Chapter 1
Kirsty McBride looked up at her shop sign: ‘Wine Time’ stared back at her. It had seemed so jaunty when she’d named it ten years ago. Now, it just needed repainting. The windows could do with a shine, too. But if you tilted your head and squinted in the right light (after dark), it’d do. Sort of. Up above, the seagulls squawked as they did every day by the Kent coast, and this fresh mid-June morning was no exception. Sandy Cove’s High Street was so close to the sea Kirsty could almost taste the salt on her tongue.
Kirsty’s commute to work was from the flat above. Short, sweet, and environmentally friendly.
She glanced down at her feet. The pavements were pristine after an early morning clean from the council. Plus, she’d remembered to put shoes on. Twice last week, she’d come down in her slippers and had to go back upstairs. Helena had taken the piss mercilessly.
“What’s the verdict?”
Kirsty turned to where Donald from Donald’s Menswear was shouting from across the road. She stepped back as the number 340 bus drove past along the High Street, sending a barrage of diesel fumes up her nose. Not the best breakfast. Three more cars buzzed by in succession before she could speak. Or rather, shout. Donald was hard of hearing.
“About what?” Her voice broke when she spoke. She hadn’t had her first coffee yet.
“The sign!” Donald was wearing his brown cardigan again. He wasn’t exactly an advert for fashion.
“It’ll do.” Kirsty gave him a grin. Compared to Donald’s sign, hers was positively vibrant. Donald was closing up in three weeks to enjoy his retirement and seemed keen to spend most of his final days on the street shouting at people over the traffic. He gave her a double thumbs up, then turned and went back into his shop.
Kirsty did the same. Her business partner, Helena, sat behind the counter, leafing through a copy ofHomes & Gardensmagazine that she got on subscription. When she heard the door, Helena looked up, her dark hair framing her angular face. The radio was playing a summery song that Kirsty recalled from her teenage years. Something about being head over heels. She’d been exactly that at age 17 with Tracey Staples, right about when this song came out. It hadn’t been reciprocated.
“We need to paint the front of the shop and touch up the sign.”
Helena held up the magazine, her index finger pressed into the image of a door. “We could paint it this colour.” She twisted the magazine towards her face. “Elephant’s Breath, apparently. Sort of stone-coloured?”
“I was thinking something winey. Perhaps a claret? Maybe an accent of sauvignon blanc inside?” Kirsty dropped her phone on the counter and stood beside her friend. The spice of Helena’s Opium perfume tickled her nose.
“I do like a nice sauvignon blanc.”
Kirsty gave her a grin. “I know. How was the one you took home last night?”
“Divine. Hugh loved it. He cooked a gorgeous seabass to go with it. We should employ him as our chef; he’s that good.”
“You’re a little biased, seeing as he’s your husband.”
Helena put the magazine down and picked up her mug of coffee. “All true, I am.” She paused, tilting her head. “Can we afford a paint job?”
Kirsty twisted on the ball of her foot and sat down at the large wooden tasting table that was the star of the space. It was surrounded by walls of dark wooden shelves lined with bottles of wine from all over the world. A wine library. If you were going to sit a wine exam, it would be the perfect place to study. “If any of my side ventures take off, perhaps. Plan a few more weddings, birthdays, anniversaries. We’ve got the team-building wine tasting tonight. That could lead to a whole new cash stream.” Wine sales were steady, but rents were rising. They needed to diversify. Getting online sales up and running would help so much. It’d been on Kirsty’s to-do list forever.
“How many are coming later?”
“Around 30, so we might have to move the table back.”
Robbie Williams came on the radio. Helena hated him. True to form, she turned him off with a scowl. She walked over to the table and sat down opposite Kirsty, drumming the tips of her fingers on the varnished, solid oak. “As well as weddings, birthdays and all that jazz, you remember what I went to a few months ago?”
Kirsty furrowed her brow. “Rehab?”
“Shut your face.” Helena gave her a look. “A divorce party. Hugh’s friend. Ironically, it was like a bloody wedding. Could be something to look into.”
Kirsty folded her arms and sat back. “Aren’t they for the rich and famous? I never had one when I got divorced.” She’d just drunk wine, eaten too much cheese and played Whitney Houston non-stop like you were meant to.
“They weren’t so big seven years ago. Now, they’re all the rage.” Helena shrugged. “Plus, we’re in the right age bracket. Our forties. It’s when life disillusionment truly sets in. I read a study the other day that the most miserable age is 47.”
“It passed me by in the blink of an eye.” Kirsty could barely remember how she felt last week, never mind two years ago. She and Helena were both 49 now. The big five-oh looming next year.
“Me, too. No bloody time to be miserable with a business, husband and a teenage son.” Helena paused. “But if we need to raise more income, it could be another string to our bow. I’m full-time now, so we can expand our side gigs. If they take off, Anton can be roped into helping out. We’re in this together, partner.” Helena said the last bit like she was John Wayne.
Kirsty couldn’t help but smile. “Divorce parties.” She picked up her phone and typed it into her notes app.
You never knew.
