Page 41 of The Missing Sister

Upstairs in my beautiful room, with its high ceiling, exquisite furnishings and views onto the bustling London road beneath me, I unpacked a couple of summer dresses, a skirt and a blouse, then dialled room service to order tea for one. Even though there were tea-making facilities in the room, I wanted to drink it out of a bone-china cup, poured from an elegant teapot, just as Ambrose had described. It duly arrived, and I sat in a chair savouring the moment.

I studied the card that the very posh Englishman had thrust into my hand. If he was who he said he was (and the details on the card and the fact that another woman had greeted him in the lobby surely confirmed it), then it presented a wonderful opportunity to get The Vinery some British – and perhaps international – attention.

I decided I should call Jack. Out of habit, I looked at my watch to gauge the time difference, then realised that I was no longer in New Zealand, Australia or, in fact, Canada, and only an hour behind France.

I picked up the receiver on the bedside table and dialled Jack’s mobile. It took a while to connect and then gave that strange dialling tone which meant you were calling a foreign country.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s Mum here, Jack. The phone’s very crackly – can you hear me?’

‘Yes, loud and clear. How are you? Or more to the point, where are you?’

‘I’m well, Jack, I’m well,’ I said and, hoping he wasn’t familiar with either American or British dialling codes, I told my son a lie. ‘I’m in New York!’

‘Wow! The Big Apple! How is it?’

‘Oh... noisy, busy, amazing!’ I bluffed, because I’d never visited New York in my life. ‘Just as you would imagine. Now then, how are you, sweetheart?’

‘Happy, Mum, very happy. It’s hard work communicating as my French is pathetic, but I’m learning a lot from François, and the Rhône Valley is something else! Just mile after mile of vines, pastel-coloured houses and blue skies. We even have mountains behind us to remind me of home. Although it’s nothing at all like home,’ Jack chuckled. ‘So, after New York, you’re off to London?’

‘I am, yes.’

‘Well, François said he’d be happy to host you here after the harvest, if you’d return the favour when he and his family visit New Zealand next year.’

‘That goes without saying, Jack, of course I will. I’d love to see Provence, but I’ve Ireland on the schedule after London, remember?’

‘The big return to the homeland... I’d enjoy taking a trip over there to see where my mysterious mum came from. Actually, I don’t think you’ve ever said exactly where in Ireland, other than talking about uni in Dublin.’

‘To be fair, Jack, you’ve never asked,’ I countered.

‘“To be fair”, is it Mum? You sound Irish when just thinking about going back! Anyway, are you enjoying your Grand Tour?’

‘I’m loving it, but I miss your dad terribly. We always said we’d do this when he retired, but of course, him being him, he never did.’

‘I know, Mum, but I don’t like you travelling by yourself.’

‘Oh, Jack, don’t worry about me, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Anyway, I wanted to tell you about someone I met at the hotel...’ – I suddenly remembered that I was meant to be in New York – ‘...last night. He’s a wine writer for some big international newspapers. We got chatting and he asked me whether I’d be up for doing an interview on The Vinery, its history, and so on. What do you think?’

‘It sounds exactly like what we need. Wow, Mum, we let you out of our sight for more than two minutes, and you’re chatting up wine journos in hotels!’

‘Oh, very funny, Jack. This man was around half my age. He’s called’ – I consulted the card – ‘Orlando Sackville. Have you heard of him, by any chance?’

‘No, but then again, I’m not exactly an expert on wine journalists yet. Dad did all that kind of thing, y’know? Anyway, it can’t do any harm to talk to him, can it? You can do the history of how you and Dad built the business up from nothing. If he needs to know the technical details of the grapes we use and stuff, then just give him my mobile number and I’d be happy to speak to him.’

‘I will, of course,’ I said. ‘Right, I’d better leave you to get on. I’ve missed you, Jack, and I know your sister misses you as well.’

‘I miss you guys too. Okay, Mum, keep in touch. Love you.’

‘Love you too.’ I ended the call, then picked up the journalist’s card to dial the mobile number written on it.

‘Orlando Sackville,’ answered the dulcet tones of the man I’d met earlier.

‘Hello, it’s Mary McDougal here, the lady you met downstairs, from The Vinery in Otago. I’m not disturbing you, am I?’

‘That’s the last thing you’re doing. What a delight! Does this call mean that you’re prepared for me to interview you?’

‘I discussed it with my son, Jack – the one who’s in Provence – and he thinks it would be a good idea for me to speak to you. Although he’s the person for any technical detail you’ll need.’