Blackpeak Vines Page 22

  The phone rang. She picked it up. ‘Hello?’

  There was a pause. ‘Lizzie. Hi.’

  ‘Luke?’ Lizzie frowned. Luke never rang her landline. ‘What’s up?’

  He coughed. ‘I was, um, looking for Ella, actually.’

  Oh, was he indeed? She smiled to herself. ‘Ella’s not here.’

  ‘Look, you couldn’t give me her number, could you? I said I’d call her about something, but I don’t seem to have her cell.’

  ‘I’ll text it to you.’ Lizzie closed the fridge door. ‘But I wouldn’t bother trying her for a while. She’s in Mauritius.’

  ‘By herself?’

  ‘No, she’s working.’

  ‘When does she get back?’

  ‘Not for a few weeks.’ Thinking of how booked up Quentin always was, Lizzie sighed. ‘Probably more. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s gone for a month or two, quite frankly.’

  There was another, longer pause. ‘I see. Well, sorry I disturbed you.’

  ‘You didn’t.’ She sipped her wine. ‘So, Ella said you’re all finished up in Wanaka now?’

  ‘That’s right. They don’t need me back for a while.’

  ‘I guess you won’t be popping in, then.’

  ‘No … I guess not.’

  ‘I’ll give you a call if I’m in town.’

  ‘Yeah … great … Look, Lizzie, I’d better go …’

  ‘Sure — talk to you later.’

  Replacing the handset, she poured herself a second glass and stared at the phone. There was still one thing she needed to do. And she should do it before she drank any more. Walking through to the office, she fired up her laptop and prepared to email Carr’s contact details through to Jules’s production manager in London. Could Chloe, she wrote, please deal with the helicopter pilot direct? Lizzie still had ground transport to finalise, and she was getting snowed under.

  Hopefully Carr might respond to Chloe. God, she hoped so. Otherwise she was going to have some excruciating explaining to do to Jules. He wouldn’t let them down, would he? It wasn’t as though flying the crew would involve seeing her. Her part in the shoot would be finished before they arrived.

  She read the email over again. It sounded innocent enough, didn’t it? She pressed ‘send’. There. It was over and done with.

  Closing her laptop, Lizzie leaned on her desk and looked out at the night. Under the light of the moon, the nets on the vines shone like spiders’ webs. A few weeks more, and she’d have her very first harvest.

  She picked up her copy of Romeo Bragato instead. Another chapter on South American rootstock should help her sleep. Everything would be all right. She’d been happy here before, and she would be happy again. It would just take a little time.

  A week later, Richard, sporting thirty-six hours of stubble but looking otherwise unfazed, arrived just as another sunny afternoon was fading. He stepped through the door to fold her into his arms.

  ‘Lizzie, my love.’

  Leaning her cheek against his chest, breathing in his familiar scent, she felt almost human again.

  ‘I was a complete ass on the phone.’ Holding her away from him a little, Richard searched her face. ‘Can you forgive me?’

  Well, history would tend to suggest so. Lizzie rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t seem to be able to help myself, do I?’ she smiled. ‘More’s the pity.’ She slid her arm through his. ‘Come on, let’s get your bags inside. I’ve put you back in your old room.’

  Showered, shaved and unpacked, Richard sprawled barefoot across her sofa. ‘God, it’s good to get here at last.’ He stretched. ‘Do you think you could have moved further away?’

  Lizzie studied him. ‘Have you lost weight?’

  He looked absurdly pleased. ‘I’ve got a new trainer. Ex-SAS. The bastard’s damn nearly killing me, but we start shooting Agent Steele in a couple of months and half the bloody thing’s shirtless.’

  ‘I suppose he’s got you on a diet as well?’

  Richard groaned. ‘Intermittent fasting.’

  ‘How intermittent?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Glass of wine?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  Pouring two glasses of sauvignon blanc, Lizzie carried them over and settled herself beside Richard on the sofa.

  ‘You know, you were right to be angry with me,’ she said. ‘I should have told you about Ella. You had a right to know.’

  ‘Maybe I did.’ Richard shook his head slowly. ‘On the other hand, I don’t think I’d done anything to deserve it.’

