Fiona hesitated, watching Ru lean on the bar and hearing Kim chuckle at a shared joke. She noticed the other woman put out a hand to touch Ru’s arm, and he didn’t pull away. Kim tipped her head back and giggled. Fiona crossed her arms, feeling a burning sensation in her chest. If the key to a man’s heart was through his stomach, the key to a chef’s was through an interest in his cooking.
Fiona’s interest in Ru’s food had always been genuine, but it looked suspiciously like Kim was interested in the man, not the food. Despite her brain warning her to leave them alone, her heart dragged her towards them like a puppet tugged by strings it cannot see or sever.
‘It’s an interesting dish to pair a wine with,’ said Fiona.
‘Here she is,’ said Kim light-heartedly, ‘the woman who doesn’t think wine under £50 is worth drinking.’
Ru laughed. The sound sliced Fiona’s heart open like a wolf’s claw raking across ice.
Fiona defended herself. This had been her undoing in her Advanced Sommelier exam, and she was now all over the topic of regional and New World wines.
‘A Pinot Noir from Burgundy would be the classic pairing with duck confit, and you’d be lucky to get away with£??, but there are several excellent options that pair beautifully for a modest budget, such as a Pinot Noir from Oregon or New Zealand, which provide similar elegance and complexity at a more approachable price point. Of course, if a customer was open to sampling a different grape, I’d also recommend exploring reds from Italy’s Trentino-Alto Adige region, such as wines made from the Teroldego grape. Or for a touch more tannin, try winesfrom Spain’s Ribeira Sacra, where they grow the Mencía grape. All very cost-effective.’
There was a sour expression on Kim’s face. ‘Must be a huge cellar Rose has if they’ve got all those stored down there,’ said Kim, the tension radiating from her. Ru’s eyes swivelled between the two women as if concerned he might have to prevent a fist fight.
‘Gotta get on,’ he said, walking away, a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He glanced over his shoulder, clearly savouring the flicker of competition between Kim and Fiona.
‘Show off,’ hissed Kim, her voice barely a whisper.
Fiona responded, ‘Just let me do my job and you stick to yours,’ she muttered, but goaded, her voice was louder than she intended, and Ru spun around.
‘That was spiteful, and your earlier speech was frankly a bit arrogant, Fiona. We can’t all spend our time swotting up on obscure grapes.’
Beside the counter Kim smiled coquettishly: ‘Thanks for standing up for me, Ruben.’
Fiona’s insides curled as the truth settled. Ru had moved on, and she’d missed the signs. His continued presence in Devon wasn’t a symbol of lingering love; it was a sense of duty. Having promised to help George, he wouldn’t renege.
A hollow ache spread through her as she accepted that he wasn’t coming back – not for her, not anymore. She looked away. Being around him every day was tough. Their relationship had become like a decanted wine left too long – the initial complexity had separated, leaving only a harsh, bitter residue to endure.
At least she had her CMS exam booked, and this time she was not telling anyone.
As arranged, Fiona met Rose outside the cellar at 10 a.m.the next morning. Her boss unlocked the heavy wooden door with a methodical turn of the key, switched on the lights and the pair padded down the stone steps. For once, the familiar earthy dampness that usually whispered of hidden mysteries felt oppressive, clinging to Fiona’s skin like a shroud. She was dreading what they might discover.
Rose, however, seemed in an ebullient mood. ‘It’s our anniversary soon. George wants to put a little table for two down here. He says he thinks its romantic.’ She sighed. ‘I hope he’ll still think so when he learns how much of his precious wine is missing.’
Fiona closed her eyes and imagined the cellar bathed in warm candlelight. A couple sat at a small table, their quiet laughter echoing softly against the stone walls. Wine crates, repurposed as side tables, the couple holding elegant flutes filled with Champagne, the fine mousse unfurling like lace, trembling as it drifted, each delicate bubble a liquid prism shimmering in the soft, flickering candlelight. The image was easy to summon; that memory of sharing oysters and Champagne with Ru in the Fork & Cork’s cellar still hovered, vivid and tender.
When Fiona opened her eyes, she could hardly bear it. In front of her were not Ru’s strong hands shucking oysters, just a row of dusty wine bins. She shook the memory out of her head.
‘Where do you want to start? Italy, Australia or America?’ asked Fiona.
‘Let’s do the US.’
America took nearly an hour and revealed another £2000 discrepancy.
‘Did you check your insurance policy?’ asked Fiona.
‘George did. He says we’re not covered for cork fly, but it’s not a pesky insect that’s done this – there’s more than the cork missing.’
Fiona laughed, then explained. ‘Cork fly is not an insect.It’s when corks are dislodged unexpectedly. It’s quite a typical exclusion because cork fly is preventable through proper storage practices. Is that the only exclusion?’
‘No,’ said Rose through gritted teeth. ‘Mysterious disappearance. I guess that’s exactly what we’ve got here. If someone had smashed down the cellar door and it was obvious there had been a break-in, we would be covered. Let’s do South Africa, there’s not too much of that, then finish off after lunch service,’ suggested Rose.
Fiona crouched, her fingers brushing against a meticulously arranged stack of distinctive Vin de Constance black bottles. Their seventeenth-century style squat bodies and long necks caught the soft light – each one a testament to a legendary wine that had once graced the tables of Napoleon, charmed Charles Dickens and delighted Jane Austen. She started calling out the vintages: ‘Two bottles of 2014.’
‘Hold on. There should be a much earlier vintage. Three bottles of the 1986.’
Fiona’s brow furrowed, and she stumbled over her words. ‘Did you ... Did you say 1986?’
