raconteur. He’d played a bit of cricket for England, done some commentary, raced fast cars, and collected expensive wine and classic cars. She had no idea how he’d come by his money but he’d certainly known how to spend it.
‘Wheeling and dealing,’ she laughed, repeating Miles’ words. Only now did she get it. He’d meant it quite literally.
Robert’s mouth wrinkled in displeasure. For a brief disloyal moment, it reminded her of a prune. Unfair; he just liked things to be clear-cut and precise. He didn’t do riddles. Regret pinched at her. He probably wouldn’t have got on terribly well with Uncle Miles.
‘He bought and sold classic cars. He would take commissions from wealthy people to go and find a specific classic car. You know … the last Ferrari designed by Enzo.’
Robert looked even blanker. Of course he did.
‘Enzo as in Enzo Ferrari.’
She’d forgotten she even knew that. Like pinpricks of light through dark cloth, snippets of knowledge lit up her memory. Dots suddenly joined in ever-expanding memories. Facts she’d forgotten she knew. How could she have forgotten how much time she’d spent here in the holidays as a child? During the battleground of her parents’ divorce this had been her second home.
‘Oh,’ Robert sounded distant. ‘Do you want to lead the way?
Stepping over the threshold was like snagging the trip wire of a booby trap, and a thousand more memories exploded in her head. In some ways nothing had changed in the huge airy entrance hall. Dappled sunlight still poured through the bank of leaded windows, just as it had every summer when she’d come to stay. The wicker baskets filled with piles of traditional green Hunter wellies; a size in there for everyone. The solid dark oak staircase looked as formidable as ever, the burgundy patterned carpet snaking down the middle held in place by brass stair-rods. The sight of the stack of Racing Posts, so high an avalanche was surely imminent, brought memories tumbling, stirring a lump in her throat almost choking her.
For a moment she could hear the sound of hooves thundering down on turf. York Races, just down the road. She’d forgotten that. The memory crystalized in her mind bringing with it the smell of horses, the crowd roaring on their favourite and the magpie chatter of touts shouting their odds. For a moment she faltered, as if caught between two worlds and then became aware of her surroundings.
An impassive waiter guarded the entrance to the grand hall, balancing a tray of wines, champagne in tall flutes, white in cut crystal and red in glass balloon goblets.
At least she could guarantee the quality of the wine today. When was the last time she’d tasted decent wine? Taking a glass from the waiter, she motioned to Robert to join her. He was still taking in the hall.
‘Are you sure you want that? It’s a big glass. Drinking at lunch time? Is that wise?’
‘Probably not but what the hell … it’ll be good. I guarantee it.’
‘Really?’
‘Definitely. Miles knew a thing or two about wine. Taste it.’ She took a deep sniff, poking her nose right into the glass and then swirled the wine around.
Robert pulled a face, making it quite clear he thought she was being pretentious, and took a tentative sip. His brows drew together and begrudgingly he said, ‘Very nice.’
‘Chateau Lafite. ’64.’ She had no idea how she knew that but she just did and although she didn’t mean to sound smug, she couldn’t help the small flicker of pride that she knew what it was.
‘’64 eh? Yeah right, Laurie. More like Tesco’s finest.’
‘No, it is.’
A sceptical expression crossed his face. ‘What do you know about wine?’ he scoffed.
Her brief moment of confidence faded for a second before reasserting itself. ‘It was Miles’ favourite.’
‘Ah, so you don’t know for sure. You’re just guessing.’
She faltered; maybe she was. See, that’s what showing off did for you. It had been a long time. It probably wasn’t the ’64, although she did think it was Chateau Lafite. She took another healthy slurp, savouring the gorgeous rich berry flavour. Definitely had that distinctive earthiness to it.
‘She’s right, actually.’ The deep, gravelled voice belonged to Mr Handsome from the church. The brief wink he shot her as he lifted a glass from the tray turned her stomach inside out. Blood rushed to her face and she prayed she wasn’t blushing. Just those movie-star good looks − they were overwhelming, that was all. With an ironic toast he took a cheerful glug and disappeared into the crowded room beyond.
As he walked off her eyes were drawn to his long lean figure, his butt outlined in well-fitting denim.
‘Tosser,’ said Robert, shaking his head. ‘Bet he knows even less about wine than you do. Come on, I hope there’s some food to soak it up.’ He put his arm across her shoulders and steered her into the crowded room.
She’d definitely drunk more wine than was sensible on an empty stomach but hadn’t been able to help herself and even now the third glass slipped down far too nicely. It had been lovely catching up with Penny, Livia and Janine and sharing lots of happy memories which she’d completely buried. Robert kept flashing her questioning looks across the room, as if she’d turned into some raving alcoholic, but luckily he’d been cornered by Norah pressing more sausage rolls on him.
She smiled to herself, taking another sip of the Lafite. Sophisticated in the wine department, yes, but Uncle Miles had had a decided preference for proper man food. His rants on vegetarians were as legendary as his views on eating salad, which he likened to committing food crime. She could imagine he’d been quite specific about today’s menu, judging from the sideboard running the length of the dining room loaded with plates of good old-fashioned Cornish pasties, the pastry glistening with egg glaze, pork pies sliced to reveal solid pink insides and flaky sausage rolls, crisp enough to scatter dust motes of crumbs in the air.
The assembled glitzy gathering certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves from the sound of the animated buzz of chatter and laughter rippling through the room. Very Uncle Miles. Of course he’d want everyone to be happy. It seemed a lifetime ago that she’d stayed here, taking up residence every school holiday until that awful summer her mother left Dad. Then everything had changed. Dad wouldn’t let her come and stay anymore. He blamed Miles for encouraging her mother to hanker after this kind of lifestyle and for allowing her to meet the man she ran off with. Rather unfair, thought Laurie, as Dad knew as well as anyone what his wife was like. Laurie blamed Miles for something far worse.
Overwhelmed by the bleakness of her memories, a sense of panic rose up. Without saying anything to Robert, who thankfully was engrossed in conversation with another couple, she let instinct guide her toward the door, weaving between the maze of outstretched hands bearing glasses and plates.
Instead of turning left out of the salon to the nearest downstairs loo, a rather grand commode affair, she turned right and crossed the hallway passing the staircase and keeping a careful eye on her wine so as not to spill a precious drop. She’d forgotten the treat of a truly delicious wine.
Tempted as she was to slip up the wide flat stairs, she walked past ignoring the impulse to check the polish on the banisters. Once, long ago, she’d helped to clean and polish the wood – by sliding down them a on
