Joanna Fulford also wrote as Jane Croft

If there’s one thing that gets up my nose, it’s pretension. It has a bouquet all of its own and is not to be confused with a desire for social betterment. Take Darren and Gary in telephone sales – as common as supermarket plonk the pair of them, but they make no attempt to hide it. They work hard too and I respect that. No, it’s people like Peregrine Smythe whom I find so unpalatable.

We joined Ambrosia Vintners at about the same time so I suppose it was only natural that we should strike up an acquaintance. Of course, I don’t begrudge him his good looks. It’s the suave insincerity that’s so off-putting: all white teeth and gush.

‘Call me Perry.’

The very name sounded like a tart’s tipple. How an untalented poser like that got into the wine business was beyond me, so out of curiosity I asked him. 

‘Drifted into it, Nigel, old man. Have to earn a living somehow and this seemed as good a way as any.’

I bit my tongue. To me this was never just a job; it was a love affair. Wine making is a subtle alchemy that transforms the base material into liquid gold. There are few pleasures as great as the discovery of a really fine vintage, a moment of pure rapture that, as the poet puts it, “surprises with a fine excess”. 

Perry never understood that, but then, while public school credentials may go with elegant diction and a polished manner, they are no guarantee of intelligence. Frankly, Perry was to academia what malt vinegar is to vintage champagne. Even so he picked up the basics: learned the trigger smells, developed a nose for the obvious. He never had a fraction of my skill but disguised it behind a pretentious patter and confident delivery: ‘A pert little wine with a sharp tongue and a dry wit. I think you’ll be amused by its impudence.’ That sort of thing is swallowed whole by the uninitiated, the nouveau-riche clientele desperate to establish a credible cellar.  They saw Perry as an authority. It was laughable. His palate was incapable of distinguishing the subtle, those delicate nuances of taste that are the hallmark of the true connoisseur. I might lack Perry’s good looks and smooth manner, but I could distinguish the great vintages blindfold.  After all, it was I who introduced the Côte Rôtie into the Ambrosia cellar. The boss was dubious – until he sampled La Mouline. After that, I knew I was in line for the head buyer’s job when Jackson retired.

However, the sad truth is that appearances matter, and there Perry was in his element. He could have ingratiated his way through a keyhole. It was luck not judgement that he landed the contract with Lavoulère. The hierarchy was thrilled. To see Perry smarming around the top brass turned the stomach like corked wine. They lapped it up though. The result was his promotion to Head Buyer. Head Buyer! A man who barely knew grapes from grapefruit!

‘There’s no justice, Nigel,’ said Darren as we stood by the coffee machine. ‘Or a slime bag like that wouldn’t get promoted.’

Gary nodded. ‘Look how he weaselled his way out of the cock-up over that consignment of Montrachet. Swore blind I’d copied the order number down wrongly, and all the time it was his mistake.’

‘Bastard,’ said Darren.

Which just goes to show that, though common, they were still good judges of character.

In the event I got over Perry’s undeserved promotion sooner than expected because it was around that time I met Jessica. It was in the bistro one Friday lunch time. She came in after me and sat at the next table. At first I just stared. She was a stunner: tall, slim, auburn haired with green eyes deep enough to drown a man. I racked my brains for an opening gambit, something that wouldn’t sound like every ghastly cliché she’d heard before. Nothing suggested itself so I smiled in what I hoped was a casually friendly manner and then feigned a study of the dessert menu.

When she came to order she chose the sea bass with a selection of vegetables. However, she hesitated over the wine and then looked at the waiter.

‘What do you recommend?’ 

He couldn’t have been more than nineteen. He looked like a student trying to earn some money in his free time, and her question clearly put him on the spot. He pulled a name from thin air. Possibly it was the only one he knew.

‘Liebraumilch is nice.’

I felt my stomach spasm. It was time to intervene. 

