Blaze (61 page)

April had sat in on a
Reality
production meeting with her little tape recorder on the table for all to see. Heather and the network publicity chief had met beforehand with the producer and key staff to make sure that this meeting would ‘favour' Heather – showing how workmates respected and liked her, how Heather's ideas for stories would be pounced upon. Heather was given advance details of several stories to put up at the meeting. She felt she'd made a good impression. By the time they'd settled in for the interview in the dressing room, Heather had been lulled by April into what was obviously a false sense of security.

Now she couldn't believe this ‘chat' session in the dressing room. It was like being cross-examined.

She tried to be disarming. ‘April, this is not the friendly chat I imagined. I feel like I'm on trial.'

‘A lot of your interview subjects might say the same. What do you say when they ring up to complain about how they've been treated by you and your show?'

‘I don't receive such calls,' said Heather stiffly.

‘You mean they're vetted by some poor producer?'

‘I wouldn't know. I'm just doing my job.' Heather frowned and fussed with the flowers in the vase on the dressing table. ‘I don't think this line of questioning is taking us very far. If you just want to be confrontational and not listen to me . . .'

April gave a relaxed laugh. ‘How many times has someone said that to you?'

Heather rose, turned and went to the mirror to fiddle with her hair, but April could see her furious face in the mirror and knew Heather had heard that phrase many times.

‘Okay, if you want to stop at this point.' April switched off her tape. ‘Would you like to give me the names of some friends – and enemies, if you have any – who can give me a quote or an anecdote about you?'

Heather handed over the list she had prepared. April clipped it to her papers. She had her own list of names to follow up and she doubted they'd be on Heather's list.

‘I want to see what you write before it goes to the editor,' said Heather in an authoritative tone.

‘Aw, come on, Heather,' smiled April calmly, ‘Good try. You know better than that. There's no way we'd do that. Maybe in the US the celebs demand copy and photo approval and a cover story, but not here. Even the biggest names don't see the copy before it's published,' she added pointedly, hinting Heather was yet to become a big name. ‘Once one magazine caves in here, we're all gone. No way.'

Heather snarled at her without any pretence of civility. ‘Listen, April, we had a deal to help each other . . .'

‘Did we?' said April archly as she prepared to leave.

‘You've just overstepped the mark. If you write anything that will damage me, or my career, the station will sue the arse off you and I'll make it my personal job to even the score.'

‘Tut-tut. It would take a lot more than I could do to puncture your hide, Heather. But it's nice to see I've at least ruffled a feather or two. Toodle-loo.'

April shut the door to the dressing room behind her, feeling well pleased with the way it had all gone. She could write a killer article. She nodded at the photographer lounging in the hallway. ‘She's all yours. You may have to quieten her down a bit.' He would take the obligatory posed shot, which may appear in the article. But April had seen a terrific photo of Heather taken by one of the freelance society photographers who passed as pseudo paparazzi in Sydney. It was after the film premiere at a karaoke nightclub and Heather, very drunk, had been on stage clutching a microphone. Heather fancied she had a voice and it had amused people to see the hard-nosed journo attempting to be club torch singer. April could see her headline over that picture – ‘Heather Race – off the record'. April had every intention of writing about all she had seen and heard while partying around with Heather . . . all the ugly and embarrassing details. And she'd write it all – with such a moral tone. Ali would love it.

Miche and Jeremy were talking on the phone every other day. Their shared experience with Sally had given them a lot to talk about.

‘Larissa is going to the memorial service in Sally's home town,' said Miche. ‘I just couldn't bring myself to go with her. I should have, I suppose. But I couldn't face it. Though I would have liked the break. The city seems a bit claustrophobic.'

‘That's rich, coming from a New Yorker,' said Jeremy. ‘There are lots of gorgeous, uncluttered areas around Sydney.'

‘I know. Larissa's friend, Kevin, has a boat and takes us around the harbour or up the Hawkesbury River.'

‘Sounds great. But, listen, you promised to come to the Hunter Valley. Take a long weekend. You might find a story up here. There's a comfy B&B near us. Not flash. But comfy and not too expensive.'

