Page 3 of Vine (Island Love #3)

CHAPTER 2

CASPIAN

Emma pulled into a roadside layby so I could observe a ‘normal’ January vineyard up close. Rows and rows of woody blackened stems twisted up from the ground, each neat line of dead-looking sticks separated from the next by a narrow patch of marginally healthier-looking grass. At about chest height, each stem divided into two; the bare branches spread out horizontally to loosely drape over thin wire trellises.

“Are you sure you haven’t taken a wrong turn? You’ve brought me to a bloody cemetery! This lot look like mass war graves! As if I wasn’t fucking depressed enough.”

Emma patted my knee. She was a thoughtful, considerate person, all round. By contrast, I’d been a dreadful travelling companion. My failed marriage trailed me everywhere. The sense of betrayal and hurt had lost immediacy but become a steady diet.

Which is another way of saying I’d whined and bitched about spending nine months with Leigh and Jonas since we left London. “Or mass crucifixions,” I added mournfully.

Emma gave a bark of laughter, and I added tolerance to her list of attributes. “Oh, get over yourself! Remind me again why I agreed to have you in my car?”

“God knows. Unless you’ve already dined at the top of the Eiffel Tower with a cheating bastard and his wanker lover, and deduced it's not to your liking?”

According to the satnav, we were about a mile or so from our final destination. I expected Emma was counting down the minutes until she could escape the car. Leigh and Jonas would be joining us tomorrow, after romantically detouring via Paris, the scene of my ex-husband’s first foray into adultery (to my knowledge, at least). The camera crew and techy guys had already gone on ahead a couple of days earlier.

Our viticulturalist was very nice, in a let’s roll our sleeves up and face the Blitz type of way, determined to make the best of a bad situation. A countenance in perfect balance to mine; I admired her fortitude. We’d bonded over a series of tetchy planning meetings and my subsequent commentary in the pub afterwards as the shitstorm she’d stepped into gradually sank in. And, bless her, Emma was not a fan of cheating spouses (her dad being a serial philanderer with a heap of broken marriages and hurt kids behind him), which meant her sensibly shod feet were firmly rooted in Camp Caspian.

Cutting the engine, she wound down the car window to get a better look, and a chilly blast of wind bit my face. Beyond the vineyard, across a barren expanse of marshland, the wintry Atlantic Ocean loomed forbiddingly. I shivered.

“Come on, Emma, at least agree it has a funereal vibe.”

She twisted in her seat to give me a brisk onceover as I made a song and dance of warming my hands against the air blower. My meds sent me constantly seesawing between hot and cold. “Someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning.”

“Sorry.”

Every side of the bed was wrong these days. And it would only get worse. For the foreseeable future, the bed was in a room down the hallway from Leigh and Jonas. But Emma wasn’t to blame.

“You promised me you would cheer up once we left London.”

I huffed out a laugh. “I lied. I work in television. Being shallow and fickle is written into my contracts.”

“Well, for the next nine months, you’re going to be a wine connoisseur. I’ve got a pile of books in the boot for you to wade through. As you’ll soon find out, the niceties of social etiquette and a pleasant attitude are essential attributes of the job, so stop whingeing. Otherwise, I’ll leave you here, and you can walk the rest of the way.”

Colour me told off.

“Now, pay attention. This vineyard on your right is immaculately kept.” She turned her own attention back to it. “Which is why I’ve stopped. Appreciate how the stems have been cleared of dead shoots and the earth tilled around the bases to protect against frost. They rarely have frosts on the island, but even a light one can cause catastrophic damage. The vine poles and trellises are all well maintained, and when I visited back in November, I couldn’t spot a single sick plant.”

“Cool. Can we close the window now?”

As the window slid soundlessly shut, she chuckled. “This is nothing. It’s forecast to blow a hoolie next week. I hope you’ve brought your winter woollies. Working outdoors in that should put some colour in your cheeks and build your appetite. You don’t eat enough, Caspian.”

Christ, she sounded like she actually relished the prospect. And almost as though she cared too. “I have a living, breathing mother back in St Albans, thanks. She’s perfectly capable of nagging me. I don’t need two of you.”

