Rose's Vintage (8 page)

She began to feel less intimidated by the grand old home as she ventured into each of the rooms. On the ground floor, she discovered a sunny formal living room which, in complete contrast to the shabby furnishings in the rest of the house, was decorated in flamboyant style, with deep red and fuchsia high-backed sofas and gold and pink curtains. Isabella's touch was obvious.

One afternoon she hauled the emphysemic vacuum cleaner and a bucket of cleaning supplies up the wide wooden staircase to the first floor, stepping over a pile of abandoned toys and opened the door on Astrid's room. She left the mess of discarded clothes, shoes and make-up alone, guessing that the Austrian girl would prefer her privacy. Down a hallway, she discovered three more guest rooms and a bathroom. These looked to be barely used, but a fine layer of dust had built up, so she wiped and vacuumed and straightened curtains and bedding.

Then, as she walked back along the hallway, she came to a door on the other side that she'd not noticed before. It could only be Mark and Isabella's room. Glancing down the stairwell to make sure she was still alone, she slowly opened the door. The curtains were drawn, the bed rumpled and unmade and there were drawers half open, their contents spilling out onto the floor. The cloying fragrance of stale perfume hung in the air.

As she pulled back the curtains and closed the drawers, Rose noticed a silver frame face-down on the bedside table. She propped it up again and saw it was a photo of Mark and Isabella on what must have been their wedding day. A very glamorous Isabella was laughing up at Mark, her hair framed by a sheer white veil, dark eyes sparkling, as Mark gazed back at her amid a flurry of confetti. They looked young and carefree and as if they were absolutely besotted with each other. ‘Nightmare,' Astrid had warned her about Isabella. ‘Looks so nice on the outside, but I would not trust her if I could throw her.'

There were no papers or documents on the dresser or side tables, and Rose felt too uncomfortable to start opening drawers and searching. The room was too personal, too intimate. She sighed. She was going to make a rubbish spy for Henry.

Rose also braved the chilly weather and began to explore Kalkari. Early one morning she disturbed a mob of breakfasting kangaroos in a paddock; after that, she kept mainly to the paths alongside the vineyards. Eventually bored of walking, she decided to up the pace with a gentle jog. She'd been a runner back in secondary school, even qualifying for the county championships – her long legs had been good for something – but double shifts and fuelling up on pies and pancakes at The Pine Box had meant that it had been ages since she'd laced up a pair of trainers and done anything more than shuffle to the shops for milk. She couldn't believe how heavy she felt now, and it was hard to ignore her bulk as she hauled herself up the steep slopes of the Shingle Hills. There was no avoiding it: she'd morphed into a heffalump.

Rose had been a lanky, skinny teenager – you wouldn't think it to look at her now, but as a kid her nickname had been Ribs. Unfortunately, those days were long gone. Her tummy almost had a life of its own – it wobbled like a perfectly set panna cotta. The weight gain had been so gradual she'd not really been aware of it, and being tall, she'd been able to hide it easily. But now, looking down at the rolls of creamy skin billowing over the straining waistband of her leggings, she realised it had got out of control. Gasping for breath, she was forced to slow down as the slopes got steeper, but she doggedly kept going, distracted by the brilliant views from the top of the hill above Kalkari.

The valley spread out before her like a scene from a picture book; the rows of vines, laid out in different directions, made a patchwork as far as the eye could see, and small houses and winery buildings were dotted among them like a toytown. Most mornings she was able to make out a few frozen-looking figures among the vines, wrapped up in thick coats and beanies. With baskets by their sides and secateurs in their hands, they were trimming the bare grapevines splayed out along rows of wire trellises. It must be a bit like pruning rose trees, she supposed. It looked bloody miserable to be stuck out in the cold for hours on end.

She always arrived back at the barn red-faced and huffing like a steam train, but the exercise and the hard work in the house meant that her pants were feeling a little less tight. It pleased her more than she thought it would.

Mobile coverage at Kalkari was woeful, so one morning Rose took her laptop and drove to Sacred Grounds. She sent her brother an email update – not that there was much to report at this stage. She hadn't been able to check out the cellar door or winery yet – Mark was always there – and that was where she was likely to find the info that Henry was after. Both were locked up whenever Mark wasn't around. She'd seen a car coming and going – presumably the manager or someone – but Mark always stayed long after the car left. And she had no idea where the keys were kept.

She also sent a quick email to Philippe and Frostie, the friends she'd stayed with in Bondi before coming to Kalkari, moaning about the cold and the lack of decent coffee anywhere other than at Sacred Grounds, before catching up with the news on Facebook. London seemed such a long way away now. She checked, and checked again, but there was no email from Giles. She hadn't really expected anything, but a small hope that she'd been trying her best to ignore had still glimmered deep inside her that maybe, just maybe, he'd had second thoughts, that he'd realised he couldn't live without her and would summon her to Brussels … Her heart clenched with misery and she felt a sudden wave of homesickness overwhelm her. Eeyore's dark cloud, which had temporarily stopped following her around, settled over her head once more.

