Rose's Vintage (14 page)

‘It's all under control from my end,' she said, doing her best to reassure him. From her conversations with Dan, she knew how much this visit meant to Mark: the way Dan made it sound, the entire future of Kalkari was at stake. ‘You might want to get yourself back to the house and put on a clean shirt.' Rose was nervous about ordering him around, especially as he seemed so tense.

Mark looked down at the worn sweater and muddy jeans that were his usual winery finery, and then glanced at his watch. ‘Yes. Right. Of course. Good call,' he said somewhat distractedly. ‘Actually, I've got something for you. Hang on a sec and I'll go and grab it.'

Rose was mystified, but waited while he loped back to the winery.

‘Reckon this should fit you.' Mark returned, holding up a navy polo shirt with the Kalkari logo embroidered on the pocket. ‘You're one of the team now,' he said, handing it to her.

Rose felt an enormous pang of guilt. He wouldn't think she was one of the team if he found out her real reasons for being there.

As she was leaving the cellar door, Rose ran into Dan, who was also looking anxious.

‘Place is absolutely spotless,' he said. ‘It's been hard yakka, but we couldn't make it look any better than it does now. Fit for a bloody princess, I tell ya.'

As she looked around, Rose saw that the grass had been freshly mown, its normally unruly edges neatly trimmed, and the gravel drive had been levelled out. ‘It looks great, Dan. Anyway, it's the wines they're here for, and you know they're good.'

‘I'm a bit worried about the albarino. It's just been bottled and is a bit flat.'

Rose looked at him blankly, not understanding what he was saying.

‘Bottle shock. Bottling day is one of the most stressful days in a winemaker's year. Wine's a temperamental mistress,' Dan explained. ‘You've got to treat her with care, and she doesn't always like the transition to bottle. Takes her a while to settle down. Bit like a woman, really,' he guffawed at his own joke and stomped off to the winery.

An hour or so later, and Rose had the ravioli filled and the salad waiting to be assembled. She peered out of the kitchen window and saw a telltale plume of dust from the road leading up to Kalkari. A white minivan was making its way up the long drive, headed for the winery. Nervousness clutched at her stomach – not for the lunch, which she was fairly confident would be fine now she had it all under control, but for what the visitors might think and what decisions they might make. This was a red-letter day for Kalkari. But why was she so bothered about the outcome? She had to keep reminding herself that she was only going to be at Kalkari for a short time; she really shouldn't care so much. After all, she was only here because Henry had insisted.

She lost herself in a daydream, remembering the last time she'd cooked the ravioli. Giles had said it was one of the best things he'd ever tasted. Her heart sank. Despite everything, she hadn't stopped missing him. She still caught herself hoping that eventually he might change his mind and realise that he couldn't live without her.

She was disturbed from her thoughts by the unmistakable smell of burning.
Oh holy crap!
Thick smoke was billowing from the grill. Without thinking, she grabbed a pair of oven gloves and ran out of the front door, holding the tray aloft and blowing fruitlessly on the flickering flames.

Of course, just at that moment, Mark chose to walk over from the winery.

‘Nothing to see here.' Rose was scarlet with mortification. ‘Really. It's. All. Under. Control.' She attempted to hide the tray behind her back.

‘Rose, why is there smoke coming from behind you?'

‘It's all part of the cooking process,' she said airily. ‘I'm smoking the, er, prosciutto.'

‘Oh really?' said Mark disbelievingly.

‘Yes, it's fine. Honest.' At least the flames had now gone out and the smoke had been blown away on the breeze. ‘Best be getting on, then. See you later.' And she fled back to the kitchen, bearing the tray like a trophy.

At least she had more prosciutto in the fridge. ‘Keep your mind on the job this time, Rose,' she warned herself as she carefully laid the remaining strips on a clean tray.

Mark had instructed her to serve lunch right on one, so at ten to the hour she carried the salad over to the cellar door, planning to plate it at one of the side tables. The visitors were already there, gathered at one end, each holding a glass of wine daintily by the stem. They paid little attention to Rose, but Mark noticed her and suggested they take their seats as she arranged the salad on plates and placed them at each setting.

There was a hum of conversation from the guests and the mood seemed to be friendly – well, as far as Rose could tell. Five of the visitors were men – two in suits and the others in jeans, jackets and open-necked shirts – and there was a lone female wearing a loudly checked tweed jacket and skirt, a silk shirt with the collar turned up and a chunky pearl necklace. From the woman's accent, Rose guessed she must be the buyer from Channings.

