The Affair (3 page)

Nina continued. ‘A living room should be somewhere you feel comfortable because it says “you”.’

The man could tell she was thinking while she was talking. He watched her with interest, keen to hear what she would come up with. He was relishing every moment of this game. Nina’s large expressive brown eyes darted about, looking past him, her mind working furiously. She locked back onto his gaze with a triumphant little smile.

‘The medieval jousting you like to do on weekends. Why not bring those suits of armour and the racks out of the basement, I mean, your dungeon. The racks would be perfect as the core idea for your living area.’

The stranger fell back against the seat laughing,
his enjoyment contagious. Nina felt it pass through her body as a wave of pleasure.

Outside the rain fell steadily, producing a pleasant rat-a-tat sound on the roof. The windows had fogged up from their breath, making it difficult for them to make sense of the buildings and people outside, which passed by in a whirl of unrecognisable shapes. The streetlights came on, casting feeble halos that barely penetrated the silver curtain of rain. Inside the taxi the air was steamy and close.

The car behind sounded its horn and the taxi driver was forced to turn his attention to the road. Nina knew he had been listening to every word of their conversation. His body and eyes were facing the road but his focus was very much in the back seat with them. His presence heightened their intimacy as every word they spoke was loaded with double meaning. Nina and the stranger seemed to exist within their own private world, a world they were creating together.

‘And are you still wearing red-and-blue tights and playing Spider-Man at children’s parties for a living?’ asked Nina.

She looked across at the stranger, her eyes wide and innocent, her mouth gently lifted at the corners in an enquiring half-smile.

The stranger squirmed in his seat. He looked Nina over, considering her carefully. ‘Touché,’ he said softly so that only she could hear. He leaned forward as he spoke, his breath warm against Nina’s wet shoulder. She was conscious of his closeness.
His light cotton shirt was plastered against his chest. He wasn’t a big man but he was compact and muscular. She was very aware of his physicality, his broad chest and the heat that emanated from him, adding to the steamy humidity inside the cab.

He leaned back and looked at her, the smile fading from his face as he shook his head sadly. ‘I’m afraid my Spider-Man days are over. Papa died a few months ago and I had to take over the family business.’

His mood changed so abruptly and his voice suddenly was so sad that Nina wondered if this were true. She was taken aback momentarily. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

They sat in silence for a moment, Nina unsure what to say. The driver kept his gaze intently on the road ahead, his windscreen wipers working furiously. Nina started to regret that she had been so flippant about Spider-Man. She had been having so much fun, she had overdone it. She had been guilty of doing exactly that since she was a child. Her father had always been telling her ‘Nina, you’ve gone too far,’ and so she had learned to tone down her natural exuberance.

The stranger saw the frown on her face. He hadn’t meant to upset her with his seriousness. What a sensitive little creature she was. He wanted the carefree, playful girl back. He slid his foot along the floor, out of view of the driver, and gently tapped hers. It’s okay, it seemed to say. He smiled and Nina felt herself relax again.

‘It was a terrible shock for all of us,’ continued
the stranger. ‘And now I have so much to do. I have to go back to Italy to sort out the family estate.’

He kept his head down, then looked up sadly, theatrically, through the rain-streaked window. The taxi slowed in the traffic. They were approaching a huge flashing Coca-Cola sign. It towered over the intersection at the heart of Kings Cross. Usually Nina liked to watch the sign change shape, morphing into a new image. But tonight she ignored it, totally absorbed in the surreal conversation she was sharing with this interesting man. Nina realised she was completely happy, sitting in the back of the slow-moving taxi. The time, all the stresses of the day, her past, her future, everything fell away.

‘Italy, why Italy?’ she asked.

The stranger looked at the passing shops for inspiration. The taxi drew level with an inner-city coffee house, a place he knew well. He often popped in there for a leisurely breakfast with the newspapers. Nina knew it well too. She sometimes dropped by for a quick coffee while she was shopping. The windows of the café were covered in posters and large striped umbrellas dripped over empty tables on the footpath.

‘Oh, don’t you remember?’ asked the stranger.

Nina could tell by his tone he was feeling pretty pleased with himself. She smiled, looking forward to whatever was coming.

‘I’m sure I told you. My family owns the Lavazza empire.’

Nina followed his eyes to a poster in the window
of the café.
Lavazza Qualita O’ro
it declared in gigantic type above a photo of a steaming cup of rich black coffee in an impossibly white cup with matching saucer.