  Lizzie sipped her wine in silence. ‘I’d made up my mind to tell you the last time you were here. I nearly did.’

  He shot her a tentative smile. ‘Before I skipped the country, you mean?’

  Lizzie shrugged. She wasn’t sure she was ready to joke about that yet, but — well, actually, the whole thing did seem rather ridiculous now. It was hard to believe, looking back, that she’d been so upset.

  ‘Wait.’ Richard frowned. ‘Was that why you were so strange all the time I was here? Because you wanted to tell me about Ella?’

  ‘I wasn’t strange.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Preoccupied, then. Was that what was on your mind?’

  Lizzie thought about it. ‘Yes, I suppose it was.’ She looked at him. ‘What did you think it was?’

  ‘I thought—’ Richard broke off. ‘Well, I don’t know what I thought. It’s not important, anyway.’ Eyes softening, he put his hand on her knee. ‘I’m just — I’m glad you told me. I’m glad I’m here.’

  Lizzie laughed. ‘Darling, I’m glad you’re here, too.’ She leaned back against his shoulder. ‘It’s a shame Ella isn’t,’ she added, apologetically.

  ‘Work is work.’ Richard paused. ‘We Bournes never turn it down.

  She turned her head to stare at him.

  ‘Too soon? I thought I’d try it on for size.’

  ‘You might grow into it,’ she reprimanded him, ‘but if I were you, I’d wait a while.’

  ‘Lizzie,’ still smiling, he stroked her hair, ‘I’ve missed you.’

  Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, she slipped out from under his arm and walked into the kitchen. ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Famished.’

  ‘How does steak au poivre sound?’

  Richard turned to face her. ‘Fillet?’

  ‘Ribeye. On the bone.’ She looked guiltily at the monster steaks. ‘It is grass-fed.’

  ‘With cream sauce?’ He closed his eyes briefly. ‘God, yes. Please.’

  ‘And chips?’ How lovely it was to have someone to cook for again.

  ‘You’re an angel.’ Richard pulled up a stool at the bench. ‘Why didn’t I marry you twenty years ago?’

  Lizzie rummaged in the potato bin. ‘Because you were busy marrying somebody else.’ Turning the tap on, she scrubbed at the skins.

  ‘We both were,’ Richard said.

  ‘Anyway, think how fat you’d be. The only detective you could play if you lived with me would be Poirot.’ She nodded towards the pantry door. ‘Find us a bottle of red, would you? Anything you fancy.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have to concede defeat,’ Richard admitted, when dinner was over and the dishes were done. Closing the dishwasher door, he leaned both elbows on the bench. ‘I’m shattered. Would you mind awfully if I went to bed?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Lizzie was pretty shattered herself. Despite her viticulture textbooks, she hadn’t been sleeping well lately — ironic, given how tired she’d been feeling. Giving the kitchen a final once-over, she took herself off to her bed. The moon was coming up to the full again. With a sigh, Lizzie pulled the blinds.

  ‘I don’t mean to alarm you,’ yawned Richard, sauntering into the kitchen none too bright and early the next morning, ‘but there’s a man in your vines. He seems to be eating your grapes.’

  ‘Yes, that’s Guy, the viticulturist. He’s checking to see how close they are to harvest.’ She switched the coffee machine back on. �
�I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t think. Did he give you a fright?’

  ‘Well he wasn’t quite what I was expecting to see on the other side of the glass when I got out of bed, I’ll admit.’ He grinned. ‘For a moment there, I thought The Daily Mail had found me.’

  ‘Double espresso?’

  ‘Please.’ He took a seat at the bench. ‘So the winery gives the word on when the grapes are ready to pick?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And then we all hurry out there with our garden shears?’

  ‘God, no.’ Lizzie laughed. ‘We’re not allowed to touch them ourselves. The winery will send in élite forces.’

  ‘What, you don’t even get to snip a bunch? Where’s the fun in that?’

  ‘Once the pickers have chosen a bunch,’ she said, ‘I might be allowed to cut the stem. But only if I promise to be careful.’

  She hurried over to open the door as Guy walked up the lawn. ‘Any good?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nowhere near. They’re still weeks away yet.’

  ‘But we’re supposed to be picking now,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Don’t panic yet. There’s still plenty of time. You can’t rush pinot.’

