Pippa looked out across the vines and nibbled on her lip, her chest rising and falling with nerves. We all waited with bated breath, hoping she’d push herself out of her comfort zone.

Finally, she sat up tall. ‘Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll make a total hash of it, but I can’t see that we’ve any choice.’

‘Hooray!’ I said, giving her a hug. ‘I’m so proud of you. And I’m sure Ted would be too.’

‘And you, Lottie,’ said Roger gruffly. ‘Ted always shied away from the spotlight, it wasn’t his way to blow his own trumpet, but he’d be very impressed with your gumption, not to mention the amount of knowledge you’ve acquired in such a short time.’

A well of emotion rushed up inside me; that was the nicest thing he’d ever said to me – that and the offer of babysitting. He wasn’t such an old grump after all.

‘I’ve had some very good teachers,’ I said, beaming at my colleagues. They had already become such good friends. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you.’

‘This deserves a proper drink,’ said Matt, throwing the rest of his elderflower into the rose bush.

I gathered up my notes and left them giving tips to Pippa on how to overcome her nerves and celebrating her newfound bravery with a bottle of Blanc de Blanc that had been opened this morning for a wine blogger. As I wandered back to The Stables, it dawned on me that the change of date meant that this time next week I’d be on national radio, extolling the virtues of Butterworth Wines and that everyone seemed to have complete faith that it was me, the newbie, giving the interview and representing the company.

That was fine, I decided, aware of the bounce in my step. Before I left Harvey all those weeks ago, I’d been looking for the bright and bubbly Lottie Allbright that I’d once been, and now, I thought with a fizz of anticipation, she was back, stronger and bolder than ever.

Chapter 25

The following day, Clare and I were in the winery together. I was at the desk, transferring Ted’s handwritten notes on the vineyard and the crop development into a spreadsheet and Clare was having a break after packing and dispatching the day’s orders, including the consignment of sparkling wine for Betsy’s daughter to China.

‘I’ve never got to grips with spreadsheets,’ said Clare, peering over my shoulder and shaking her head at the rows of numbers.

‘It’s a monotonous job,’ I replied. ‘But once the data is in, it means anyone can look up the details of any wine we’ve ever produced.’