I handed it over to her and watched her tap the details into her computer. ‘So, your home address is The Vinery, Gibbston Valley, New Zealand?’
‘It is, yes.’
‘Another country I’ve always wanted to see,’ she smiled, all charm.
‘Do excuse me for butting in like this,’ came a voice from behind me, ‘but did I hear you say that you reside at The Vinery in the Gibbston Valley?’
I turned to see a very tall, angular man, whose three-piece suit looked as if it had been modelled on something Oscar Wilde would have worn in his heyday.
‘Er, yes,’ I replied, wondering if he was the manager of the hotel, because he looked terribly official. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘Good grief, no.’ The man smiled, then reached into the top pocket of his jacket to pass me a card. ‘Allow me to introduce myself.’ He pointed to the name on the card. ‘Viscount Orlando Sackville and, for my sins, I am a food and wine journalist. The reason I so rudely interrupted you was because only last week I was having lunch with a friend of mine. He’s a wine importer, you see. And he mentioned to me that New Zealand wines were casting off their reputation for being the lesser sibling of Australian wines and producing some very good bottles. The Vinery was one of the vineyards he mentioned. I believe you won a gold medal for your 2005 pinot noir. May I ask if you are the proprietor?’
‘Well, my husband – who sadly died recently – and I ran the business together for many years. Now my son Jack is taking over.’
‘May I offer you my condolences for your loss,’ the man said, looking genuinely sad. ‘Now, I must not take up any more of your time, but may I enquire whether you are staying here at the hotel?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘Then might I beg you to spare me an hour or so later on this evening? I would very much like to write a feature on The Vinery – it’s the kind of thing that the food and wine pages of the broadsheets here just adore. And of course, I know the editor of theSunday TimesWine Club well. I’m sure you will know that if one’s wine is included in the selection, well, one ismade, so to speak.’
‘Can I think about it? I am rather jet-lagged, you see, and—’
‘Sabrina! Darling girl, what on earth are you doing here?’
I turned around and saw a thin, willowy blonde, who rather reminded me of Mary-Kate, approaching before being kissed on both cheeks by my new friend.
‘Oh, I’m up from the country with Julian. We’re staying here for a couple of nights while he works and I do a little shopping,’ she replied.
‘That sounds divine, darling,’ he said to the young woman, who seemed rather nervous, before he caught my eye and drew the woman in closer.
‘May I introduce Lady Sabrina Vaughan? She’s a very old friend of both my family and myself.’
‘Hello, er...?’
‘Mary. Mrs Mary McDougal,’ I said as I extended my hand to shake hers.
‘Mrs McDougal here is the co-owner of a wonderful vineyard in New Zealand. I was just telling her how dear Sebastian Fairclough was waxing lyrical about her wines only the other day. I am determined to entice her into giving me an interview about the vineyard.’
‘I see,’ Sabrina nodded. ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Mary.’ There was a pause as my new friend eyed her.
‘Oh!’ she continued. ‘Why don’t you come to my suite for drinks at six tonight? It’s room number, er... 106. You are very welcome too, Mrs McDougal,’ she added.
‘Wonderful! See you then, Sabrina,’ answered Orlando.
‘Excuse me, Mrs McDougal, may I take your credit card?’ asked the receptionist as Sabrina walked off towards the lift.
‘Why, yes, of course,’ I said, digging into my purse and handing it over.
‘Mrs McDougal, forgive me again for interrupting, but do come tonight for drinks with Sabrina and me if you can. Then we can discuss your vineyard and all things wine.’
‘As I said, I might be a little jet-lagged, but I’ll try.’
‘Excellent. Adieu until then.’ He began to walk away as the receptionist handed over my key, but then halted and turned back.
‘Forgive me, but I didn’t catch your room number.’
I looked down at the key. ‘It’s 112. Goodbye, Orlando.’