‘I'm tempted.'

‘I reckon it's time we saw each other again. Save on the phone bills,' he kidded.

Miche wasn't deceived by his light tone of voice. They were both curious about each other. They'd shared a lot of personal detail that bordered on the intimate. It had seemed safe and uncomplicated to do so at a distance. He'd told her he'd broken up with a girlfriend when he went to France and, while he saw her occasionally, it wasn't the same. A year in Europe had changed him.

‘Okay. I'll come. And seriously, it would be fantastic if you can think of any stories I could do in your neck of the woods. I can write the trip off to tax then.'

‘Terrific! I'll fax you a little map. And dinner Saturday night is on me. Sunday lunchtime my boss always has a bit of an open house, wine tasting and so on. You'd be welcome to come along. It's always kind of fun. I have a few chores Saturday morning, but you'll find plenty to do.'

To Miche's foreign eyes, the Lower Hunter was lovely – the scrubby native bushland, farms and paddocks neatly ploughed and planted. No billboards, no drive-through roadhouses. In the misty distance, the Brokenback Ranges cut into the blue canvas of sky.

Soon she was driving past trellised rows of low nubby vines, and near the entrance to the first winery she passed, she saw a sign announcing she was in the Home of the Hunter Wines.

Several of the wineries looked quite large and sprawling, but there was no sense of age as there had been in France. Even so, it was picturesque. Seeing a small restaurant with a courtyard shaded by grapevines, Miche pulled in for lunch.

There were several tourists wandering about, the cellar shop was crowded and the restaurant half full. The waitress was busy but pleasant. She gave Miche a menu and the wine list that featured mostly local wines. She was trying to decide what to try when an older man stopped to ask if he could help her select a wine.

‘I'm new to the country, first time in this area, so the names mean very little I'm afraid,' smiled Miche. ‘I was using the same method I do to pick horses – whatever name appeals.'

‘Could have merit,' he agreed with a big smile. ‘You really can't go wrong in this area with the local vintages.'

‘Well, a glass of something local, light, crisp and dry,' said Miche closing the wine list. ‘Surprise me.'

‘Wonderful. I'll do that. Are you staying here for a while or just passing through?'

‘I'm visiting a friend. He works in a vineyard.' Miche had to think for a moment. ‘It's Palmerston Wines.'

‘Ah, Steve and Helen. Know them well, great people. Excellent wines. Who's your friend?'

‘Jeremy Foster. We met in France.'

‘Young Jem. Good lad, he's coming on well. One of the local flying winemakers. That's what we call them. They go overseas to have a bit of European training. But, frankly, I think we can teach the Europeans a thing or two these days. You interested in the wine business?'

‘Not really. Though I'd like to learn more. I'm a journalist. Looking for a story,' said Miche.

He saw the waitress trying to catch his eye. ‘I'll choose a wine for you. And think about a story. This area has a very colourful history.'

Her meal was delicious and the wine exactly what she wanted. She made a note of it so she could order it with Jeremy and not seem the wine neophyte she was. Miche lingered over her lunch, enjoying her own company, the pleasant surroundings and being away from the city. She realised she'd been pretty strung out since arriving in Australia; still mourning her mother, the concern over work, the death of Sally. This time out was exactly what she needed. And there was the anticipation of seeing Jeremy.

The restaurant was less busy, the tourists didn't linger. Her host, as she assumed, returned to refill her glass.

‘Compliments of the establishment. Maybe you'll write about us.'

‘I'm not a foodie writer,' confessed Miche. Though it seemed a good idea. She'd heard that food and travel writing was the best meal ticket in journalism.

‘So who do you write for? I'm John Sandgate, by the way. This is my place. Started as a hobby and has become the love of my life.'

‘I'm Michelle Bannister. Please, join me, seeing as I'm enjoying your wine,' said Miche. ‘I'm a freelance writer, but work mostly for
Blaze
.'

‘I'm impressed. So what do you write about?'

‘Well, I suppose what interests me,' said Miche slowly.

‘My wife subscribes to
Blaze.
I usually browse through it. Would I have seen anything of yours lately?'