‘
That
Lavazza coffee?’ she asked, pointing.

The stranger reacted as if he was noticing the poster for the first time.

‘Oh God, they have our old poster up. Oh, that’s so frustrating. Yes,
that
Lavazza coffee empire.’

Nina considered the stranger. She allowed her eyes to range over his face, taking in his fair hair and freckled complexion. She raised one eyebrow and pursed her lips. Then she slowly and deliberately looked over the rest of him, ending with a derisive snort at his trousers tucked into mismatching socks. Without a word, she had conveyed her message.
Italian indeed!

The stranger enjoyed her appraisal. He found it acutely seductive to have this enigmatic beauty, with the pixie smile and the big sad eyes, looking him over.

Nina felt the tension building between them. It was intensely, delightfully thrilling. She felt that delicious ache in the pit of her stomach, a luscious throbbing in the secret depths of her body. She was a little surprised at her physical reaction and shifted in her seat, smoothing her dress down where it had ridden up around her thighs.

‘I knew you had a family business back in Italy but I didn’t know it was coffee. I guess I just assumed your family was in the fashion business, you having seven sisters and all.’ Nina smiled
sweetly as she mentioned his sisters and the stranger’s eyes widened in mock horror.

‘Seven?’ he mouthed silently.

‘How are they all?’ continued Nina. ‘As head of the family I guess you inherit responsibility for them all. That must be a handful.’

The stranger started waving both hands about in what Nina supposed was meant to be an Italian manner. ‘
Si
,
si,
they are a handful,’ he said, shaking his head gravely. ‘Fortunately, I also inherited the family castle, with a moat of course, the family fortune, so that I can provide them each with a respectable dowry, and the title, which is one of the oldest in Italy. I am the fourteenth Count Mauro de March.’

He spoke with all the aplomb and elan that centuries of Italian aristocratic breeding might have produced.

‘Count Mauro de March,’ repeated Nina, drawing out the
rs
. She wondered where he had plucked that name from. He was wondering the same thing. It had just popped into his head. It was a name he had heard at school. A joke. The rest of the memory eluded him.

‘At your service, signorina.’ He bowed forward in his seat. Nina was captivated.

‘I think Count Mauro de March definitely needs to bring his suit of armour out of his dungeon and put it on display.’

‘Yes,’ laughed the count. ‘I think that might be perfectly suitable.’

Nina noticed with a start where they were. If
she didn’t speak up soon they would miss her turn off. She leaned forward to instruct the driver and then settled back into the seat. She smiled at the stranger. She didn’t want the ride to end. She felt like she had known this man all her life. She wanted to thank him somehow for his kindness and for keeping her so entertained. She slid her foot along the floor and gently tapped his ankle with her bare toe.

He understood her silent communication and smiled back.

‘How lovely it has been to catch up with you,’ he said. ‘After so long.’

‘And with you too. Please remember me to your sisters – all of them.’

‘I will. And don’t forget to drink lots of coffee. They have expensive tastes you know. And with seven of them …
Mon Dieu
!’

Nina laughed. ‘It will be only Lavazza in our household from now on, I promise.’

The taxi stopped at Nina’s apartment block. The stranger leapt out of the car into the rain and, before Nina could gather her bags together, he was opening her door. She thanked him and stood for a moment by the car as the raindrops fell silently onto her head, spilling down her face. She made no attempt to brush them away. The stranger was just as unconcerned by the rain. They were both already so wet. He leaned forward, as if he had all the time in the world and, half-bowing, gently took her hand.

‘It has been a surprise and a pleasure.’

He sounded so sweet and sincere Nina felt herself blush. ‘Thank you, count,’ she said.

They shook hands, almost formally. His fingers were warm but wet and slippery with the rain. They slid across hers, slowly, sensually, and Nina felt an involuntary tightening of the muscles somewhere in the pit of her stomach. She was reluctant to let go of the stranger’s hand. It was so pleasurable to feel it wrapped around her own. He was frozen by the magic of the moment also, and they stood together, stupidly smiling at each other in the softly falling rain.

Nina had no idea how long they stayed like that. She was conscious only of his eyes, locked onto her own, and his smile, open and engaging, dragging her into him. She felt joy bubbling up inside her. This man made her want to laugh and laugh and laugh.

