Page 6 of Vine

I huffed out a laugh. “I lied. I work in television. Being shallow and fickle is written into my contracts.”

“Well, for the next nine months, you’re going to be a wine connoisseur. I’ve got a pile of books in the boot for you to wade through. As you’ll soon find out, the niceties of social etiquette and a pleasant attitude are essential attributes of the job, so stop whingeing. Otherwise, I’ll leave you here, and you can walk the rest of the way.”

Colour me told off.

“Now, pay attention. This vineyard on your right is immaculately kept.” She turned her own attention back to it. “Which is why I’ve stopped. Appreciate how the stems have been cleared of dead shoots and the earth tilled around the bases to protect against frost. They rarely have frosts on the island, but even a light one can cause catastrophic damage. The vine poles and trellises are all well maintained, and when I visited back in November, I couldn’t spot a single sick plant.”

“Cool. Can we close the window now?”

As the window slid soundlessly shut, she chuckled. “This is nothing. It’s forecast to blow a hoolie next week. I hope you’ve brought your winter woollies. Working outdoors in that should put some colour in your cheeks and build your appetite. You don’t eat enough, Caspian.”

Christ, she sounded like she actually relished the prospect. And almost as though she cared too. “I have a living, breathing mother back in St Albans, thanks. She’s perfectly capable of nagging me. I don’t need two of you.”

I smiled to show I was joking. But not entirely. While my actual mother tentatively hinted at labelling my behaviour an eating disorder during one of my rare forays home, I preferred to think I was intermittently fasting. “I eat plenty,” I lied. “I’m careful, that’s all. Everyone knows television cameras add at least ten kilos to your weight.”

“Better stop eating television cameras, then.”

That raised my first genuine laugh for some time. I gestured to the bleak vista beyond the window. At some point in my thirty-five years, I must have driven past or seen pictures of winter vines, but somehow, I’d imagined them bushier and… green. “So, if this is perfection, what do my vines look like then?”

“Like these, but as if a plague of tarantulas has colonised them.”

She wasn’t kidding. Whereas the vines down the road boasted elegant shoulders and model physiques, mine were smothered under ugly scarves knitted from wet twigs. My tan leather Chelsea boots, perfectly suited to battling the mean streets of Chelsea but wholly wrong for a wintry vineyard, squelched in the mud. I poked at a brown twig, and it snapped off in my hand.

“Are you sure these are still alive?”

Emma rubbed her thumb over a bigger woody stem. “Mostly,” she surmised. “Though I’ve identified a row that needs pulling out. But they’ve only been neglected for one full season, so with a little love and affection, they should bounce back well.”

If only human hearts were as elastic.

“Why hasn’t anyone taken it on since the last tenant retired?”

Emma tilted her head to one side. “Mostly, I think down to size? It’s only five acres, which is barely big enough for commercial viability. The grape harvest is pooled with all the others on the island—there’s a very well-run cooperative. In a good year, these five acres might bring in fifty tonnes, but, ina bad one, as little as ten. The gross margins at the moment are around three grand an acre. So, as a sole enterprise, it’s not enough as a sustainable long-term business. More of a hobby farm and a source of extra cash. I suspect when we’ve finished with it, one of the neighbouring vineyards will take on the rent.”

“So, a perfect size for a television show,” I pronounced drily. “When am I going to have to get my hands dirty?”

“Tomorrow. We’ll prune as much as we can over the next couple of days before the really bad weather sets in. Jonas wants to wrap some filming while the vines are in such a bad state. You know, before and after sequences. Our priorities will be the outer plants on the coastal side, more exposed to the elements. We might need to shore up the poles and trelliswork too.”

Turning my back on the vines, I studied my temporary new home. The vineyard had a rather stately gravel entrance, flanked by two hexagonal gatehouses. In comparison, the whitewashed house squatting at the end of the impressive sweeping drive was quite small, unloved, and ordinary. I empathised wholeheartedly. Like a child’s drawing, two rectangular windows sat above and either side of a plain front door. A single chimney stuck out rudely from the centre of the pitched roof.

“There was once a small chateau here,” Emma informed me, knowledgeably. “Destroyed by a fire about sixty years ago. The family who owned it built this in its place. Much cheaper to heat, I expect.”

“Please tell me there are three bedrooms. Otherwise, I’m moving to a hotel.”

“There are.” We collected our bags from the boot. “Three beds too. The old man who rented it has downsized and left most of the furniture behind. Like the vineyard, it could do with an overhaul. But I think it could be quite cosy in the right hands, don’t you?”

Stepping over the threshold, I refused to be buoyed by Emma’s relentless cheer. The fridge was bare and the kitchen dull, dusty, and dated. The sitting room wasn’t much better. With a musty, uninhabited smell, it was also colder than my ex-husband’s heart.

“Pub?”Please tell me there’s a pub.

Emma checked the time on her phone and picked up the car keys again. “You’re in luck.”

Pub. Bar-restaurant to be more accurate. Thank fuck the village had one, and on first impressions, it appeared decent. Even at six on a cold and breezy Monday evening, a few folk milled around. Locals mostly, by the look of them. Ordinary men and women dressed in ordinary clothes. No one gave us a second glance; I guessed tourists came and went, even in the dead of winter. Despite being a few hundred miles from the capital, a couple of Paris Saint-Germain football club flags hung over the bar, with a signed photo of a famous soccer star underneath. Next to it, a chalkboard menu boasted burgers, a couple of fish dishes, and homemade lasagne. I had a feeling I’d become familiar with all of them over the coming months. In fact, I had a strong feeling me and L’Escale were already on the way to firm friendship.

Seeing as we were now in the trade, Emma ordered a bottle of the local rosé, created from the island’s pooled grape cooperative. I necked a glass. Without comment, Emma topped me up, and another few gulps disappeared down my gullet, temporarily taking a chunk of my anxiety with them. Sensing Emma’s disapproval, I glared at her.

“What? You’re the one who suggested I needed more calories! I’m going to be requiring a lot of this over the next few months.”

“That bad, eh?”

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