‘Maybe. I did a story about a young Australian model in France. Sally Shaw, sadly she . . .'

‘Oh God, yes, she died. Suicide or overdose or something. I saw it on the news.'

‘I had already been thinking of writing about tragedy and violence in the lives of young people when it happened,' said Miche sipping her wine.

‘Can spring out of nowhere,' said the vintner, who found the subject rather disconcerting. Vineyard visitors were usually more upbeat, enjoying a day or so away from the rat race.

‘Road rage, hostage crises, plane hijackings, can happen anywhere.' Miche looked around the gracious vineyard setting. ‘Though not in a place like this, I guess.'

‘Oh, we've had our share of dramas in this neck of the woods.'

‘Like?'

‘Well, let's see. Fires – suspected arson. Drought and floods. Industrial espionage where someone turned a tap and we lost a whole sublime vintage. A murder and a couple of spectacular divorces.' He gave a chuckle. ‘All good material for a soap opera, eh?'

‘It could be interesting.' Miche decided to ask Jeremy more about the area. Maybe there was a story here.

She paid her bill and John Sandgate handed her a bottle of the verdelho she'd enjoyed at lunch. ‘Share it with young Jeremy. And tell him if he ever wants to move over from Palmerston's I'll give him a job here in a flash.'

After settling into her Bed and Breakfast – in a quaint old farmhouse – she drove to meet Jeremy at Palmerston Wines.

A wall of slim poplars bordered the road, sandstone pillars held gracious wrought-iron gates that stood open, a white gravel driveway edging smooth green lawns that curved out of sight. It looked luxurious.

She drove past several utilitarian-looking buildings, noting the vineyards and what appeared to be the main house in the distance. A small stone building with several cars out the front was signposted ‘Office'. Next to it was the cellar shop. She walked into the office and asked for Jeremy, but someone had followed her indoors and a cheerful voice behind her called her name.

‘Miche! I saw you drive up.' He pulled a stained and battered broad-brimmed hat off his head and in a blur she was instantly reminded of her first vision of him coming into the dim dining room of the French chateau – fresh air and sunshine.

‘You look just the same!' She felt it a silly thing to say, but Jeremy was giving her a warm hug that set off a confusion of feelings.

He stepped back to look at her. ‘You don't look the same. You look even better than I remember.' He took her arm, ‘Come on, hop in the wagon and we'll do the tour. I have to check on a few things as well.'

He helped her up into the four-wheel drive and threw his hat onto the back seat. ‘Settled into the B&B all right? Did you have lunch?'

‘It's perfect. I treated myself to lunch at one of the vineyards. I met John Sandgate . . . who said he'd hire you in a flash if you're interested.'

‘John's a top bloke. I'm well settled here with Helen and Steve, they've invested a lot in me. John'll probably come over to lunch on Sunday. Now, let me fill you in. It's going to be a boom year, I reckon. We're experimenting with different blends of grapes with our merlot. The shiraz is going to be great this year and the semillon looks good too. We're having a big wine tasting in a week or so.'

‘For tourists?'

‘No, chefs and waiters from Sydney's best restaurants and hotels. You'll have to come along. There'll be a few of the prominent interstate vignerons as well. They'll also be checking out the food. There are a couple of terrific eating places around here. Regional cuisine is being teamed with the wines and it's turning out to be a winning combination.'

‘It's very pretty . . . I was winding around little back roads that seemed in the middle of nowhere, then you spin around a corner and there's a vineyard. They all look rather new and very neat.'

‘It's becoming a bit too trendy, if you ask me. Little country clubs, and golf courses, lodge retreats and hobby places – and weekenders are popping up everywhere. Too close to Sydney in one way. But the tourist trade is a big part of the marketing scene now. Mind you, back in the 1850s there were over thirty vineyards in the area. It dropped off until the sixties when the boutique wineries started. They compete with the old, established boys.'

‘Do you want to start your own place one day?'

Jeremy thought for a moment. ‘Well, if I win Lotto I may think about it. I'd need big investors. I'm happy just learning all I can, and experimenting with varieties at the moment. It's a fast-changing industry.'