  Lizzie was getting sick of hearing that. Why couldn’t her grapes keep to the schedule?

  ‘Jules isn’t going to like those nets too much,’ Richard pointed out helpfully, as she watched Guy drive away. ‘Aren’t I supposed to walk down a row?’

  Indeed.

  ‘Darling, do you think you could amuse yourself for the rest of the day?’ Lizzie sighed. ‘I need to get some work done.’ For starters, she’d better find another vineyard location for Jules — somewhere that had already picked.

  ‘Well, I suppose I could always read Jules’s script,’ Richard smiled. ‘If I’m feeling really virtuous, I might even learn a line or two.’

  She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘There are a lot of full-length shots, you know. You can’t have the production assistant kneeling in front of you holding the script.’

  ‘Ah.’ He gave her a mischievous grin. ‘You bring back the good old days.’

  Depressingly, she didn’t have to search far to find a vineyard whose grapes were in. She looked out at her own net-laden slopes. Maybe Luke had been right about this place. Don’t panic, Lizzie reminded herself. So long as the frosts hold off, you’ll be okay. Luke … Now what did that remind her of? The phone rang.

  ‘Oh, hi, thanks for getting back to me.’ She clicked on her schedule. ‘That’s right, a six-seater … and a campervan. The best you’ve got. A month’s rental, yes …’

  By the time she’d finished her to-do list, it was five o’clock. She wandered out of the office to find Richard asleep on the sofa under Jules’s script. He woke as she lifted it from his hands.

  ‘You found it riveting, I see,’ she smiled.

  ‘No.’ He stretched. ‘It’s good … I just couldn’t keep my eyes open.’

  ‘I’m sure Jules will be pleased to hear that.’ Lizzie dropped the script on the bench and walked into the kitchen. ‘Drink?’ Without waiting for Richard’s reply, she poured two glasses of wine. ‘I thought we’d have chicken tonight. I could do a sort of Moroccan thing, or some kind of salad if you’d prefer—’

  ‘Lizzie.’ Following her around the bench, Richard took her gently by the shoulders. ‘Would you stop for a minute? Please. We can get a pizza.’

  She frowned. ‘No, we can’t.’

  ‘Just come and sit with me for a while. Talk to me.’

  Lizzie let him lead her back to the sofa. ‘I’m sorry. What is it you want to talk about?’

  Richard shook his head at her. ‘What do you think?’

  She glanced at the photographs of Ella on the sideboard. ‘Yes, but darling … the thing is, I’m not sure what else there is to say.’

  ‘Do you never wonder,’ he asked, smiling, ‘what might have happened if you’d told me that you — that we — were going to have a baby?’

  Lizzie sipped her wine. ‘Well, I don’t think your wife would have been very pleased, for a start.’

  Richard sighed. ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘So am I.’ She relented slightly. ‘What is it you think might have happened?’ she asked, more gently. ‘Apart from an even more ugly divorce than the one you ended up with?’

  ‘I wish you’d told me.’ He took her hand. ‘I wish you’d told me, because I think — I hope — if you had, I might have realised who I should be spending my life with before it was too late.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’

  ‘All those years’ — he pressed her hand for silence — ‘I used to come round to the Fulham house. I’d sit there, and I’d look at you and Ella. And Tom. And I wanted what he had.’

  ‘You wanted’ — Lizzie shook her head in disbelief — ‘you and me in suburban bliss? We wouldn’t have lasted five minutes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have, you mean.’ He paused. ‘Maybe not. But I would have liked the chance to find out.’ Richard put his other hand over hers. ‘I still would.’

  What? ‘You want a semi in Fulham with Ella and me?’

  ‘Don’t be obtuse,’ he said. ‘I want a life with you. Yes, Ella too, when she’s around, but … you. Here, or London … both … whatever you want. I want us, now, how we should always have been.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘Lizzie, what do you say? Can we give it a try?’

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  Ella put her bag down and looked around her suite. Another five-star beach resort — ho-hum. She grinned — not. It would be possible to get blasé about them eventually, she supposed, but it was going to take a while. She checked her watch. Time for a swim before dinner? Definitely. She threw her bikini on, grabbed a hotel robe, and took the walkway through the coconut grove to the infinity pool above the beach.