‘Forgive me for intruding,’ I said, ‘but have you considered the Meursault? I can certainly recommend it, and it’s ideal for the dish you’ve chosen.’

‘Oh.’ She seemed surprised but recovered quickly and smiled. ‘Well, in that case Meursault it is.’

The waiter regarded me askance and squinted at the wine list. ‘Er, which…’

‘Number eight,’ I said. Given the standards in education it was entirely possible that he couldn’t read very well, never mind French. 

‘Oh, right.’  He looked relieved and, having scrawled the number on his notepad, hurried off to the bar.

A couple of minutes later he was back with the wine. My companion tasted it.

‘You’re right. This is delicious.’

‘I’m so glad you like it,’ I said. 

She looked intrigued. ‘How is it you know so much about wine?’

After that it was surprisingly straight forward. Jessica was easy to talk to and I learned that she worked for a prestigious advertising company. In the course of the conversation we discovered a shared love of theatre and fine dining. By the time we’d finished lunch I’d summoned the courage to ask her out. 

I’ve never found it easy to get girlfriends, but this was different. There was an immediate rapport. With her I didn’t feel awkward. Over the next few weeks we talked easily on all sorts of subjects, and with every conversation we discovered more things in common. I knew that at last I’d found the right woman, the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. I felt so proud to be with her. Whenever we went out I could see other men looking at Jess and knew they’d give anything to be in my shoes.

Christmas was coming up and work was hectic. I had to go on various buying trips but I saw her as often as possible. The office party provided another chance.  I picked her up at seven. She looked stunning in a clinging, low-cut black dress; the epitome of understated elegance. Then we drove to the venue, a Georgian country house hotel. 

We arrived just before eight. Having timed our entrance for maximum effect I wasn’t disappointed: as soon as we walked in heads turned. They were looking at Jess, of course, not at me, but I was gratified by the response. Who wouldn’t be?

Perry seemed quite overcome. ‘You lucky dog, Nigel. Wherever did you find anything so pretty?’

I made some light-hearted reply, I don’t remember what, and Jessica merely smiled. We talked for a minute or two and then moved on. Although we didn’t speak to him again that evening, I caught him looking our way on several occasions. It gave me a feeling of immense satisfaction to have something he wanted.

Christmas came and went and then, in the middle of January, Jessica had a busy period at the office. It meant working late at least two evenings a week. As a result she had to cancel a couple of our planned dates. 

‘I’m so sorry, Nigel, but it’s an important contract,’ she explained. ‘The firm can’t afford to lose it, especially not in this financial climate.’

I bit back disappointment. ‘Yes, of course.  I understand.’

In the end the hard work paid off because she told me later that the firm had landed the contract, so that was good news. However, success has its penalties; the company began to demand more of her time, kicking off with a weekend course in March.

‘It’s a real drag but I can’t get out of it,’ she said. ‘Still, it’s only for the one time so it’s not too bad.’

As it turned out it wasn’t just the one time. They sent her on two more courses after that, both at weekends. When I muttered something about work-life balance she looked concerned.

‘If I go on these courses I’m better placed for promotion,’ she said. ‘The job market is just so competitive these days.’

That was unarguable. ‘I’ll miss you,’ I said.

‘I’ll miss you too, but we’ll make up for it later.’

Except that we didn’t somehow. Superficially things were still the same but I knew deep down that something was wrong, so the next time she said she was working late I followed her. It should have been beneath me, but somehow I couldn’t help myself. I waited outside her office building until I saw her leave and trailed her for two blocks to a cocktail bar. I think I’d already guessed who she was meeting. Even so, to have the suspicion confirmed was like being punched in the gut. 

After that I followed them half a dozen times, mostly to his flat. As the extent of their duplicity became clear I was sickened, as though hurt and anger had congealed in a lump in my stomach. I didn’t know what to do and so for a while I did nothing. The thought of losing Jess was bitter but we couldn’t carry on like this.  Besides, in my heart I knew she’d made her choice. I didn’t want a row; I’ve never been one for loud confrontations so I decided that the matter must be settled privately, between the three of us, and in a quiet and civilised fashion. 

