‘Yes. Three bottles.’
‘Let me check,’ she mumbled, acutely aware of Rose’s piercing gaze watching her every move as she gently picked up each bottle, examining them one by one, a sinking feeling in her stomach. There wasn’t a single bottle from the earlier vintage. She turned to face her boss and shook her head. ‘Nope. Gone.’
‘Strange. It doesn’t say how much those are worth. The more recent vintages are listed at about the £40 mark, so I guess the others would be the same. Why would someone pinch bottles worth less than a blended Champagne?’
Unable to speak, Fiona massaged her throat. Shewanted to sprint back upstairs. Things were moving too fast for her to process.
Her boss’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve gone a bit pale. Was 1986 a particularly good vintage?’
Fiona knew it was good, not exceptional. But that didn’t matter. For over a century Vin de Constance hadn’t been made. The vines had been killed by Phylloxera, a tiny insect that damaged the roots and leaves of the vines. In the nineteenth century the insects devastated European vineyards before spreading to South Africa. The estate had restarted making wine in 1986, and at the Nederburg wine auction in Cape Town, a bottle of their maiden vintage could easily fetch over £2000. Knowing Rose would soon uncover those facts for herself, Fiona told her. Rose wore a quizzical expression. ‘Apart from a wine expert, who would know something as obscure as that?’ Fiona’s eyes flicked upstairs towards the kitchen involuntarily.
‘I’ll tell you who would know,’ gasped Rose. ‘A South African chef.
Seventeen
Fiona stood motionless as the metal hasp scraped against wood, the lock clicking into place with a finality that echoed the sudden fracture of her world. Until two months ago, Ru had been her business partner, her confidant, her lover ... the man whose heartbeat she’d known as intimately as her own. Now he was suspected of a crime she could scarcely comprehend.
Her mind churned like a turbulent sea, memories colliding. Fragments of shared dreams, tender moments and professional ambitions, all splintered by nagging questions: Was Ru connected to the missing wine? How could she have been so spectacularly wrong? Her ability to read people, once a point of professional pride, now felt like a cruel joke.
It couldn’t be Ru, could it? He was a success story. He had secured substantial financial backing for a new restaurant, and the success of the Fork & Cork suggested he was on the cusp of even greater achievements. There had even been talk of a book deal. Yet now, confronted with evidence of wine theft, everything she thought she knew about him was being called into question. Despite all her efforts to shut it out, a tiny, persistent voice in her mind wove an ugly narrative.
What if this wasn’t a simple theft, but a calculated move? Ru had always been bold, dramatic – the type who might orchestrate an elaborate scheme. Was he framing her for the theft in revenge for her hurting him? Mentally she defended him: no, he had a heart of gold, he would never be that spiteful.His instinct was to protect not to punish. The only harsh words he’d ever uttered had been lashing out at her after she’d thrown equally nasty ones at him.
Then an even worse explanation occurred to her. What if, like her, he was in financial trouble, and the real reason Ru came to the pub was not to win her back, but to steal wine? Perhaps the investors for the new restaurant had pulled out? What if they’d questioned Ru’s judgement for trying to include Fiona in his team, after her exam failure? What if the Fork & Cork was losing money? She recalled his nasty snap about wanting back the money he had loaned her. Was it possible that he needed money and had resorted to desperate tactics to get it?
She really didn’t want to believe that Ru could be a thief. But who, other than Ru and herself, understood the significance of those South African wines?
Rose held up the key for a moment before slipping it into her trouser pocket. ‘From now on I’m keeping this on me.’
Fiona stared blankly at her boss, wondering what Rose was thinking. She didn’t dare ask. She was afraid to hear what she suspected – that Rose blamed Ru. Fiona felt powerless – it would look peculiar if she leaped to the defence of a colleague who she was supposed to have only known for a few weeks. Her mind raced. What should she do? Her relationship with Ru was over, but she didn’t want him arrested. Without alerting their employers she must warn him. Give Ru time to replace the wine if it was him, and if it wasn’t, give him a heads-up before someone accused him of theft.
