Free Vintage by Olivia Darling Page B

relatively safe concrete outside the winery while Guy pointed to the vines they could see from that vantage point and let Kelly know what varietal was planted where with the help of a drawing he’d taken hours to prepare.
    “Doesn’t mean anything to me,” she told him when he had finished a fairly impassioned speech about the suitability of the terroir at Froggy Bottom for creating sparkling wine. Guy said he could explain it all again if she wanted, but Kelly told him the only thing she wanted right then was to get inside and out of the drizzle.
    And so they went into the winery. It was the newest of the ugly-looking sheds that flanked the courtyard, and inside it was like any other factory—all piping and concrete floors. Kelly stared up at the enormous stainless steel vats and started to zone out while Guy explained the whole process of making sparkling wine from grape to bottle. The occasional word—familiar from Daniel Weston’swine monologues—drifted into her consciousness but seeing the tools of the craft laid before her didn’t make things any clearer or more interesting. Meanwhile Guy’s strong Afrikaans accent began to grate on her. He sounded as arrogant as he looked.
    Kelly glanced from Guy to Hilarian and caught him looking back at her. He’d seemed happy enough when he came to her rescue in the Land Rover, but now she decided that he’d taken a dislike to her too. His eyes were narrowed as he regarded her. He probably thought she was stupid and common, Kelly decided. People like him always did. Well, it didn’t matter what he thought. She’d never have to see him again. She wasn’t coming back to this place until the time came to sell it. Kelly had talked to one of the girls at work: a law student at the London School of Economics. She said she thought Kelly would be able to get around the whole trust thing if she wanted to. “Circumvent” was the word she’d used.
    “OK,” said Hilarian suddenly. “I can see that our guest of honor is flagging in the face of all your jargon, Guy. Shall we cut to the chase?”
    Guy had already prepared a little tasting area in the corner of the winery. He’d covered a small folding table with a white tablecloth and arrayed eight glasses in front of two different vintages of Froggy Bottom’s finest. He poured out tasting measures. Hilarian and Mr. Harper examined the color of the wine against the background of the tablecloth. Kelly listened to Hilarian’s pretentious description of what looked like bubbling piss to her.
    “I’m very proud that Froggy Bottom has produced a wine this good,” said Hilarian. “Which is lucky because in five years’ time, I’m going to need your first vintage to be a world-beater, Kelly.”
    “Eh?” said Kelly.
    “I made a little bet,” Hilarian told her, “with a coupleof other wine critics, that your wine would be better than their favorite sparklers. Actually, it was quite a big bet. So if you don’t produce a great first vintage … ” Hilarian pulled his forefinger across his throat in a slashing motion.
    Kelly frowned.
    “Don’t worry. You won’t be doing it on your own. Guy and I will be with you every step of the way. Now, tell me what you think. Slight hint of grass on the nose,” he suggested. “Biscuity overtones.”
    Kelly took a small sniff and a big gulp. She swallowed. She knew the men were waiting for her verdict.
    To her surprise, Kelly tasted the grass Hilarian spoke of at once. She also tasted fresh green apples, and the fizz lingered longer than she had expected when she looked at the bubbles in the glass. What word was it that Daniel Weston had used to describe fizziness? Mousse? No, that didn’t sound right.
    She didn’t want to make a fool of herself.
    “I’d prefer a Bacardi Breezer,” she said at last.
    The visit ended fairly shortly after that. Guy and Hilarian helped Mr. Harper get his Audi out of the mud and waved him and Kelly back off to London. With relief.
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