Following a dark-suited escort up the elegant staircase, her gaze wandered among the portraits of stern looking men – mostly in military uniform, who seemed to urge her on to victory. On the landing, Fiona closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She calculated that she hadn’t slept more than three hours last night, the same as the night before.
Her stomach twisted as she thought back to two nights ago. Ru’s last words had convinced her that he believed what he’d seen – that Rose had caught the wine thief. Fiona might never see the man she loved again, or if she did, it would be the celebrity chef Ruben Nkosi she saw, not her Ru – the man who’d cooked for her just before her last exam.
Fiona pressed her palms to her eyes, forcing herself back to the present. But the memories clung to her like a fragrant old wine, a touch past its prime, but still beautiful. She wondered if she’d ever find another vintage quite like Ru.
Her escort showed her into what he referred to as the Coffee Room. It wasn’t like any café Fiona had ever been in before. The dining room unfurled like an elegant canvas; its hundred-foot expanse punctuated by polished wooden tables. As someoneguided her through the space, her fingertips traced the gleaming surface of a table rich with the subtle sheen of meticulously maintained antique wood. The chair she settled into embraced her, the supple leather whispering refinement.
Overhead, the high ceiling soared, and chunky, elaborate cornicing cascaded across the expanse. Massive sash windows lined one entire wall, their tall, pristine panes framing a view of St James’s Square and its bare plane trees – a patchwork of grey and cream.
On the opposite side was a fireplace, flanked by two colossal portraits, one of the young Queen Victoria, the other of Prince Albert. Their sheer size amplified their presence, giving them a larger than-life quality which seemed to question Fiona’s presence in this magnificent room. The royal couple didn’t seem to be urging her on to greatness.
On a central table, in front of an elaborate artificial flower display, was a modern white digital plastic clock, looking incongruous in the room’s splendour. On every other table was a pristine white tasting mat and rows of slender stemmed glasses. She glanced around at the other candidates, her fingers trembling.
From outside, Fiona heard the rumble of a taxi. She kept glancing around the room, her gaze skimming over faces she recognized from past industry events. These were all veterans of this brutal test, people who – unlike her – looked calm and collected. She recognized a few of the Master Sommeliers on the judging panel as well: Laurent, the inscrutable Frenchman, and Elsa, the Swedish sommelier with ice-blue eyes and an air of effortless composure.
Laurent stepped forward. ‘Welcome to Day One,’ he announced, his accent carrying an unmistakable Parisian lilt. ‘Please check your phone is switched off.’ Fiona didn’t need to do that. Hers had been off since that ghastly night when Roseaccused her of theft, and she had no intention of switching it back on anytime soon. ‘You will begin with theory,’ said Laurent. ‘You have one hour.’
Fiona took a deep breath. A whiff of perfume, bold and spicy, reached her, immediately distracting her. She wondered what wine might pair with that scent. Then Laurent’s voice cut in again. ‘Begin.’
Each question was a daunting black block of text. Fiona’s pulse quickened as she skimmed the first.
What specific winemaking technique is typically associated with white Burgundy?
She thought back to her revision notes, memories surfacing in fragments, her mind jumping from Chablis to Côte de Beaune to Montrachet. The answer came to her, and she smiled. She could do this. Everything was going to be fine:bâtonnage and sur lie ageing.
Less than half an hour later, her brain stalled. She stared at a question asking for the precise latitude of Tokaji, in Hungary. Fiona knew the general region, but the exact coordinates?
She swallowed, glanced sideways at the clock, then stared at the next question. The words seemed to blur for a second.
What’s the key flavour profile of an Amarone?
Her mind raced, images of grape clusters and vineyard slopes surfacing. She’d studied this. Sheknewthis. Just last night, when she saw her fitness tracker register 3 a.m., she was muttering to herself about drying racks and the perfect balance of cherry and spice.Cherry, bitter almond, dried figs.
‘Twenty minutes left,’ someone said in an official tone. Fiona’s fingers spasmed with fear.
On the second morning, Fiona arrived ten minutes early, darkcircles beneath her eyes. The other candidates around her looked equally bleary eyed. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one finding sleep elusive.
This time, Elsa took charge, calling them to attention with her quiet, unhurried voice. ‘Today is the tasting. You have six wines, two flights. Twelve minutes per flight.’
Her instructions were brisk, but her gaze softened briefly as she met Fiona’s eye, something almost like encouragement in her expression. Fiona steeled herself. The glasses gleamed in front of her, each one a mystery waiting to be unlocked.
The first glass hovered just below her nose. She closed her eyes, inhaled and let the aroma fill her senses.Cherries, definitely cherries ... No, more like strawberry. And there’s a hint of ... tobacco?A Pinot Noir, she was almost certain, but which region? Time was slipping. Her eyes flicked to Elsa, who was giving a nod to the next candidate. She pushed down her nerves and took a small sip. Earthy, bright acidity. Her mind raced through her notes. ‘Oregon,’ she whispered.
The next wine was a white. Honey and apples met her tongue, and her confidence sharpened.Sauternes? Or could it be a Tokaji?
The next was also white. Fiona hunched over, inhaling deeply, catching notes of green apple, citrus and a faint touch of something herbal. She scribbled quickly:grassy, hint of elderflower, moderate acidity. As the minutes ticked by, she worked her way through each glass with systematic precision, inhaling, swirling, sipping, spitting, taking furious notes.
But by the time she reached the penultimate wine, her senses felt muddled, the scents and tastes blending in her mind. She inhaled, trying to pinpoint the aroma, but her thoughts were jumbled.Was it lychee? No, pear. Or was it quince?
Across the room, she noticed Elsa’s pale gaze lingering on her for a fraction too long, like she could sense the struggle fromher examiner’s seat. She scribbled hastily and picked up the last glass.Crisp acidity, high minerality.When the buzzer sounded, her heart skipped, realizing she’d missed the structure for the last wine. She hadn’t noted the wine’s finish, a crucial detail. Fiona’s heart sank, but it was too late. Laurent and Elsa were already moving around the room, quietly collecting the tasting notes.
Laurent paused by Fiona’s table, leaning in to scrutinize her tasting sheet. He frowned almost imperceptibly, then glanced over at her with a raised brow. ‘I see you have identified a Californian Sauvignon Blanc. Curious location.’ His voice was maddeningly calm, giving nothing away, but Fiona felt a chill creep down her spine.
‘I ... I was confident with that one,’ she stammered, though her cheeks grew hot. She clenched her teeth, mentally retracing her tasting notes.
A tangle of citrus, wet stone and freshly cut grass. Was the wine from Sancerre in Laurent’s native France, and not from America? Hadn’t she nailed the acidity? The minerality?
Laurent gave her a curt nod and moved on. Fiona’s mind churned with doubt. She’d spent years perfecting her palate, studying with laser focus, yet here she was, messing up on what should’ve been an easy call. She watched him walk away, frustration flickering beneath her exhaustion.