I smiled to show I was joking. But not entirely. While my actual mother tentatively hinted at labelling my behaviour an eating disorder during one of my rare forays home, I preferred to think I was intermittently fasting. “I eat plenty,” I lied. “I’m careful, that’s all. Everyone knows television cameras add at least ten kilos to your weight.”

“Better stop eating television cameras, then.”

That raised my first genuine laugh for some time. I gestured to the bleak vista beyond the window. At some point in my thirty-five years, I must have driven past or seen pictures of winter vines, but somehow, I’d imagined them bushier and… green. “So, if this is perfection, what do my vines look like then?”

“Like these, but as if a plague of tarantulas has colonised them.”

She wasn’t kidding. Whereas the vines down the road boasted elegant shoulders and model physiques, mine were smothered under ugly scarves knitted from wet twigs. My tan leather Chelsea boots, perfectly suited to battling the mean streets of Chelsea but wholly wrong for a wintry vineyard, squelched in the mud. I poked at a brown twig, and it snapped off in my hand.

“Are you sure these are still alive?”

Emma rubbed her thumb over a bigger woody stem. “Mostly,” she surmised. “Though I’ve identified a row that needs pulling out. But they’ve only been neglected for one full season, so with a little love and affection, they should bounce back well.”

If only human hearts were as elastic.

“Why hasn’t anyone taken it on since the last tenant retired?”

Emma tilted her head to one side. “Mostly, I think down to size? It’s only five acres, which is barely big enough for commercial viability. The grape harvest is pooled with all the others on the island—there’s a very well-run cooperative. In a good year, these five acres might bring in fifty tonnes, but, in a bad one, as little as ten. The gross margins at the moment are around three grand an acre. So, as a sole enterprise, it’s not enough as a sustainable long-term business. More of a hobby farm and a source of extra cash. I suspect when we’ve finished with it, one of the neighbouring vineyards will take on the rent.”

“So, a perfect size for a television show,” I pronounced drily. “When am I going to have to get my hands dirty?”

“Tomorrow. We’ll prune as much as we can over the next couple of days before the really bad weather sets in. Jonas wants to wrap some filming while the vines are in such a bad state. You know, before and after sequences. Our priorities will be the outer plants on the coastal side, more exposed to the elements. We might need to shore up the poles and trelliswork too.”

Turning my back on the vines, I studied my temporary new home. The vineyard had a rather stately gravel entrance, flanked by two hexagonal gatehouses. In comparison, the whitewashed house squatting at the end of the impressive sweeping drive was quite small, unloved, and ordinary. I empathised wholeheartedly. Like a child’s drawing, two rectangular windows sat above and either side of a plain front door. A single chimney stuck out rudely from the centre of the pitched roof.

“There was once a small chateau here,” Emma informed me, knowledgeably. “Destroyed by a fire about sixty years ago. The family who owned it built this in its place. Much cheaper to heat, I expect.”

“Please tell me there are three bedrooms. Otherwise, I’m moving to a hotel.”

“There are.” We collected our bags from the boot. “Three beds too. The old man who rented it has downsized and left most of the furniture behind. Like the vineyard, it could do with an overhaul. But I think it could be quite cosy in the right hands, don’t you?”

Stepping over the threshold, I refused to be buoyed by Emma’s relentless cheer. The fridge was bare and the kitchen dull, dusty, and dated. The sitting room wasn’t much better. With a musty, uninhabited smell, it was also colder than my ex-husband’s heart.

“Pub?” Please tell me there’s a pub.

Emma checked the time on her phone and picked up the car keys again. “You’re in luck.”

Pub. Bar-restaurant to be more accurate. Thank fuck the village had one, and on first impressions, it appeared decent. Even at six on a cold and breezy Monday evening, a few folk milled around. Locals mostly, by the look of them. Ordinary men and women dressed in ordinary clothes. No one gave us a second glance; I guessed tourists came and went, even in the dead of winter. Despite being a few hundred miles from the capital, a couple of Paris Saint-Germain football club flags hung over the bar, with a signed photo of a famous soccer star underneath. Next to it, a chalkboard menu boasted burgers, a couple of fish dishes, and homemade lasagne. I had a feeling I’d become familiar with all of them over the coming months. In fact, I had a strong feeling me and L’Escale were already on the way to firm friendship.