Therefore, after careful thought, I invited Perry round for dinner one evening. Taken by surprise he couldn’t refuse without looking churlish, and Jess didn’t want to give herself away by seeming to attach overmuch importance to one of my colleagues. I must say they carried it off well between them. At any other time I might have enjoyed the element of farce. Eventually they were going to have to face up to the situation, but there was no reason to ruin a perfectly good meal. So I kept up a light flow of conversation as I put the dishes on the table. It was a simple but elegant main course: boeuf bourguignon served with potatoes and a selection of vegetables – accompanied by the bottle of Shiraz I’d opened earlier. 

I watched Perry breathe in the bouquet and take a sip, rolling the wine round his mouth. ‘Hmm. Don’t think I’ve tasted this one before.’ He picked up the bottle and read the label. ‘Ah, Australian.’

‘It was a bin end.  Picked it up for a song a few weeks ago,’ I said. ‘Good, isn’t it?’

He agreed as I knew he would. Perry wasn’t about to contradict my assessment of a wine. He took another mouthful.

‘Hmm. Very mellow. Rich rounded flavour with deep fruit tones.’

That was for Jess’s benefit. 

‘Not sure what the underlying flavour is though,’ he went on. ‘Almond perhaps?’

‘There’s no fooling you, Perry,’ I said. 

He preened silently and watched as I poured some wine for Jessica.

‘Aren’t you having any?’ she asked.

‘I’ll finish that first,’ I said, indicating the half bottle of Merlot on the table. ‘It was left over from last night. I hate to waste it.’

‘Quite right,’ said Perry. ‘Anyway, you should never mix wines in a glass. It always ruins the flavour of both.’

‘Just so,’ I replied.

I drank very slowly so that, over the course of the meal, they shared the entire bottle of Shiraz between them. It took a little while to take effect but that was to be expected. Food slows the absorption of poison. It was interesting to watch its progress; rewarding too – particularly the moment of horrified realisation just before the end.  

Afterwards I went to the bedroom, packed a bag, collected my passport, ticket and money and then drove to the airport, arriving in good time for my flight to Rio.  Business Class check-in was a breeze and the plane even left on time. Once aloft and comfortably ensconced I perused the lunch menu.  

The stewardess smiled. ‘Would you like some wine with your meal, sir?’ 

I ordered a half bottle of Beaune. It was a delightful vintage: a rich, full-bodied, mouth-filling red with dark undertones and savouring strongly of revenge. 

‘Anything wrong, Emma?’

Startled to discover her boss standing there Emma returned to earth with a jolt. The photocopier was silent, the printed pages in the tray. How long had they been there?  She reddened conscious of Sue’s penetrating stare.

‘Sorry. Were you waiting to use the machine?’ 

‘There’s no rush.  Besides, you looked preoccupied.’

‘Yes.’ Emma removed the sheets from the tray. ‘Today is my wedding anniversary.’

‘Congratulations! Has it really been a year? It seems only months since you and James were planning the wedding.’

‘Yes.’

‘Where is he taking you? Somewhere nice?’

‘I don’t know. That is, it’s a surprise.’

‘I can’t wait to see how he follows the balloon flight he arranged for your birthday,’ replied Sue. ‘That was so romantic. Not like my Dave. He can’t think beyond a meal in the local pub.’

