He and I had spent most of last Sunday evening finishing off tirage for the 2017 Blanc de Noir. Which meant all last year’s vintage had been blended, bottled and was now on its second fermentation and could be left alone until next spring. The big stainless-steel tanks had been scrubbed and cleaned, ready to use again. I’d smelled like a barmaid’s apron by the end of the night and Issy the midwife had sniffed me suspiciously when I’d gone for my check-up the following day.

‘Order!’ Roger banged the table with a teaspoon. ‘Lottie will never get to the end of this if she keeps getting interrupted. Will you all please concentrate?’

‘Thank you, Roger,’ I said, soothing our resident grump. ‘But everyone’s points are valid and we do need to make plans for harvesting.’

‘Planning will have to wait until after the radio interview in two weeks,’ Godfrey said nervously. ‘This is the biggest opportunity Butterworth Wines has ever had: taking part in a live panel with a chef from a Michelin-starred restaurant and the spokesperson for English Wines. This is our moment to shine!’

My stomach churned at the thought. ‘Thanks for that, Godfrey.’ I pressed a hand to my stomach. ‘Now where was I?’

I looked to Pippa for help. She poured an inch of sparkling elderflower into a plastic cup for me.

‘You said the juice will stay in the tanks until February,’ she whispered discreetly.

‘Oh yes.’ I took a sip of my drink. It fizzed on my tongue and the next thing I knew I was thinking about how amazing bubbles were and all other thoughts had evaporated from my head. ‘And by then, the, er …’ I faltered. The only thing I could remember about February was that as of the tenth, one would become two and the thought terrified me. ‘Sorry, everyone, I can’t concentrate this afternoon.’

‘By February, the first fermentation will have finished,’ Pippa filled in for me. ‘And don’t apologize, I’m in awe of you for offering to do this library event. I could never stand in front of a group of people and talk. It took me a year to speak up in front of this lot.’

‘You could do it standing on your head blindfolded,’ I retorted. ‘You’ve got all the facts at your fingertips; all I’ve got is a head of cotton wool.’

‘Baby brain. It won’t last for ever,’ said Clare with a chuckle, peeling the paper wrapper off a new ball of wool. ‘Like baby weight. Although I’m still waiting to shift mine and Ben is twenty-five.’

‘Have you thought about names yet?’ said Matt, rocking back on his chair, which Betsy always told him off for. ‘Matthew is good for a boy, just saying.’

‘Clare means “bright and clear”,’ said Clare proudly. ‘Beat that.’