Seeing as we were now in the trade, Emma ordered a bottle of the local rosé, created from the island’s pooled grape cooperative. I necked a glass. Without comment, Emma topped me up, and another few gulps disappeared down my gullet, temporarily taking a chunk of my anxiety with them. Sensing Emma’s disapproval, I glared at her.

“What? You’re the one who suggested I needed more calories! I’m going to be requiring a lot of this over the next few months.”

“That bad, eh?”

“Yep. ‘Fraid so.”

Emma took a more measured sip, swilling it around her mouth. “This wine is surprisingly okay. You should slow down. For a mid-priced rosé, it’s quite full-bodied. Woodsy. Base notes of strawberry and melon.”

She frowned over the rim of her glass as I downed another slug, savouring the warmth filtering through to my veins. Lots of calories; I could always vomit them up later, if a razorblade wasn’t handy.

A cheery landlord presented us with a complementary bowl of olives, throwing another log on the fire as he sauntered back to the counter. French chatter floated across the bar in a low soothing hum.

Another shaving of anxiety leeched away. Perhaps this vineyard malarkey might be tolerable after all. Fresh air and simple food, away from the hustle of city living. Time out of real life, an opportunity to collect my thoughts, wean myself off the pills. Wean myself off Leigh. Let my skin heal. Work out what I wanted in the future. Cultivating a vineyard should be straightforward enough, shouldn’t it? I mean, vineyards were basically school field trips for adults, weren’t they? And your ID got you into the gift shop afterwards.

“What do you think, Caspian?” Emma tapped on her glass. “Can you taste the terroir ? Savour it properly. You’re part of the wine trade now.”

Humouring her, I took a more gentlemanly sip, making a show of swirling it in the glass and sniffing it first, before tossing it from cheek to cheek and pretending to chew. “Mmm, absolutely. Terroir all the way. Initially, the nose is very closed, but yes, it opens on the tongue to reveal the delicate aroma of beeswax. Can I detect wet lambswool in there too? And… yes… a subtle hint of absolute bullshit on the finish.”

Most of the time, Emma had the air of a woman exceedingly familiar with the rules of lacrosse, and probably a riding saddle too. She totally nailed the disappointed head-girl vibe, helped by her fresh, make-up-free features and no-nonsense blonde bob.

“Come on,” I said. “Don’t look at me like that! It’s a ten-euro bottle of plonk, made from a mishmash of vineyards. How can you rate it as good?”

“Lesson number one. Drink the wine, not the label.” She took another sip. “Nor the price. Trust me. It’s value for money. Which means your terroir is probably fairly decent. Slow down, give it a sniff, then taste it properly.”

I inhaled again and shrugged. “Smells like pink wine. You didn’t even bother sniffing yours.”

“I don’t need to.” She smiled, smugly. “And to be honest, Caspian, the only thing I can smell at the moments is sour grapes. Would you like to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” That some days it hurt to be alive?

She pretended to scratch her head. “Um… the fact that you and Jonas hate each other’s guts, that you are still in love with your ex-husband, and no one thought to clue me in on it?”

“I’m not still in love with him!”

“But you’d have him back, wouldn’t you? Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

She raised her eyebrows, waiting for me to carry on. “We get a bonus payment at the end of our contract if we can get back up to three million viewers. And sued if we walk away. So we all agreed to sweat it out.”

Her voice softened. “Good. Only checking. It’s just that it’s obviously still hitting you really hard.” Shared road trips and two glasses of rosé fast-forwarded relationships. Emma was quickly becoming the confidante I’d lacked as my marriage fell apart. “You’re still excellent together in front of the cameras. So natural. I watched the last series, the dancing on Broadway one. I would never have guessed you weren’t a couple.”

Despite myself, I acknowledged the praise for a brief moment. The sole married gays fronting a mainstream telly show was certainly part of our appeal, but we were so much more than that, and the three of us knew it. Like all the best double acts, Leigh and I found the same things funny, read each other’s thoughts, anticipated the other’s next move. Had utter trust.

Hah!

