Page 12 of Corkscrew You
But I need to be a businessperson, too. I need to be an equal to Nathan Durant. A peer that he respects. Otherwise, even if we adapt and our profits lift, this winery will slip away from me like wine down a drain.
Fig. He’ll be back here in ninety minutes, and I have animals to feed and chores to do. Better find time to shave my legs, too. They look like I walked through thistledown. And I bet Ted’s dress code will have something to say aboutthat.
* * *
“Shelby, darling.”
Ted kisses me on both cheeks. Like they do in England, I gather. He is his usual floppy blond-haired, immaculately dressed, handsome self. He also smells divine, but there’s no point in asking what of. Any cologne Ted wears will be off-the-charts expensive. Probably distilled from some plant that only grows in an inaccessible valley and flowers once every thousand years.
“Gosh.” Ted takes in my dress, which is short, dark gold and sheer. Nathan said it’s his sister’s. He didn’t say if she minded him borrowing it. “You look…”
“Suitable?” I ask.
“I was going to say ‘luscious’,” Ted replies. “But, yes, eminently suitable.”
“Ahem,” says Chiara, in a warning tone.
Ted is unabashed. “You always look luscious, my dear. It’s your default setting.”
I wish I could be more like Ted. Nothing fazes him. Not even the presence of Nathan Durant, who I canfeelsquaring up behind us. It’s an effect Ted has on most American males, who know a threat when they see one. Not a threat in the physical sense, but the kind who could whisk your woman away to a private Caribbean island and ply her with Beluga caviar and Krug Clos d’Ambonnay ’95 at four grand a bottle.
But as it happens, Ted is able to subdue even the most bristling alpha male. It’s because he genuinely likes everyone, and if a person persists in behaving badly, he’ll simply ignore it until they give in and shape up.
“And you must be Nathan,” Ted smiles. “Chiara’s told me all about you.”
He extends a hand, which is gripped, at a guess, overly firmly. Ted does not flinch. Rumour is he was a British SAS officer, but Ted will neither confirm nor deny.
“Welcome. Andthankyou for what you’re doing for Flora Valley Wines.”
His sincerity is real and disarming. Nathan’s shoulders relax a little.
“My pleasure,” he says.
It doesn’t sound quite right coming out of Nathan’s mouth, but then Ted-isms are catching.
Assuming his gracious host role, Ted ushers us before him to the prized corner booth, where you can see and be seen. That would be Chiara’s doing. For good reason. My bestie is well worth observing in a lipstick pink number that hugs her outrageously great figure like a coat of paint. And every guy in the bar duly observes her. I can almost hear the cartoon “ah-oo-ga” horn sound as their eyes bug out.
We settle into the gold velvet seats, and one of Ted’s Europe-trained waitpersons appears like magic to take our drinks orders. If we were in the Silver Saddle, we’d be obliged to stand at the bar for several minutes, even if we were the only customers. Brendan likes people to know who’s in charge.
“Now, enjoy,” says Ted.
He won’t be joining us. He spends just enough time with his customers to earn their undying worship, and then disappears. “Always leave them wanting more Ted” is Ted’s motto. If he ever had anything as common as a motto, that is.
The waitperson waits silently while we peruse the cocktail menu. (You can only peruse in Bartons.) I glance up to find Nathan looking at me. He grins, shakes his head.
“What the hell is Anatolian menengic?”
“Coffee,” says Chiara. “Made from wild pistachios.”
“Yeah, you’ve got to watch those feral nuts,” says Nathan. “Have your arm off.”
Then he spots another gem. “Clarifiedoctopusmilk? You are shitting me.”
“I thought you were a Harvard sophisticate?” I tease.
“Nobody at Harvard drinks octopus milk,” he says. “Not even during hazing.”
Chiara is done perusing and is now ready for alcohol.