He felt the same. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name. And she was right. He was feeling all those things. And then he did something that was so out of character, so spontaneous, he wasn’t aware himself that he was doing it until he was. Perhaps it was the rain. Perhaps it was the softness in Nina’s smile, or the laughter in her eyes, or the way tendrils of wet hair clung to her throat. Perhaps it was because he was overcome by the joy and delight of their impromptu meeting. Perhaps it was all of those things for at that moment, he stepped out of himself.

He wasn’t shy or awkward or clumsy. He leaned forward, took her in his arms tango-style and bent her gracefully over one arm.

It didn’t occur to Nina to fight him. She was completely at one with him at that moment and it seemed to her the most natural thing in the world, to fall back laughing in the arms of this stranger. She felt the world sway. The blood rushed to her head and the deserted street spun about her. She felt the rain on her face, dropping into her mouth and she savoured its taste. She felt light and free, anchored only by the stranger’s hands on her waist. It was exhilarating

This most perfect of moments was all too brief. One minute she was in his arms, the next he was setting her back on her feet and the world was quickly becoming steady again.

The taxi driver intruded on them, winding down his window to call them to attention. ‘Okay, Fred and Ginger. Wrap it up. The rest of Sydney has plans for tonight,’ he announced. Then he wound up his window, shutting out the rain.

The stranger gave a smile of regret as Nina picked up her bags. With a final wave she ran through the open gates into the driveway of her apartment block.

It was only as she stood at the front door searching in her bag for her key that she realised she hadn’t contributed anything to the fare. She laughed aloud, feeling good all over. How fitting. He had been her knight, her Italian count, coming to the rescue. She looked forward to telling James all about it over dinner.

James Wilde hung up the phone, frowning. Nina should have been home by now. He looked past the wall clock at the rain falling steadily on the window. Cases of wine were stacked against every wall of his office. He had one more order to process and fax through to the family estate in the Hunter Valley. He had hoped to have it done by now and be home, settling in with Nina for their regular Friday night together. Well, no matter. She wasn’t home either. The rain must have held her up. The buses would be extra slow in this weather. James didn’t like to think of her getting caught in the rain.

A head peered around his door. ‘God, I need a drink.’ It was Felix, the accountant, who worked in the office next door.

James didn’t bother to look up from his paperwork, waving instead in the direction of the fridge.

As the vintner of the office suite, James’s door – and fridge – were known to be always open. Three school friends, each pursuing different businesses, rented this suite of offices, sharing a receptionist/secretary, a boardroom and an impressive address on the edge of town. They called it the Burman Suite after the house they all had belonged to at school. Felix opened the fridge and selected a bottle of semillon, half-finished from the day’s tastings.

‘Is this one okay?’ he asked, showing the label to James.

‘Bit young. But what does that matter to you? It’s alcohol.’

Felix poured himself a hefty glass. Then he poured another and set it in front of James, who accepted it with resignation. He really wanted to finish what he was doing and get away. But Felix hated to drink alone. It wasn’t sociable, he said.

James held the glass aloft out of habit, nodded to his friend and sipped the wine. It definitely was a bit green. The grape was still fermenting when it was bottled. It wasn’t like his brother Mark to make such a mistake. This batch would have to go out below cost, somewhere not too conspicuous, like a small, out-of-the-way suburban bottle shop or bar.

James turned his attention back to the order in front of him: four cases of Wildes’ Premium Shiraz and an ongoing order for Wildes’ current vintage Chardonnay. The order came from a trendy new restaurant, the Lotus Bar. James had worked hard to
have Wilde Wines included on the wine list. He had spent many evenings dropping by the restaurant to chat to the sommelier about the different wines Wildes could supply. Finally the sommelier had chosen Wildes’ Chardonnay as their house white. But to secure the deal James had to let them have four cases of the highly prized Wildes’ Premium Shiraz. The stock was dwindling for the much sought after wine and James only allowed Wilde Wines’ most important customers to purchase them. It would matter little to Frederick Wilde that their wines were on the menu of the hottest new restaurant in town. But for James it was important, part of the exclusive brand image he was trying to cultivate as marketing director of the winery.

It was twenty years since Frederick Wilde and his wife Patty had planted the first grafted vine on their 400 hectares near Broke in the Hunter Valley. Initially it had been a weekend farm where they retreated from Sydney with their two sons, Mark and James. Weekends were spent clearing the land and planning the vineyard’s future. Frederick and Patty planted the first three rows of grapes down on their hands and knees in the dirt while Mark and James fished for yabbies in the dam nearby. A few months later they sold their four-bedroom North Shore home and moved the boys – with their collection of pet spiders – and the family dog to the Hunter Valley.

