifted, each delicate bubble a liquid prism shimmering in the soft, flickering candlelight.
The image was easy to summon; that memory of sharing oysters and Champagne with Ru in the Fork & Cork’s cellar still hovered, vivid and tender.
When Fiona opened her eyes, she could hardly bear it. In front of her were not Ru’s strong hands shucking oysters, just a row of dusty wine bins. She shook the memory out of her head.
‘Where do you want to start? Italy, Australia or America?’ asked Fiona.
‘Let’s do the US.’
America took nearly an hour and revealed another ￡2000 discrepancy.
‘Did you check your insurance policy?’ asked Fiona.
‘George did. He says we’re not covered for cork fly, but it’s not a pesky insect that’s done this – there’s more than the cork missing.’
Fiona laughed, then explained. ‘Cork fly is not an insect. It’s when corks are dislodged unexpectedly. It’s quite a typical exclusion because cork fly is preventable through proper storage practices. Is that the only exclusion?’
‘No,’ said Rose through gritted teeth. ‘ Mysterious disappearance . I guess that’s exactly what we’ve got here.
If someone had smashed down the cellar door and it was obvious there had been a break-in, we would be covered.
Let’s do South Africa, there’s not too much of that, then finish off after lunch service,’ suggested Rose.
Fiona crouched, her fingers brushing against a meticulously arranged stack of distinctive Vin de Constance black bottles.
Their seventeenth-century style squat bodies and long necks caught the soft light – each one a testament to a legendary wine that had once graced the tables of Napoleon, charmed Charles Dickens and delighted Jane Austen.
She started calling out the vintages: ‘Two bottles of 2014.’
‘Hold on. There should be a much earlier vintage. Three bottles of the 1986.’
Fiona’s brow furrowed, and she stumbled over her words. ‘Did you ... Did you say 1986?’
‘Yes. Three bottles.’
‘Let me check,’ she mumbled, acutely aware of Rose’s piercing gaze watching her every move as she gently picked up each bottle, examining them one by one, a sinking feeling in her stomach.
There wasn’t a single bottle from the earlier vintage.
She turned to face her boss and shook her head. ‘Nope. Gone.’
‘Strange. It doesn’t say how much those are worth. The more recent vintages are listed at about the ￡40 mark, so I guess the others would be the same. Why would someone pinch bottles worth less than a blended Champagne?’
Unable to speak, Fiona massaged her throat. She wanted to sprint back upstairs. Things were moving too fast for her to process.
Her boss’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve gone a bit pale. Was 1986 a particularly good vintage?’
Fiona knew it was good, not exceptional.
But that didn’t matter. For over a century Vin de Constance hadn’t been made.
The vines had been killed by Phylloxera, a tiny insect that damaged the roots and leaves of the vines.
In the nineteenth century the insects devastated European vineyards before spreading to South Africa.
The estate had restarted making wine in 1986, and at the Nederburg wine auction in Cape Town, a bottle of their maiden vintage could easily fetch over ￡2000.
Knowing Rose would soon uncover those facts for herself, Fiona told her.
Rose wore a quizzical expression. ‘Apart from a wine expert, who would know something as obscure as that?’ Fiona’s eyes flicked upstairs towards the kitchen involuntarily.
‘I’ll tell you who would know,’ gasped Rose. ‘A South African chef.