“Nor does the rest of the viewing public. Our figures have slipped enough as it is, without announcing to the world the Leigh/Caspian love story is a total lie. It would be a ratings disaster. That’s why you and the rest of the crew signed a non-disclosure.”

Emma frowned. “I didn’t.”

“Didn’t you?” A little curl of anxiety crept up my spine.

“No. I don’t know about any of the crew, though. I joined the gang late, didn’t I? It’s probably an oversight. Trust me. I’m not about to spill your secrets on Twitter.”

I believed her; she was the most honest, straightforward person I’d met in the television industry in quite some time.

“Jonas says telling the world we’re divorced would pull more viewers in—he thinks it would spice up the on-set tension. I point-blank disagreed, and Leigh backed me up, thank God. Hence, the non-disclaimers.”

“Do you think you’re going to be able to pull it off? Hanging around a vineyard for nine months together? I imagine the day to day is a lot less intensive than rehearsing for the Broadway show, but in some ways it’s more intimate, isn’t it? Less action. From the way Jonas talks, the focus will rely more heavily on dialogue and self-discovery. The most satisfying journey is the one you take inward was the phrase he used.”

God, I really should have burned that desk calendar. And the priggish photo alongside it. “We’ll soon find out, won’t we? Hopefully, the urge to stab them both with a blunt scythe will pass as soon as the cameras roll.”

She grinned. “Aaah, and you’re such a sweet boy on the telly. No one would ever guess that in real life you were contemplating murder.”

“Well, you know the saying; television is an invention that permits you to be entertained in your living room by people you wouldn’t have in your home.”

I forgot who coined that originally, but I thought about it often, usually when I had to pretend to look adoringly into Leigh’s eyes. On screen, I had my shit together, the sassy boy with the love of his big cuddly hero. In real life, I rattled with antianxiety meds, Jonas was a cokehead, and Leigh would trample his own mother to bag a job presenting Bake Off .

Emma sighed. “I’m beginning to wish I’d known as much at the start.”

“You’re still here, though, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, unfortunately, I am.”

Even with the alcohol buzz, I detected a change in her mood. “Seeing as we’re spilling secrets, would you like to talk about that ?”

Her gaze dropped to her glass. “Not especially. I’ve not drunk enough wine yet.”

That was fair, I supposed. There was no rush; we had nine months. I daresay I’d know her sexual history, GCSE grades, and bra size by the end of it. I swirled my rosé around the glass.

“Leigh and I got together when we were twenty. I never imagined life without him, which was incredibly na?ve of me, but, then, I was so incredibly besotted. I’m only pursuing a career in television because he wanted it.”

“I’m sorry.” She sounded sincere.

“Yes, well.” I swallowed a deep breath. “I’ve been a fool. It’s had a very negative impact on my mental health, as you can tell. Not helped that we’re still glued to each other.”

“Roll on September, yeah?”

“Too right. Except fuck knows what I’ll do then. I’ve wasted years I’ll never get back. When I could have been following my own dreams, not Leigh’s.”

She took a much daintier sip. “Which are?”

“Can’t remember.” I gave a helpless shrug. “Which gives you an idea how inspiring they must have been.”

“Would you go on one of those celebrity reality shows?”

Leigh would. He was addicted to them; starring would be a dream come true. Already, he was in talks with the celebrity jungle one. Shame no one had asked Jonas. I quite liked the idea of him trapped in a tank full of cockroaches. He’d feel right at home.

“Christ, no. They couldn’t pay me enough. My agent, Libby, is looking at a few things, but nothing has sprung out yet.”

A polite way of saying I’d turned down everything she’d thrown my way. Such as a slot presenting a popular car programme on prime-time television, following my surprise Formula 3 success. The money was a huge step up from now. But when she mentioned adlibbing in front of a live audience, I’d nearly retched on the spot.

“What about radio?”

I’d contemplated that more seriously. According to the producers at Radio 2, I had a very soothing voice. Before Leigh and I started My Big Gay Adventures , I’d had an ad hoc late-night stint on a London radio station. Ratings had grown, and I’d enjoyed the challenge. Now the thought of speaking live to a nation through their car speakers and kitchen radios wracked me with horror. Chronic anxiety was a bitch like that.

