A Second Glass of Wine by Judith English, Merlot

It had all been so very last minute, quite unlike Celia’s usual way. An email from Stacey in HR, reminding her that she needed to book some holiday, had set the plan in motion. She had hardly taken any holiday this year.  She had been preoccupied with health concerns, and not felt like going anywhere at all. Just getting through each day had been enough. But now that the heat of midsummer was over, and she was feeling better, the email jogged her into thinking that perhaps a little break would be good for her.

But where could she go? She wasn’t confident enough to go abroad. If the heart rhythms played up again, she didn’t fancy trying to explain it all to a doctor who spoke limited English, and had no access to her records. So, the UK then. She didn’t want a long drive. A train journey would be so much more grown up, more adventurous. You never knew who you might meet on the journey. Like in that film, where an attractive young woman was sitting opposite a nerdy man. They started chatting, and ended up in a passionate love affair, a most unlikely pairing. Though life never seemed to turn out quite like in films.

The train suggested the possibility of Devon or Cornwall.  She hadn’t been to Cornwall for years, not since those performances at the Minack Theatre, when the violins had unanimously packed up as the sea mists rolled in at the beginning of the second act every night, and the singers had to continue with just the keyboard. And there had been that romantic fling with one of the second violinists, but it hadn’t lasted once they returned to London. It was probably just something in the Cornish air.

 Studying the map, she noticed St Ives, and on further reading it seemed to have everything to offer for a few days break. Lovely beaches, gorgeous views, an art gallery and a sculpture museum, and plenty of interesting shops and tempting restaurants. She started searching for hotels. She ignored the faded guest houses, and the hotels that advertised themselves as boutique, which just meant the rooms were overpriced, and rather cramped. Nothing looked very appealing until she found a hotel perched right above the bay, with the luxury of a pool and a spa. It was perfect, though the price gave her some hesitation. But she convinced herself that she could justify it, as she hadn’t spent anything else on holidays this year. She went ahead and booked, a rather extravagant gesture that was somewhat out of character.

When it was only two weeks away, she began to feel a little nervous, but determined to be brave. It took courage to go away on one’s own. Carefully she planned what she would take, which outfits would be appropriate, and puzzled over how many layers she really needed. Surely it wouldn’t be too cold in early Autumn? The day for departure came quickly, and then she was on the train, too late to turn back. The repetitive rumbling of the wheels on the rails left her in no doubt that the Great Western Railway was propelling her south west, and into Cornwall.

After six hours and only one change of trains, she found herself getting out of the train at St Ives. She stood uncertainly on the platform, an isolated figure when everyone else had gone their separate ways. She was confused. The platform seemed to have an exit at either end. She knew the hotel was not far from the station, but she couldn’t see it.  And then she realised that it was above her, high on the cliff. It was going to be a steep climb up the lane, but if she took it slowly, it should be manageable. She was rather breathless by the time she reached the reception desk to check in, but luckily her room was on the ground floor, so no more climbing was required. The room was comfortable, though a little on the small side, with the unexpected advantage of a view of the sea, if she didn’t mind craning her neck from the side window. The complimentary gin was an additional bonus; she found she had developed quite a thirst after a long day of travelling.

 On the first evening she ate in the hotel restaurant, thinking she would be too tired to venture out. It had huge picture windows overlooking the bay, so she could watch the waves rolling in, and dogwalkers on the beach. She noticed a chocolate labrador plopping in and out of the breakers and then shaking vigorously on the sand, looking very pleased with itself. There were a few small boats bobbing about further out on the darker blue. She ate salmon. Fish seemed to be the right choice, being so near the sea.

On the second evening she was feeling more adventurous, and booked a little place she had walked past on her explorations earlier in the day.  It was called ‘Firehouse Bar and Grill,’ rather a modern choice for Celia. The staff were welcoming, and showed her to a little table upstairs, from which she had a wonderful sea view. The good-looking young waiter, Australian she guessed from the accent, chatted easily to her, and she began to feel less conspicuous. She ordered steak, sirloin, not the cheapest. The sea air had given her a good appetite. She requested a large glass of Tempranillo that she thought would pair well with the steak. She sipped slowly, waiting for her food to arrive. The wine was rich, with a lovely hint of cherry, and it was already beginning to go to her head. It was still early, so there weren’t many other diners. A middle-aged couple over by the window sat in near silence, as though they had run out of anything to say to each other a long time ago. Celia couldn’t help overhearing a conversation closer to her, where a young woman was listing all the ingredients that she could not eat. The waiter rolled his eyes despairingly, the chef was called, and eventually the decision was reached that the restaurant could not cater for her. She and her partner stood up abruptly, and left amidst a cloud of disgruntlement.

It was then she noticed a gentleman sitting on his own, facing the window, with his back to her. His grey hair was attractive, though it might have benefitted from being cut a bit higher above the cream collared shirt, and the neck was perhaps a little thick set, an unwelcome reminder of her ex-husband, but otherwise, quite promising. He was reading a book, which was very much in his favour, but then he closed it and picked up a newspaper. She couldn’t tell which paper it was, but definitely not The Mirror or The Sun; there were not enough pictures. This was another plus point. She heard him order a glass of red wine, ‘Merlot,’ he said. ‘A straightforward choice,’ she thought, as she wondered why he was there on his own.

The steak was delicious, she savoured every mouthful, and the red wine was perfect with it.  Her glass emptied rather quickly. She called the waiter and asked him to bring her a second glass. As she sipped, and finished the last few mouthfuls of the meal, a crazy idea popped into her head. She would ask the waiter to take the man a second glass of Merlot, with her compliments. It was a reckless idea, she knew, but somehow, being on holiday made her abandon her usual decorum and restraint. Just as she was about to call the waiter over, the man attracted his attention first. She heard him ask for his bill. Too late, she had missed her opportunity!

She watched him pay for his meal, stand up, put on a crumpled mackintosh, and turn around to leave. She shuddered with disappointment. His face was nothing like she had imagined. It was plump, lined and reddened with age. His eyebrows were bushy and unkempt, and his parting was not straight. He had a double, if not triple, chin, and he plodded towards the stairs, breathing heavily. He was short. She could tell he was several inches shorter than she was. It was not at all the handsome picture she had imagined, and she shrank back in her seat with relief that she had not sent him the wine. 

After he left, she looked out again into the distant horizon of the sea view, now a thread of deep blues and greys, and determined that she would enjoy the rest of the holiday on her own. No more romantic thoughts of finding the perfect partner. At least, not until tomorrow.  

About the author

Judith English studied music, subsequently pursuing a career in freelance singing. She has taken short courses in creative writing at UEA and City St George’s University. Her first novel Layers of Silk is currently out on submission. She loves growing flowers, and kayaking on the Thames. 

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/people/Judith-English-author/61566359135133/?_rdr 

Substack: https://judithenglishauthor.substack.com/ 

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