Emma forced a smile, willing herself not to cry. Romantic! Hardly that, she thought. As soon as she could she escaped to her desk. A glance at the office clock revealed that it was just on three. Two more hours to go.  Pretending to be absorbed in her work she stared at the computer screen in front of her.  How could he have forgotten?  Every anniversary was a milestone, but the first one was special and she had been so looking forward to it. When it came to thinking of how he would mark the occasion her imagination had supplied all manner of possibilities: a dozen red roses, a pretty necklace, her favourite perfume perhaps. What she hadn’timagined was nothing. Not even a card. It hurt more than she could ever have dreamed. She had spent a long time choosing his and the watch to go with it. In her mind she saw him wearing it to the restaurant for the intimate dinner they would share. They would re-affirm their love over a glass of champagne… Pulling herself up with a start she realised it wasn’t going to happen and, as they hadn’t managed to get to a supermarket in the past week, they’d have to make do with a micro-waved meal in awkward silence in front of the TV.  James would be embarrassed and apologetic and she would pretend it didn’t matter.  People said that marriage killed romance but she’d never believed it, until now. 

For several minutes more she sat brooding over the probability of a dull colourless future in which James gave her a peck on the cheek and the occasional bunch of flowers grabbed from a garage forecourt when he remembered. Then another thought occurred to her and with it a glimmer of hope: she hadn’t checked her emails since this morning. There might be one from him: perhaps he’d remembered and wanted to make amends. Recalling the messages she’d received from him in the days leading up to their engagement, she smiled. If he had realised he’d be abject by now. Logging into her mailbox her heart leapt to see it there, a message bearing his address and entitled Tonight. He had remembered after all.  With another tremulous smile she logged on and read: ‘Think we’d better do Tesco this evening. Pick you up at five. Love James.’ 

‘Tesco?’ Her smile vanished. ‘Tesco! Why you utter…’

‘Did you say something, Emma?’ Sue looked across from her work station, a quizzical expression on her face.

‘No!’ 

Avoiding Sue’s gaze and ignoring the grins of those around Emma glared at the screen and deleted the message. It would be too humiliating to let anyone see it. Sue, like the rest of her colleagues, thought she’d married her dream prince: tall, dark, good looking and apparently head over heels in love. If only they knew.  Tears welled again and angrily she dashed them away.

The hands of the clock dragged round to five. Emma cleared her desk and gathered her things before bidding her colleagues good night. 

Sue smiled and called out, ‘Enjoy your evening!’

‘Thanks,’ she replied.  Walking away she muttered under her breath, ‘I’m sure Tesco will be scintillating.’

When she got outside James was waiting in the car. For a moment Emma was tempted to ignore him and get the bus home. On the other hand if she did that she wouldn’t be able to give him piece of her mind. Marching across the pavement she opened the car door and climbed in.

‘Hi, love,’ he said. ‘Had a good day?’

‘Not particularly.’ Emma slammed the door shut. ‘You?’

‘So so.’

Easing the car away from the kerb James headed the vehicle out into the traffic.  Music from the radio filled the conversational void, he concentrating on the road, she staring out of the window. Ordinarily the return of light evenings and the signs of new green in all the gardens would have been cheering but now it could not lift her mood. Even though she wanted to speak the lump in her throat rendered it impossible. Once or twice he glanced her way but said nothing only smiled content to drive in what he clearly took to be companionable silence.

After what seemed an interminable length of time they pulled up in a car park.  Emma looked around.

‘This isn’t Tesco’s.’

‘No, Em, this is the airport,’ he replied.

‘The airport? But what on earth are we…’

James grinned and reaching into his jacket pocket took out a slim wallet bearing the British Airways logo. He handed it to Emma.

‘What’s this?’

‘Why not open it and see?’

With trembling fingers she opened the wallet.  It contained their passports and two tickets to Paris.

‘I thought you might prefer it to Tesco’s.’ He leaned across and kissed her. ‘Happy anniversary, darling.’

Emma’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I thought you’d forgotten.’

‘Forgotten?  I’ve been planning it for weeks,’ he replied. ‘Mind, I did have some help. Your sister packed a bag for you and Sue agreed to let you have the time off work.’

‘Sue knew about this?’

‘Of course, though I swore her to secrecy.’

Emma laughed for the first time that day. ‘Well, of all the devious…I never guessed.’