Were me and my media career about to part ways? For most of the last few years, I’d felt out of control, like a blind man on horseback, galloping from nowhere to nowhere. I’d given it my best shot, for Leigh, but I’d been reluctant from the start.

“Maybe.”

“What transferable skills do you have?”

The pub door swung open, bringing with it a wintry blast, and my response was cut short. A good thing, seeing as I didn’t have one. Being in your mid-thirties, without a clue regarding career aspirations, wasn’t a good look. I was poised to distract Emma by bitching about the cold draught, seeing as whinging was my default mode these days.

The guy lumbering in stole the words from my mouth. First and foremost, he was big. Like, not only upwards, but sideways too. Even his head was huge, covered in a shaggy mess of thick brown curls, as if a seagull had built a haphazard nest, then abandoned it. I didn’t get much of a peek at his face as he strode away from us in the direction of the bar, except that an equally wild beard covered the bottom half. Heavy woven metal baskets swung from each colossal hand as if they weighed nothing at all, and a black Labrador, with most of a front leg missing, obediently hobbled at his heels.

Generally, the cute dog would have commanded my attention, but on this occasion, he hardly got a second glance. Not only was his owner a delicious hulking giant, but he was dressed from head to foot in thick blue rubber, and no one seemed to have noticed. Aside from yours truly, obviously.

“Fuck me,” I murmured. “It didn’t look like that type of pub from the outside.”

Emma snorted into her glass. Pretty sure wine connoisseurs weren’t taught that. “Those are waders—he’s a fisherman, you idiot.”

Aah. I really needed to get out of the city more. “Well, he can dangle his rod in my bait any time. Yes please. Blimey, look at the thighs on him!”

Emma laughed again. Bloody hell, I’d made a joke.

All thanks to the slab of a man swaggering across the pub. Wordlessly, he deposited his catch on the bar. Then, as if alone in the privacy of his bedroom, one big mitt clasped the zip at his neck and pulled.

I whistled softly. “People pay very good money for shows like this.”

Disappointingly, the tight white T-shirt underneath the rubber stayed put. As did the lower half of the waders, empty armholes dangling loosely around his waist. Nonetheless, the T-shirt did an excellent job outlining his physique. The guy wasn’t ripped; there were no V-cuts or cheese-grater abs. Just pure, solid man muscle. The fabulously honest old-fashioned sort, my absolute favourite type, honed from a lifetime of meat-and-gravy dinners after a hard day’s graft. The sort with safe harbour tattooed across them.

After giving his beard a leisurely scratch, the man raised his thick arms above his head to stretch out his upper back, twisting his neck from side to side a couple of times, ironing out kinks. As though he’d wrestled a shoal of fish all day, limbering up to wrestle a shoal of twinks all night. Even my jaded dick took notice. Eviscerate me, Daddy.

As if by magic, a pint of beer appeared at his elbow, and the back stretches came to an end. He stomped off to an empty corner and flopped down in the shadows. The dog made a nest under his chair. Show over.

Emma curled her lip. “Working in that rubber can’t be comfortable. I bet it really chafes when it’s wet. Hot too, in the summer.”

“Totally agree. He’d be much better out of it.”

She giggled, instantly girlish and a lot younger. For most of the journey, she’d been annoyingly upbeat, but a few surreptitious checks of her phone had been followed by a few seconds of disappointment.

Like a good boy, I savoured a sip of rosé. “I never asked you, Emma. How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Oh. I had you pegged as a few years older.”

She chuckled again. “Thanks! No wonder you’re on your own.”

“And are you… um… single?”

Her shrewd blue eyes regarded me. “Yes, but given that you’re salivating over Mr Atlas up the corner and was recently married to your male co-presenter, I’m fairly sure I’m not your type. And you’re certainly not mine. Why do you ask?”

God, I was so digging myself a hole. “You’re here because you’re escaping something, aren’t you? A failed or troubled relationship, maybe?” Takes one to know one.

Her eyes dropped to the table, and she fiddled with a drinks mat. “I’m… um… not exactly, but close enough. It’s complicated.”

My first impressions of Emma had been spot on. We were going to get on wonderfully. “Babe, complicated is my modus operandi. Let’s order another bottle.”