CHAPTER 6

T
he night of the Burning of the Canes was fast approaching. Thommo had called Rose with instructions, thanking her again for coming to their rescue. She'd managed to catch Mark between homework and bathtime and he'd agreed, somewhat reluctantly, that she could help out. She wasn't sure why she was throwing herself into it with such enthusiasm, though she admitted to herself she was a tiny bit excited about the prospect of getting into a proper, commercial kitchen again.

First thing Friday morning she reported for duty, having driven the few kilometres across the valley to Windsong on a glorious, crisp, sunny day, all the while singing tunelessly at the top of her voice. As she drew up at the winery, a flock of white cockatoos scattered from the nearby stand of tall gum trees, wheeling high overhead and cackling raucously. Thommo – or was it Charlie? Rose couldn't be completely sure – appeared at the doorway of a large timber-and-brick shed.

‘Rose, sweetheart, great to see you. Come on in and meet everyone.'

Rose followed him into the cavernous shed, her eyes taking a while to adjust to the dim light. Inside, large hooped barrels were stacked high against each wall, while trestle tables ran the length of the room. Rose breathed in the yeasty, pungent smell.

‘We've cleared out the barrel hall; this is where dinner will be. Out the back is where all the action is at the moment,' he said. She followed him to the end of the room and through a door at the rear into a spacious kitchen. Four women of varying ages and sizes stopped their activity and looked up as they entered. ‘G'day, ladies, this is Rose. She's come to help you bludgers out.'

Four pairs of eyes assessed her. A round, twinkly-eyed woman introduced herself as Betty and welcomed Rose in, handing her an apron and a hairnet. ‘Thanks, Charlie. We're flat out.'

Charlie winked at Rose and then made to leave, saying he'd be back later to check how they were all getting on.

‘Now, love, I've heard all about you from Brenda,' said the woman kindly. ‘You're the new English au pair, aren't you?'

‘Brenda?' asked Rose.

‘Brenda Butters. The housekeeper up at Kalkari. Well, she was until she did her back in.'

‘Oh, Mrs B,' said Rose.

‘Yes. There was a right old to-do there earlier this year when the lady of the house ran off with that Spanish bloke. We were all gobsmacked. Those poor little tackers! Luisa not even turned two. Disgraceful, I call it. Mind you, Brenda said that Mark was almost never there. Too wrapped up in his wines to pay much attention. I don't think she was ever really happy here in the valley,' Betty tutted to herself as she deftly peeled potatoes. Barely pausing to draw breath, she continued, ‘Now, Brenda tells me you're a dab hand in the kitchen. Tonight we've got pork rillettes, sugar-cured salmon, pickled cucumber and an olive tapenade. Then there's rib of beef, roasted root veggies and we're finishing up with apple and rhubarb pies and cheeses from the Shingle Dairy. We're expecting close to a hundred for dinner, but there'll be more here for the bonfire before dinner as well, and they'll have hot soup and bread.'

Rose mentally high-fived herself for agreeing to help out. Surely with such a blabbermouth in charge of the kitchen, she'd manage to dig up some useful intel for Henry. ‘Sounds delicious,' said Rose, her mouth watering. ‘What would you like me to do?'

‘Can you start on the fruit for the pies? The apples are over there, and the rhubarb needs washing and chopping,' said Betty, handing her a peeler and a bucket.

Ah, the glamorous jobs
. Rose found a stool and grabbed an apple.

Taking a break only for a hurried lunch of sandwiches washed down with mugs of builder's tea, Rose and the other women worked steadily throughout the day. Betty clearly ran the show and kept everyone amused with her constant stream of well-intentioned gossip and sly comment, all the while managing to make short work of the mountain of fruit and veg that needed preparing.

It was a weary Rose who drove home along the valley road as the sun was setting pinkly on the horizon. As she motored along, her thoughts returned to Giles. The familiar ache in her heart was matched only by the ache of her hands from so much chopping and peeling.

One day stood out in her mind. It must have been only a few months before they broke up. Rose had a rare Sunday off – she was usually rostered on at weekends – and they had gone to Hampstead, to the heath for a walk. It was a blustery spring day; apple blossom was strewn like confetti in the streets. As they stood at the top of Parliament Hill, the wind kept blowing her scarf from around her neck, which made her laugh as she batted it away from her face. Giles stopped her and grasped both ends of it, tying them tightly together before brushing away the hair from her temples and pulling her face down to his to kiss her. He'd told her he loved her.

Lying bastard.