She hurried back to the kitchen to poach the ravioli and warm the sauce through. She'd reckoned that the cellar door was just close enough to plate everything in the kitchen and walk it across. But as she was ferrying it over, she tripped, stumbled and dropped two of the three plates she was carrying onto the dusty ground. Of course they landed face-down in the gravel.

Bollocks. Bugger. Bum.
How the bloody hell could she be so clumsy?

She was furious with herself. Could she screw it up any more if she tried?

She collected herself, scraped the gritty ravioli back onto the plates and limped back to the kitchen. One thing was clear: she was not cut out to be a waitress.

There were plenty of ravioli on the kitchen bench, but no sauce left, and she'd already plated up the other servings. Trying not to panic, she heard the voice of her old Cordon Bleu teacher, Guillaume Chapeau – Monsieur Asshat, they'd nicknamed him – berating her. ‘Rose,
c'est incroyable
, you really can do better than this,' he used to say, with the corners of his mouth turned down in a disgusted frown. ‘Use your imagination, eh?'

Imagination … she dashed to the pantry and pulled out a can of crushed tomatoes, wrenched open the lid, spooned the contents into a bowl and put it in the microwave. Once the tomatoes were warm, she spooned them over two new plates of ravioli and walked – carefully this time – back to the cellar door. ‘Allergies,' she mumbled as she placed the extra plates with the tomatoes in front of Mark and Dan. Mark raised an eyebrow as he looked at the plate, but made no comment. Rose breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps it would be alright after all. Before anyone could ask her any questions, she made a swift exit.

Returning with the orange and custard tart some time later, she was gratified to see that all the plates were clean, with not a skerrick of ravioli or sauce left on them. The noise level in the room had also risen, and there were empty wine bottles lined up along the sideboard. A couple of the men complimented Rose on the lunch, one of them giving her an appreciative wink. Mark smiled tightly, giving nothing away, and once she'd cleared the table and served the tart, she returned to the kitchen and the washing up, remembering to leave packages of prettily wrapped homemade shortbread for each of the visitors, together with a folder of tasting notes on each of the wines that Dan had compiled, on the bench at the cellar door.

It was more than an hour later when she saw the visitors' van trundle back down the drive. She returned to the cellar door to clear the glasses and put everything back in order. There was no sign of Mark or Dan. How had the visit gone? Despite herself, Rose found herself hoping it had gone well.

CHAPTER 13

O
nce she'd fed the kids some of the leftover ravioli with the tomato sauce, and then cleared up, Rose settled down on the barn sofa with a couple of slices of cheese on toast. She was worn out from the day's effort and felt unexpectedly flat. It would have been nice to share the aftermath of the event with Dan at least. She hoped the near-disaster with the main course hadn't been too obvious. Astrid had asked how it had all gone but had been too absorbed with helping Luisa feed herself without throwing food on the floor to listen to a blow-by-blow account.

Rose didn't have much of an appetite, but the warm melted cheese would be comforting. Just as she was about to take a bite, there was a rap on the door. She opened it to find Mark leaning against the frame, a bottle and two glasses in his hand.

‘Didn't get the chance to thank you for lunch this afternoon,' he said, swaying slightly.

‘Oh, sure, come in.' Rose felt a little awkward inviting her boss into his own property, but she stood back and ushered him in.

‘Thought you might fancy a glass.' He held up a bottle of red. ‘Lunch was excellent, truly excellent, by the way. I couldn't have asked for better, really. Everyone loved the ravioli – those flavours made the reds positively sing. Even the tomatoes. And you were right about the smoky aromas in the salad.' He had a twinkle in his eye.

Rose grimaced. ‘Sorry about that. I nearly stuffed it up, didn't I? And then I tripped … and, well, two plates ended up in the dirt. God, I'm such a muppet sometimes. I was just waiting for the third thing to go wrong.'

‘Third thing?'

‘You know: bad luck comes in threes.'

‘That's superstitious nonsense, you know,' he said. But his voice was gentle and he swayed again, slurring on the word superstitious.

‘Anyway, I hope it wasn't too obvious.'

Mark put her out of her misery, ‘They were all fairly well lubricated by then; it didn't matter at all. Just as well it was only two of the plates, hey?'

‘Oh yes, thank goodness. I wouldn't want you to think I'm totally incompetent.'

‘That lunch was far from incompetent, Rose, and you know it. Don't sell yourself short just because you can't carry a couple of plates. Anyway, between you and me and the food and the wine, I think we managed to knock their socks off.' Mark was smiling at her, his grin reaching from ear to ear.