‘You weren’t meant to. That’s the whole point of a surprise.’ He paused. ‘Besides, marriage should be romantic, shouldn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Yes, it should.’

‘Shall we go then?’

They retrieved their bags from the boot and locked the car. Then he took her hand and together they headed for Check In.

End

I first met Cherokee when I was six and he was three. It was love at first sight. He was a handsome piebald pony with huge liquid brown eyes, and bushy Thelwell type mane and tail. Technically he had been broken in. Those responsible said so, though he didn’t seem convinced. Our temperaments were well-suited: adventurous, outgoing, risk-takers the pair of us. Cherokee (known as Chocky to his mates) would have a go at anything and, as I was quite often aboard when he made his decisions, I got carried along so to speak. It never occurred to me to be scared. As long as I wore my hard hat I knew I was invincible. Although he didn’t have a hat he did share similar ideas about invincibility.

I first got to ride him when my regular weekly mount went lame. It didn’t take long to discover the difference: it was like trying to compare a Blackpool donkey with Arkle. Although Chocky measured just 13.2 hands, he moved like he’d been fed on high-octance fuel and he loved a gallop. So did I, authorised or not. Exhilarating at any time it was particularly exciting when we went into the woods where the path jinked through the trees and every bend revealed a fallen log. I learned to jump that way. I knew it would be a cinch because I’d seen it on telly, all those effortless performances at The Horse of the Year Show. All you had to do was lean forward, go with the horse and not catch him in the mouth. I fell off a lot, mostly in the wood. However, the rule was to get straight back on and try again. Confidence grows with practice and I was sure we’d soon be taking five barred gates in our stride.

I and my pony-mad peers were very fortunate in having miles of countryside to ride over and we rarely had to go near a proper road. One exception was the RAE access road. This was only frequented by traffic during the week. It was a draw for us at weekends because of the steep banking on either side. It was nearly as good as Hickstead. Chocky would head straight down, placing his front feet with precision, with me hanging on to his mane, heart leaping into my mouth as his hocks slid under him. He never fell though. He was surefooted as a cat. Once we’d reached the bottom in one piece we went straight back to the top for another go.

In the summer we would ride bareback down the lane to the ford across the River Ouse. The ponies loved the cool water on their legs and several of them took great delight in pawing and sending up a welter of spray. One time Chocky turned abruptly to avoid this and deposited me up to my neck in the river, to the hilarity of everyone else. As I was already wet I decided to take Chocky for a swim. He loved it. My mates decided it looked like good fun and came to join us. By the time we returned to the stables we didn’t have a dry stitch between us but, as it was a hot day, we dried off enough not to raise suspicion when we got home. Thereafter swimming the horses became a regular event although we did dress more appropriately for it.

Gymkhanas were great. We’d enter for everything and make up with enthusiasm what we lacked in skill. Occasionally, as we got older, Chocky and I would come away with one of the coveted rosettes. At cross country he was amazing, approaching everything from a small log to a stile with characteristic zeal.  Eventually, of course, I grew too big for him. The first time I ever sat on his back my feet came to just below the saddle flaps. In the end they reached his knees and it was time to graduate to a horse.

I still remember Chocky with affection. I suppose the things I loved most about him were his kindly nature and his zest for life, the wholeheartedness with which he did everything. He taught me so much too. On him I really learned to ride. From him I learned about responsibility, although it never seemed like a chore looking after him. I loved grooming and cleaning tack and mucking out. Life just didn’t get any better as far as I was concerned. He also taught me to be independent, to be happy in my own company, to love the countryside over which we rode and to value it. 

Chocky retired at twenty and spent his days keeping the grass down in the orchard. His piebald coat was white by then and he no longer moved with quite the old turn of speed. However, if called he’d come to the fence for a chat and a mint for old times’ sake.

One day we were joined by Pat who, ten years my senior, eventually took over running the riding school where, as a teenager, I worked at weekends. She looked at Chocky and then at me and grinned.

“You know you used to frighten the life out of everybody when you rode that pony.”

