hair that might wave if it were allowed to grow longer, and there is a speckling of grey not only at the temples but in the cowlick on his forehead. He isn’t handsome. Not in the pretty, chiselled way Mel and Vikki like their men—his nose is too strong and his eyes too deep-set—but there is something about him. I’m surprised he’s bothered to stop and talk to me. There are much better pickings on the dance floor—including Mel and Vikki.
For a moment he doesn’t say anything, just absorbs my answer, then he also signals to the bartender, while pushing my empty tumbler away from me. ‘There’s only one thing for heartache,’ he says completely seriously.
I realise he has a slight accent. Mediterranean, maybe. Spanish?
He leans forward and gives instructions to the bartender, who places two large goblets in front of each of us and fills them with a dark, fragrant red wine. ‘Try it,’ he tells me and I hesitantly reach out and take hold of the glass, allow myself a tiny sip. It tastes amazing, of berries and plums and vanilla, and it feels like velvet on my tongue.
‘What is it?’ I ask, already yearning for more.
‘Malbec,’ he says, ‘2006 vintage. That was a wonderful year.’
‘You know about wine?’ I take another sip. It’s even better second time around. I can taste spices and rich fruit and a hundred other things I’m not sophisticated enough to identify.
He smiles and his serious eyes light up. My tummy warms. I tell myself it’s the wine.
‘It is my passion,’ he says. I think that only someone who looks and sounds like him can get away with saying something like that. On an English man it would sound either ridiculous or insincere. I like his honesty. I have forgotten men can be so honest.
Not that Gareth is a cad. He didn’t lie to me. It was the truth he hid that brought me here today, seeking a cure for my heartache in a bottle of exquisite Malbec. The truth that he didn’t love me enough to marry me. I have discovered that truth omitted can be every bit as damaging as all-out deception.
I turn and face the bar, stare without focusing at the smooth wooden surface. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘You’re right about the wine. I think it will do very nicely.’ I wait for him to leave.
But he doesn’t leave. I feel him there—warm, tangible—barely two feet away. He also doesn’t chatter. When I sneak a sideways look at him, he is staring at his wine very much the same way I have been.
He turns his head, finds me looking at him. I speak to cover up my very English awkwardness. ‘How did you know?’ I ask. ‘About the Malbec…?’
He blinks slowly, considering my question. ‘Because I work in the wine industry, like my family before me for three generations. Things like this get passed down from father to son. Not just the technical aspects of making a good wine, but it’s less…tangible…secrets.’
‘You make wine?’
He shakes his head. ‘My family used to. I work as a wine broker.’
I nod as if I know what that is. Suddenly, I feel very much the girl from a little country village in Sussex, even with Gareth’s exclusive credit card tucked in my clutch bag. ‘In Spain?’ I ask, trying to steer the conversation towards something I might know something about.
He shakes his head. ‘Argentina.’
So much for steering. I think I just hit a brick wall. He doesn’t seem to mind, though.
‘You didn’t want to stay home and grow grapes?’
He shrugs. ‘Times were tough when I was a teenager. My father had to sell the vineyard. I don’t think I would have stayed, even if I could have. I had itchy feet, and my job takes me all over the world.’
‘Even London,’ I say, smiling slightly. ‘Where there is a distinct lack of vineyards.’
He smiles back at me and I feel a little jolt down in my stomach. ‘Even London, occasionally. Although, this trip I am here for my brother’s wedding.’
Ah. Yes. The wedding. I’d kind of forgotten about that. I glance nervously towards the ballroom doors, regretting my bold outburst about crashing. I shift on my stool, reaching a leg towards the floor, preparing to leave.
‘No,’ he says softly. ‘Stay. Nobody minds. Finish your wine at least.’
I stare at the dark red liquid in the goblet, then I sit back firmly on my stool and take another sip. ‘Why London for the wedding?’
‘My new sister-in-law is English, and they’ve been living here for four years.’
I nod. That makes sense. But I hate the feeling of jealousy that creeps over me for the now-absent bride and groom. Envy that their day went as planned, and they probably hadn’t even entertained the idea it wouldn’t. Just as I hadn’t.
I don’t want to talk about his family. Work is safer. ‘So you travel a lot for your job?’ I ask, finally turning my head.
‘I am more often away from home than I am there.’
‘That sounds lonely,’ I say.
He nods. There is something in his eyes as he does it, something that makes me realise his answer to my question about the Malbec was a sidestep. Instinct tells me his knowledge about its restorative qualities is not professional, but personal. Just like that, I feel a bond forged between us. He understands, a voice whispers inside my head. He doesn’t judge and he understands.
I think it must show in my eyes because, for a moment, I see revelation in his too—this feeling of looking in a mirror. But this time, even though the reflection isn’t mine, it feels as if we are in synch. I look away, take refuge in my Malbec, but I can still feel him looking at me. He is not scared of this strange sense of connection the way I am.
‘And what is your job?’ he asks softly, and I can hear the warmth in his voice. ‘You know my life story now and I know nothing about you.’
He’s right. But I am sad that he’s asked. I was pleased to have this tiny holiday from being me—from being ‘Poor Sophie’. ‘I teach ballet,’ I say slightly hoarsely. ‘To children. I have my own dance school.’
‘Did you ever want to dance yourself?’
I look at him. I have the funniest feeling he can look deep inside me and see my heart—not only its current rawness, but its history, its dreams and desires. ‘Yes.’ This time it is barely more than a whisper. ‘I was good, but not good enough.’ It seems some dreams just aren’t made to come true. Something I have begun to understand more and more in the last seven days.
He seems to comprehend this, and doesn’t press for more. ‘So…apart from crashing my brother’s wedding, why are you here…at The Chatsfield?’
I’m surprised he doesn’t know, I feel that transparent before him. As tired as I am of lying, I can’t bring myself to tell him the whole truth. I tell him as much as I can while remaining insulated from it.
‘Oh, you know…’ I say with false brightness ‘…a trip with the girls. Shopping and silliness, really.’ That much is true, but my voice catches on the end of the