Throughout lunch, the pub hummed with excited chatter and bursts of laughter. The space was packed with holidaymakers who’d stayed on despite the autumn drizzle, their faces flushed from coastal walks. Each time the front door opened Fiona felt a blast of cold wind. She pulled her apron tighter around herwaist, feeling the crisp edge of a wine-stained piece of paper crumpled in her pocket. The numbers she’d scribbled earlier, tallied hastily when she and Rose had discovered the extra missing bottles, prickled at the back of her mind. Wine wasn’t the only thing that seemed to be disappearing; her patience was fraying with each new table she greeted.
‘Table 3’s asking for another bottle of Chablis,’ called Rose, giving her a look that was both sympathetic and exasperated. Today, worry shadowed Rose’s usually serene face. The missing wine bottles were festering in both of their minds, and although Rose hadn’t said it aloud, Fiona could tell her boss was itching to confront Ru.
Fiona crossed to Table 3, where four couples were crammed together. She wasn’t surprised they needed another bottle. Fiona filled a tray with the empty glasses, acknowledging the two customers still drinking. ‘I’ll bring clean ones for the new bottle.’
That was one of her golden rules. Each bottle of fine wine was unique. She wouldn’t risk mixing the fresh wine with the old.
Balancing the tray carefully, she wove between tables. The scent of rich food tangled with the salt air, setting her stomach rumbling. She hadn’t been able to eat anything; not since that ghastly discovery in the cellar.
Just as she approached the bar, Kim brushed by, her shoulder nudging Fiona’s arm and tilting the tray dangerously. Fiona steadied it, her fingers tightening around a glass, while Kim flashed her a tight smile.
‘Careful, there,’ Kim said with mock concern, placing a sugar bowl down at the next table. ‘Wouldn’t want you dropping anything.’ Her tone was light, almost singsong, but there was a glint in her eye that made Fiona’s cheeks flush. She bit her lip, swallowing down a retort. Kim was all silky words and soft smiles with customers and the other staff. With Fiona though, Kim’s words often carried an edge.
A family at a corner table flagged Kim down and she immediately turned around, smiling and chatting with them effortlessly.
Fiona watched for a moment, sensing the knot of frustration tighten. Kim’s soft voice drifted across the room as she laughed at a customer’s joke. The warmth she projected was almost convincing enough for Fiona to doubt herself. But she could still feel the cold of Kim’s shoulder brushing past her, her voice echoing in her head, taunting, and then Kim’s gaze met hers over the heads of the diners, and Fiona saw that flash again – the barely concealed smirk, gone in an instant, but enough to remind her that there was something Kim was reserving just for her.
A loud crash echoed from the bar, followed by a muttered curse from Rose. Fiona turned, catching sight of her boss wiping down the counter with jerky, irritated motions. That was a second glass shattered. Rose was clearly rattled: she rarely broke things. Trying to shake off a sense of unease, Fiona, accompanied by Rose, went to fetch the wine for Table 3 from the cellar. Fiona couldn’t stop thinking about the missing wine. She must warn Ru that he was a suspect. She owed him that much. But when would she catch him alone?
The autumn sun hung low, its pale honey light gilding the crests of the waves. Fiona squinted against the soft glare, the breeze tangling her fair hair as she adjusted the rope tethering her ankle to the board. The sand was cold beneath her bare feet and scattered with shells and dry seaweed that crunched softly when stepped on. She glanced at her ‘instructor’ – or at least that was how she’d described Josh in her head.
‘You ready to get wet?’ he asked, his accent lilting and warm.
Fiona forced a smile. ‘Sure.’ She gripped the waxy surface of the foam board, its bright yellow colour an almost cartoonishcontrast to the muted blues and greens of the sea. Her stomach was roiling with nerves, or the lingering ache of love for Ru. It didn’t matter which. Today was about distractions and Josh was a distraction wrapped in an Aussie drawl and taut muscles.
They waded into the water. The first icy wave splashed against her thighs, and she sucked in a sharp breath. ‘Bloody cold,’ she muttered.
