Page 12 of Third Time’s a Charm

If it gets out, I’ll have some explaining to do. But I could probably pass it off as wanting to ensure the viability of the plan before bringing it up. Which brings me to Louise’s suggestion that I go with her on a road trip.

Accepting the offer and going on the trip is a no-brainer. It will give me the opportunity to see firsthand whether this plan is viable, and to determine what kind of support the business can count on from the primary producers.

There’s also the fact that visiting the wineries and chatting with winemakers is one of the things I love most about this business. I may not like small talk, but wine talk is a different matter altogether.

And getting out of Sydney, with its painful memories, has a definite appeal.

That said, going on a road trip with her is fraught with difficulties. First and foremost, I don’t want to give her false hope. If it turns out I can’t make the numbers work, or convince Tate it’s worth a try, Louise will not only be left without a job, but her ideas will be dead in the water. Or should I say wine barrel.

From a personal standpoint, it’s unquestionably a bad idea to spend days alone in the country with Louise, attracted to her as I am. I’m only human.

On the other hand, not going limits my ability to evaluate the proposal. And also suggests to John Mackelden that he may have been right. And I can’t bear the thought of him feeling vindicated.

With a sigh, I stretch out as best I can on the small sofa, my feet propped on the arm. What is the lesser of two evils? I give myself twenty-four hours to do some more number crunching before I make a decision, one way or the other.

Even without the shitshow at Cellar Road International, I expect being in Sydney will be a constant exercise in holding my shit together. Which I’m normally pretty good at. But here it’s next level.

This is my third visit. I smile when I imagine what Louise would think about that. Maybe she’s onto something with three being bad luck.

My mum and Sandra, Louise’s mum, grew up together in a little town in Gloucestershire. When Sandra married an Australian and moved to Sydney, they worked hard at keeping in touch by catching up either in the UK or Australia every few years. Mum brought me with her on a couple of trips. Once when I was six, then again when I was fifteen, although Sandra never brought Louise to the UK.

When I was six, I thought it was paradise. Even three-year-old Louise peeing on my shoes couldn’t dampen my enthusiasm for the beaches and sunshine.

But when I was fifteen, things changed.

Fifteen is a shitful age for a boy. It didn’t help that Mum teased me about how sweet Louise was, and how pretty she was becoming, braces notwithstanding. Or how happy she’d be if we grew up and fell in love. Got married. Sure, I thought Louise was a sweet kid, but from the lofty height of fifteen, she still seemed like a baby.

When Louise and I were packed off together to a birthday party a few houses down the street one night, I was not happy. I’d been enduring the shy giggles and clumsy flirty looks of Louise’s friends for an hour or so when I noticed a stain on the back of her white dress.

I wasn’t the only one. A couple of pimply faced boys who were drinking out of a bottle in a brown paper bag were laughing and pointing.

I couldn’t let her walk around like that, so with all the poise and sensitivity of an awkward teenage boy, I took her aside and told her. Adding insult to injury, I had no choice but to sacrifice my favourite jumper—which was forever after ruined—to tie around her waist. Then I walked her home, while silent tears ran down her pale cheeks. It was the very definition of mortification. For both of us.

Mum and Sandra didn’t hear us arrive. I expected Louise to head straight for her mother, looking for comfort. Instead, she ran down the hall and disappeared into the bathroom, the click of the lock loud in the silent house.

I stopped in the kitchen to get a glass of water, which is when I overheard Mum and Sandra talking quietly on the back verandah.

My knees quietly gave out, and I slid to the Baker’s kitchen floor, where I sat, with my back propped against the kitchen cabinets, for what seemed like hours, listening to Mum tell Sandra the cancer was back and there was nothing they could do.

That night was the beginning of the end of my childhood, and the beauty of Sydney will be forever tainted by it.

The mother I adored faded away and died three months later, without ever knowing I’d heard their conversation. Which, when I think about it, tracks with Louise’s theory that three is an unlucky number.

Chapter Seven

Louise

By the time Jasper Spencer-Jones moves into his newly allocated office on day four of his tenure, we’re all suffering from frostbite.

He’s not rude. Far from it. He’s unfailingly polite. Unruffled. Professional. But he brooks no arguments and accepts no excuses. He’s confident and decisive and insightful.

Maybe it’s the difference between the British stiff-upper-lip approach and the more laid-back Australian style; I don’t know. Whatever it is, his persona doesn’t sit well with most of the staff.

The only one who seems immune to Jasper’s interpersonal style—apart from me—is Colin.

“Oooh, yum,” he whispers as Jasper strides past my door and down the corridor.

“Yum? Really?” Colin doesn’t need to know how thoroughly I agree with him.