The bedside lamp cast a pool of yellow light on the ceiling, and a circle of it spilled across her pillow. But the rest of the room seemed plunged into deeper shadow, dark and depressing.
Nicole sat on the edge of the bed ringing her hands, her nightdress hardly enough to keep her warm. Tears ran hot down cold cheeks, raising gooseflesh on her arms, and try as she might she couldn’t restrain the sobs that bubbled up from her chest to break in her throat and part her lips. Her head ached and her eyes burned.
She looked up, startled by the gentle knock on her bedroom door, and a wedge of soft light fell into the room from the hall. Fabien’s silhouette nearly filled the door frame. He stood there, hesitating on the threshold, and she could hear the bewilderment in his voice.
‘Why are you crying?’
‘You had no right to speak to Monsieur Macleod like that. He hasn’t done you any harm.’
‘He was coming to spy on us.’
‘He’s trying to find out who killed a man. Two men now.’ Her breath trembled as she sucked it in. ‘He’s a good man. I owe him everything, and I’ve let him down. I don’t know how I can face him tomorrow.’ And fresh tears tumbled over her cheeks.
Fabien stepped into the room and pushed the door shut behind him. He hesitated briefly before sitting on the bed beside her. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘I understand that I should never have come here. And when I discovered this was where Petty was found, I should have left immediately. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.’
‘You don’t need to do that.’
‘Yes I do.’
Fabien looked down at his hands, embarrassed and upset by her distress. ‘Look, I’m sorry. Don’t go. I don’t want you to go.’
Which set her off on a fresh squall of sobbing. He seemed at a loss for what to do before putting a clumsy arm around her shoulder in an attempt at comfort. She didn’t appear to notice, and so he left it there and they sat still for several minutes in a silence broken only by her sobs. Finally, she half turned towards him. ‘Why did you hate Petty so much?’
‘It wasn’t him. It was the system he represented. A system that serves only one man’s taste. That wants to deliver something as unvaryingly predictable as cola. A system that’s destroying diversity.’
For a moment, Nicole forgot her distress, startled by his intensity, impressed by his eloquence.
‘Petty’s been replaced by Parker, but nothing’s changed. Winemakers talk now about “Parkerizing” their wines. Making it to suit his tastes, trying to win his favour, pitching for one of his high ratings. Instead of following their own instincts, making wines that come from the heart and the soul. The critics are even telling us how to make our wines these days. Filter, don’t filter. Micro-oxygenate. The wealthy chateaux are all employing consultants at hugely inflated fees just to make wines that’ll please Parker, and Petty before him. Which leaves the rest of us, who don’t have that kind of money, fighting for crumbs at the critics’ table.’
‘But if you make a good wine, surely people will recognise that?’
‘What’s a good wine? A wine that Parker likes? Does that mean one he doesn’t like is a bad wine? Of course not. But these people don’t want wines to be different. They want them to be all the same.’ He was on a roll now, and Nicole was being carried along with it. ‘You understand what we mean by terroir?’
‘It’s an area, a region.’
‘In winemaking, terroir refers to the vineyard, and how all the specific qualities of the land affect and change the wine. The type of soil, whether the vineyard is elevated or flat, whether or not it is south-facing. What weather systems affect it, even the micro-climates that exist between one part of the vineyard and another.’ Fabien shook his head. ‘But there are people who refuse to accept the concept of terroir. They want to believe that they can make wines in California, or Chile, or Australia, that they taste just the same as wines grown in Bordeaux, or Burgundy, or the Rhone Valley. Terroir doesn’t exist, they say. Because to admit that it does means they will never makes wines like the French. Which is what they all aspire to.’
‘Don’t you want to make wines that taste like Bordeaux?’
‘Of course not. How can I do that? The soil is different here, the climate is different. We grow different grapes. I want to make good Gaillac wines.’
‘But you also want people to know they exist.’
‘Of course.’
‘So people like Petty and Parker are important.’
Fabien just shook his head. ‘Petty came here. But I wouldn’t let him taste my wine.’
Nicole was astonished, her tears forgotten. ‘Why not?’
It was a long time before Fabien answered her. And when he did, it was in a very small voice for such a big man. ‘I was scared.’
‘What of?’
‘That I would get bad ratings.’ He turned to meet her gaze of consternation. ‘I took over the vineyard eight years ago, when my father died. He was very traditional. Made the same wine his father had made before him. In the same chai, in the same old concrete cuves. But there was a whole new generation of young winemakers at work in Gaillac, and I knew that to compete I would have to change things. Modernise, employ new techniques. So I borrowed. A huge amount of money, Nicole. I’d be scared to tell you how much. I mortgaged everything. The house, the farm. I built a new chai, installed stainless steel cuves, all the latest equipment. I went to Bordeaux and Burgundy, to California and Australia, just to see how other people were doing it.’ His eyes fell away to gaze at the floor. ‘Petty was the first international critic to come and rate Gaillac wines. If he marked down the wines of La Croix Blanche, I’d never have been able to sell them. I’d have been ruined. Lost everything to the bank.’ He glanced at her. ‘How could I ever have faced my father in the next life?’
Nicole had no idea what to say. She became aware that his arm was still around her, and the warmth of his body had taken away her chill. Her tears had dried up, and her breathing had returned to normal, although her heart, perhaps, was beating a little faster. Gently, almost imperceptibly, she leaned into him, soaking up the comfort that he had intended his arm to give. She shook her hair out of her face and turned towards him. He turned, too, and his face seemed very close to hers. She could feel his breath on her forehead. Instinctively she tipped her head back as he dipped his towards her. And the bedroom door opened.
They were startled apart, the moment between them scattered like dandelion seeds in the wind. The formidable Madame Marre stood in the doorway. She did not fill it, as her son had done, but her presence was much more forbidding. She wore an old-fashioned nightcap over hair in curlers and pulled her flannelette dressing gown tightly around her bony frame. ‘Time you were back in bed, Fabien. You’re up at six.’ It was an instruction, not an observation. Fabien stood up immediately. She was not a woman to be argued with.
Back in bed, curled up among the sheets, with the light out, Nicole wondered if they had really been going to kiss, or if it had been a figment of her imagination. She felt a tiny thrill of excitement run through her at the thought-and knew-that had he kissed her, she would have kissed him right back.