Their first harvest produced 972 juicy sweet grapes that made exactly one-and-a-half bottles of
salad dressing. By the following year their modest plantings had grown enough that they needed friends and neighbours to help them at harvest time. They sold their entire yield to local vineyards to combine with other grapes from the region to make blended wines.

The third vintage was such a success that they bottled ten cases of shiraz under the label Frederick’s First. The soil conditions were right, the viticulture was right, the chemistry was right: it was a superb wine. Everyone who tried it agreed. Frederick and Patty, young, proud and confident, borrowed money to submit six bottles to each of the world’s most prestigious competitions. They couldn’t afford to go themselves, but with enormous excitement they sent their wine. They were rewarded with a series of midnight phone calls telling them they had won, again and again.

Wilde Wines was in business.

The boys grew up with the smell of sulphur in their nostrils and the stain of wine grapes on their hands and feet. By the time he was twelve, James learned to appreciate whether a wine had been matured in French oak or American oak, just by its smell. By the age of fifteen, he could tell a chardonnay’s age to within a year just by holding a glass of it to the light.

Frederick and Patty never had a holiday or took the boys away to the beach for the weekend. Where in the world could be better than this, Frederick would ask, his sweeping hand taking in the rambling old homestead, called Winden after
the little German town where he was born; the lush, green vines; the old waterwheel at the top of the creek; and the ancient willow tree where they held weekend picnics and tastings. And James would have to agree. It was indeed a special little corner of the world.

Every evening Frederick and Patty would ‘walk the land’, fussing over new shoots and watching, through the years, as they grew strong and the trunks of the vines became thick and robust. As they walked over the property they would monitor the health of each individual vine and reminisce about the vines’ histories. Most evenings their walk naturally ended up at the vine nearest the creek, their first, the one that had been grafted from a great old vine, the Jacob Leesing, a legend in the region. It had survived the dry rot of 1987, the storms of 1990 and now was elegantly gnarled but still producing, huge, luscious, sweet shiraz grapes.

Mark, the eldest son, had studied oenology at college and worked for a few years at different wineries in South Australia, learning from some of the best palates in the country. He spent two Australian winters in Germany, harvesting and learning everything he could. Now he was winemaker at Wildes’. He lived with his wife and young sons in the nearby town of Broke. Like his father, Mark had wine in his veins. He was happiest with his nose buried in a glass, ascertaining parentage and year of bottling.

James’s interests were less sure and his relationship with his father more ambiguous. He loved the
family business, particularly the rambling old vineyard. But he had been torn between pleasing his father and his love of sport. Almost from the day he could walk, James could kick a football, wave a cricket bat and stay upright on a pair of skis. He was naturally gifted with balance and hand-eye coordination. He could have pursued any sport he chose.

For a while it had been football, but then, on a school trip when he was twelve, he discovered skiing. The next nine years he devoted to becoming stronger and faster than anybody else on the Australian snowfields. At 21 he won a place on the Olympic ski team going to Sarajevo but failed to bring home a medal. By 22 knee surgery meant his racing career was over. James went to university, where he studied marketing, and spent months each Christmas as a ski instructor in Canada. For the past four years he had lived at Whistler, near Vancouver, running the ski school in winter and marketing outrageously expensive ski wear to North America’s rich. Between seasons he spent his time at the company’s headquarters in Toronto.

His father wondered when he would come home and settle down. He managed to somehow insert that question into every phone call and letter. It wasn’t that Frederick didn’t approve of James’s lifestyle. It was just that he didn’t understand it. Frederick Wilde was a simple man. He believed in solid dirt under his feet, his family by his side and a good, honest day’s work. James’s
travelling to far-flung places to teach skiing to a bunch of snow bunnies made Frederick highly suspicious. James was left in no doubt about his father’s views and it was a constant source of frustration for him.

Then, one thunderous Sunday early in June 1990, James shocked them all, walking into the family home with Nina, his new wife. He had given his parents no warning of his return, nor did they know anything about his recent marriage. The last postcard his mother had received had been three months before, telling of the busy ski season that Whistler was enjoying and wishing the Wilde family a bumper harvest.