It made me smile though I replied with perfect truth that I’d never meant to. Looking back on it I can see her point. Was it dangerous? Yes. Were my elders really frightened? Probably. Would I change it?  Never! I guess I led a charmed life. It was certainly privileged, for all that my parents weren’t rich: privileged because I knew a pony called Chocky and, later, because of all the other horses that came my way, and privileged because boredom was never a factor in it. Even better it all happened before the Health and Safety Executive was ever thought of. 

Greg Bannermann glared across the desk, his expression incredulous.

‘Geez, John, what the heck are you telling me here?’

‘That the inserted gene has caused a massive increase in the ratio of the lycopene protein; approximately one thousand times, according to these results.’ Professor John Reinhardt tossed the manila folder on the desk. ‘The amount present in a normal grain sample is infinitesimal. This is off the chart. The entire crop could be fatally toxic.’

‘Could be?’

‘No-one has undertaken any scientific studies on the effects of large quantities of lycopene on the human body. They could be sudden and dramatic or they might take years to manifest themselves. Either way it represents an unacceptable level of risk.’

‘Holy shit!’ Birnbaum ran a hand through his hair, disordering styled perfection. ‘What the hell are we going to do?’

‘There’s only one thing to do; pull the plug on Golden Dawn.’

‘The board isn’t going to like it. They’ve invested millions in this project. They stand to lose millions more if it goes down.’

‘They may kill millions of people if it doesn’t.’

‘Are you quite sure?’

‘Quite sure,’ replied Reinhardt. ‘Those results speak for themselves.’

Birnbaum eyed his companion thoughtfully. ‘Could you leave them with me? Ammunition for when I see the board.’ 

‘Of course.’

‘Does anyone else know about this?’

‘Anna Ziegler, my research assistant, but you can rely on her discretion.’

‘Good. I think we should keep this under wraps for now. The Board will let everyone know their decision in due course.’

‘Whatever you say,’ replied Reinhardt.

‘Thanks, John.’ Birnbaum bared his teeth in a smile. ‘I’m glad you came to me with this.’

John Reinhardt turned the Lexus out of the car park and pulled on to the highway to join the evening traffic. The glittering façade of the Manton Research Centre receded in the rear-view mirror. Two other vehicles followed him out. He smiled and raised a hand as Anna Ziegler’s red Mustang passed him. She returned the greeting. The black Cherokee pick up behind her was unfamiliar, as were its two passengers. Hardly surprising, he thought. Manton was a big place. Even after ten years he hadn’t met all the personnel employed there. 

Pressing the switch on the console in front of him he smiled faintly as the first bars of the Mozart violin concerto washed over him. Then he leaned back in his seat, consciously relaxing his shoulders. Maggie’s image drifted into his mind along with the thought of dinner and a bottle of wine; his smile deepened. She would want to talk, of course, but there wasn’t much to tell. Golden Dawn was effectively over.

He arrived home half an hour later. Maggie was stirring something on the hob as he walked in.

‘Hi, honey. How did it go today?’

He kissed on her cheek. ‘Okay, considering. Birnbaum looked pretty shocked but I guess he would.’

‘Are they going to pull Golden Dawn?’

‘Either that or go down in history as the company that poisoned half of the Third World.’ 

They had eaten dinner and settled down to watch a movie on TV when the phone rang. Reinhardt sighed and reached for the receiver. It took a moment or two for the voice at the other end to penetrate his consciousness. Then he sat up, his expression grim. Maggie frowned and reached for the remote to mute the sound on the TV. When eventually he replaced the handset his face was pale.

‘Honey? What’s happened?’

‘That was Calvin Ziegler. He’s at the hospital. Anna had an accident on the way home tonight.’

‘Oh, my God! Is she going to be all right?’

He shook his head. ‘She’s dead, Maggie.’

‘What!’

‘Her car went off the road and hit a tree. It seems there were no witnesses.’