Page 108 of Corkscrew You
Ouch. Steely.
Chiara, of course, gives her the steel-eye right back. This could turn into a scene fromFaster Pussycat, Kill, Kill.
“I’ll remind Chiara,” says Ted, with his own brand of velvet-clad iron.
Mei-fen departs in an elegant stalk. Chiara watches her, with a small, satisfied smile.
“Really, you two,” says Ted, mildly, before turning back to more pressing matters – me.
“Shelby, I have to confess, I feel a little to blame.”
“You do?”
“When Nate met with me the other day, he broadly hinted that he was investigating different management options. Ididgive him a gentle caution, but perhaps I should have been more forceful.”
“It’s not your responsibility,” I tell him.
“But you could have mentioned it,” Chiara accuses him. “Weren’t you an army officer? Did you not think a preemptive strike was called for?”
I’ve never had a boss, but I amverysure I’d never talk to them like that.
Ted, however, displays his ability to remain calm under direct fire.
“I was unaware his plans were so far down the track,” he says. “But, yes, you’re quite right. Discretion is notalwaysthe better part of valour.”
“So what do we do?” Chiara is an action woman.
“Now, I realize that emotions are running high,” says Ted. “But if I were in Nathan’s shoes, I would want a chance to present my side of the story.”
“How can he possibly have anything to say that would make me forgive him?” I assert. “There’s no explanation that could make what he’s done look better!”
“So he’s guilty without trial.”
Ted’s tone is neutral, but his message is clear.
“I don’t want to talk to him,” I say, and then cringe at how childish it sounds.
It’syourwine business, Shelby, and the buck stops withyou. Grow up, and step up to your responsibilities. People are depending on you.
“OK, I’ll talk to him,” I sigh. “I’ll head back to the winery. I guess that’s where he’ll be. Making space for the figging wine press.”
“I don’t know,” says Chiara, with a shudder. “The harvester I amdeadagainst. But that foot stomping thing is disgusting.”
Ted gets swiftly to his feet.
“Time’s up, my dear. Duty calls.”
He could be speaking to both of us. No doubt he is.
While Mei-fen gives her the evils behind the reception desk, Chiara extends her break by another thirty seconds in order to hug me.
“Drinks tonight,” she says. “Silver Saddle. I’ll force Jords to come.”
“Thanks,” I tell her.
Up till then I’d envisaged spending the evening curled up in bed, driving the cats away with my constant snivelling. But drinks and company would be good. I can always curl up and snivel later.
Soon as I make the turn into the Flora Valley Wines driveway, my stomach starts flipping. The adrenaline that pumped through me, fuelled by anger and outrage, has subsided, and now all that’s left is a clammy dread, and a churning conflict of emotions.