  Beside its glittering azure water, she found Quentin busy picking a fight with the bartender about whether he could smoke there. She turned to beat a hasty retreat.

  ‘Ella!’

  Oh my God— Was that …?

  A spectacular silhouette rose from the lounger in front of her.

  ‘Vito?’

  Ella hadn’t got halfway through working out how awkward this was before he’d thrown his arms around her.

  ‘Ciao!’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ tucking his fag back behind his ear, Quentin leaned against the bar, ‘that’s right. I forgot the two of you have already’ — he smirked — ‘met.’

  God, she missed Amy. A broken arm must seem like a holiday compared to minding Quentin.

  ‘You are on the shoot?’ Vito asked.

  ‘Yes. And you must be doing GQ.’ She smiled. ‘Congratulations.’

  He shrugged modestly. ‘Let me get you a drink. What will you have?’

  ‘What are you having?’

  Vito sighed. ‘Lime and soda.’

  ‘Sounds perfect.’

  ‘You are eating in the resort tonight?’

  ‘Well, we ain’t fucking leaving it, that’s for sure,’ said Quentin. ‘I booked a table for seven o’clock if you want to join us.’

  Ella gave an inward groan at the thought of another dinner with Quentin. She’d been hoping to get away with room service tonight. Still, at least this time she might not have to put up with him alone.

  ‘Will you join us?’ Lowering her voice, she smiled at Vito. ‘Please?’

  ‘Of course. It will be my pleasure.’

  ‘It won’t, you know,’ she whispered, as Quentin stomped off down to the beach to light his cigarette, ‘but thank you.’

  A few hours later, sitting on the terrace above the manicured sand, Ella watched the sun sink slowly into the Indian Ocean. With a little bow, the waiter lit the candle on their table. A cool breeze drifted up through the coconut palms.

  ‘Thank you,’ she told the waiter, as he draped a cotton wrap across the back of her chair.

  ‘Well, I’m off to watch porn,’ announced Quentin, as soon as their plates had been cleared. He downed the last
of his wine. ‘You’re both welcome to join me.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Ella said, ‘but I think I’ll pass.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Pushing his chair back loudly, Quentin stood up. ‘Don’t you kids stay up too late. You’ve got school in the morning.’ He frowned. ‘What’s my call-time again?’

  ‘Ten o’clock.’

  ‘Bloody civilised.’ He let out a little belch. ‘I love the tropics.’

  ‘How do you stand him?’ Vito asked, as Quentin disappeared down the boardwalk into the night.

  ‘It isn’t easy,’ Ella sighed. ‘But you do kind of get used to him. He’s not so bad underneath.’

  ‘I do not think’ — Vito shuddered — ‘I want to see underneath.’

  She laughed. ‘Anyway, I’m learning a lot. In his own strange way, he’s a pretty good teacher, actually.’

  Vito nodded. ‘He is a genius.’

  Well, Ella wasn’t sure she’d go that far. But Quentin was pretty good.

  ‘His Fratelli Sammartino shots,’ Vito went on, ‘they have been incredible for me. Everybody loves that work. My agency, they say now I am …’ He paused, searching for the word.

  ‘Hot?’ she suggested.

  ‘Fully booked,’ he grinned. ‘Completo. For the next six months.’

  ‘That’s fantastic.’

  ‘Si. The work we did in New Zealand’ — he smiled at her — ‘it makes my career, I think.’

  ‘Yes.’ Ella took a deep breath. ‘About New Zealand …’

  Vito waited patiently.

  ‘I feel bad that I …’ She frowned. ‘About that night … you know …? I just — I think I owe you an apology. I think I behaved very badly.’

  ‘I am sorry, too.’ He put his hand over hers. ‘I was too …’ He frowned. ‘Too big. Too much. Too quick.’

  ‘You overreacted?’

  ‘Si.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘There is no word for this in Italian.’

  Ella smiled.

  Vito smiled back. ‘Sandro, he said if I told anyone what happened, they would take my passport away.’

  ‘You told Sandro?’

  ‘Just a little. Not everything.’ He looked guilty. ‘I was … unhappy.’

  It was Ella’s turn to look guilty.