Page 42 of Vine

Yet briefly, I did have someone. Max La Forge. A giant of a man. A man who had coaxed me down from the ledge by reciting a factsheet about the breeding habits of Siberian fucking salmon. A man who wanted me, who walked me home and kissed me goodnight. And now was not answering my texts, not giving me a chance to at least thank him.

His cold withdrawal was a mystery I ought to push aside and forget. A handful (literally) of gratifying sexual releases did not a relationship make. Easy come, easy go. Perhaps he was that caring and considerate with all his lovers. If so, it was a useful trick.

The morning sky shaped up to be clear. Dressed in their new coats of forest green, the vine flowering period heralded the beginning of the formation of grapes. Tight clusters appeared on the tips of the shoots, like bright shiny buttons. Heart-warming signs that spring had truly sprung, yet filling me with no joy whatsoever.

Today started very much like yesterday. Then I began tending my row of vines and realised the gulls cawing overhead and the rhythmic snipping of our shears were the only sounds for half a mile.

“They had a huge row last night,” Emma murmured under her breath. “I nearly came and joined you in the gatehouse. Went on until two. Leigh ended up on the sofa.”

“Oh dear.” My snipping took on fresh vigour. It didn’t take much to guess what caused it.

“Leigh told Jonas about the breakfast show.”

Aah. He must have spent the last two days plucking up the courage. “Jonas was a smidge put out, was he?”

Emma’s lips curved into a smile. “Let’s just say the dent in the wall behind the headboard had a night’s respite. And, to give you a heads-up, he’s blaming you for persuading Leigh to do it without involving him.”

That figured. For all his masculine swagger, when it came down to it, Jonas was nothing more than a jealous little bitch. A spoiled kid in a playground, determined not to share his toys. One day, once he’d outgrown his usefulness, Leigh would tire of him, and a part of Jonas sensed it. The breakfast telly bid was bringing that day a little closer.

“Wait until he hears Leigh’s signing up for a stint in the jungle as well. And rumour has it that gay Italian bloke off Love Island is signing up for it too.”

Emma raised her eyebrows with a wry smile. “Oh wow. He’s very pretty. Single, too. Jonas will have kittens.”

We snipped for a few more minutes. When it was all over, I’d miss the vines. Not the ex-husband shit that came with them, obviously. But the serenity. With Max AWOL, they were the only things tethering me to him... and maybe to my sanity. Over the last few weeks, this quirky little vineyard, flourishing under my fingers, felt a damned sight more like home than that sterile executive apartment in Chelsea. As a city boy, this idea came as a surprise. Perhaps that was where I’d been going wrong all these years, assuming a university education and a striving middle-class background were the only routes to an aspirational and fulfilling lifestyle. Perhaps, at heart, I was destined for a simple rural life.

“Is the breakfast telly gig a done deal?” Emma queried.

I nodded. “All bar the shouting. I haven’t signed yet. There are a few minor details Libby wants to iron out. And… and, well, yeah.”

Just the teeny issue of my reluctance to commit.

“I thought you fancied exploring a radio show.”

“Yes. Um. Maybe.” I’d kept my answer suitably vague when Libby floated out the late-night radio gig.

She stopped snipping. “You didn’t pursue it, did you?”

“I told her she could forward a voice test I’d done previously for something else. But I’m not convinced I need to spend any more time alone with my inner thoughts. Especially at four a.m.”

“Ah.” Emma nodded.

Little rose bushes sprouted at the ends of each row of vines. Wrongly, I’d presumed they only served to look pretty. But Emma called them canaries—a simple early disease-warning system to attract aphids and black rot before the vines did. Max had told me another tale. In the days when draft horses worked the vineyards, the thorns encouraged the animals to turn properly and not cut the corners, trampling the last vine. I liked both stories.

As we reached the end of each strip, Emma inspected the roses with a critical eye. “Why are you agreeing to the breakfast show?” She examined the underside of a leaf. "You’re young. You could rent out your flat. You have a language degree. You could travel or make a new life here in France until you decide what you want to do.”

I broke into a cold sweat. Those sounded like horribly big decisions for someone for whom, on some mornings, stepping into another day felt heroic. “For the same reasons you’re hesitant about going to Australia, perhaps? A fear of the unknown?”

The difference being my known was scary too, whereas Emma’s was fine.

“I’ve made up my mind,” she said, moving onto another rose bush. “I’m going. If I don't, I’ll always wonder how it might have been.No fear, no limits, no regrets,right?”

She said the last part in a drawling, voice-over tone, and I laughed, despite a sinking feeling. How the hell would I cope without her? “Someone needs to torch that desk calendar.”

“No way!” She laughed. “It’s my lifestyle guru.”

“I’m really pleased for you,” I managed. I was, despite knowing how much I’d miss her. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing. If it goes tits up with Stella, then you’ve always got something to fall back on. I bet working for an Aussie wine producer would be great for your CV.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “That’s the conclusion I reached as well. But you should be thinking the same thing, too, Caspian. You can do more than follow Leigh around.”

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