For three years James had succeeded in his aim of cutting himself off from his family. In that time he had been successful in his job. He had sought and won the love of an intelligent, independent woman. And he had gradually found a way to accept his defeat at the Olympics. All his reasons for leaving home had slowly melted away.

He was ‘over’ skiing and wanted to join the family business, he announced to his startled parents. He had waited till they had praised the roast lamb, Patty’s signature dish, admired each of the home-grown vegetables and then savoured two bottles of burgundy from his father’s private cellar, before he made this declaration. It was family protocol to save important pronouncements until after the main course was finished.

‘I think it’s time I contributed,’ he said, fiddling nervously with the fine stem of his Riedel burgundy
glass. His mother, noting the look on her husband’s face, immediately stood up, cleared the plates and shepherded Nina into the sitting room.

‘They have a lot to talk about,’ she said, in a tone that left no room for argument. Patty spent the next three hours getting to know her new daughter-in-law. It was a gruelling session that covered Nina’s family background, her level of education, her aspirations and how she met James, through to what she had been told of the Wilde family history. Along the way Patty ascertained Nina’s politics, moral code and intelligence.

By the time Patty showed the exhausted young woman to her room, they had developed a mutual respect. They were still a long way from being friends, but it was a good start. Patty was a strong and formidable woman who wasn’t about to be won over in the first ten minutes of meeting somebody. But she was a good judge of character and Nina, she told Frederick later, was a smart girl with a sensible head on her shoulders. She wasn’t some flibbertigibbet that James had saddled them with. Both Patty and Frederick let out a sigh of relief.

While Nina was enduring the seemingly friendly interrogation, James and his father got down to business. They talked through the night. For a while they sat at the kitchen table, one or the other occasionally getting up and moving around the room and staring out across the vines, visible in the light of the full moon. At various stages during the discussion his father left the room to fetch something important, some papers,
a file, the photographic history of the vineyard that Patty had lovingly collated, and at a certain point, another bottle of his prized burgundy.

By 10 pm they had agreed the business had gone as far as it could using a wine sales agency. To grow further it would require skilful marketing. The Wilde Wines label needed to develop its own brand with mass-market appeal. Frederick entered the major wine competitions but that was about the extent of it. He was too busy with the day-to-day running of the vineyard. Besides, he hated leaving the estate. Patty joked that just driving out of the gates put him in a bad mood. As winemaker, Mark was fully occupied gently nurturing the grapes, overseeing the picking, the crushing and destemming, the fermentation, then finally bringing the young wines to maturity.

An hour later, at about 11 pm, Frederick and James had agreed on a new marketing strategy for Wilde Wines and the budget that it would take to do it. James would set up offices in Sydney and aggressively promote the wine to restaurants and bars. He would also look at possible export markets. That was the easy stuff out of the way.

Negotiations for James’s salary took much longer. Frederick Wilde may have been most at home with his feet in the soil, or grumbling over the latest international wine magazine’s ratings, but he was also a smart businessman. James had to prove himself. There was a big difference between selling skis and selling wine, Frederick Wilde said in a tone that James remembered well. Until James
could show he was an asset to Wilde Wines, he was on probation, just like every other person who joined the payroll. And his modest salary reflected that. In twelve months Frederick would consider the value James had brought to the business and reassess his salary accordingly.

Frederick had a fair idea what Patty would say when he told her of the arrangement over breakfast the next morning so he threw into the deal the family’s harbourside apartment in the city. Knowing he was unlikely to win, he tried to avoid arguments with his opinionated wife where possible. James and Nina could live rent-free in the Elizabeth Bay apartment.

The two men shook hands in confirmation of their agreement. It was nearly 1 o’clock in the morning but only then did Frederick bring out a much-prized bottle from the dwindling stock of Frederick’s First, put his arm around his son’s shoulders and tell him he was pleased to have him home. It may have been the effects of the evening’s wine, appreciation of the magnificent aged shiraz or just the end of a long and tiring day, but there were genuine tears in the old man’s eyes when he said it.

Those first six months had been the toughest. James spent his time setting up his office and visiting restaurants and hotels to introduce himself to the purchasing managers and sommeliers, as well as courting the writers of all the wine magazines. It
meant visiting restaurants and bars in the evening, getting to know who was who in Sydney’s ever-changing hospitality industry and keeping Wilde Wines prominent in the minds of those who mattered. He was acutely aware that he had little to show for the long hours and hard work he put in. But he stayed optimistic. He knew he could make a difference. He was confident that his ideas would work over the long term.