happiness. We made new friends to replace those that had separated themselves from us since our marriage. I bumped into an old university friend, Colin Holman, who had become a successful doctor in private practice. Catherine rediscovered a few married ex-school friends who had settled in London, and we began to go out to dinner from time to time, or have the occasional dinner party in our new flat. Our life was busy enough, our new-found friends, if they had heard about Catherine’s broken engagement with Ed Simmonds, cared nothing about that, and our past lives became, at least for me, a dim memory.
One morning, after dining at the flat of one of our new friends, Catherine said to me, as we sat drinking tea in the kitchen at breakfast, ‘Darling, I think you were quite tight at dinner last night. You talked a great deal about wine. I’m not sure everyone’s quite as interested in the subject as you are, darling.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think I’d had too much to drink, because I didn’t really like what they were serving. It was far too young, absolutely stiff with tannin.’
Catherine stirred her tea and said, ‘Yes, darling, I’m sure you’re right. But don’t you think you’re drinking just a little too often at the moment?’
I was surprised by her remark. ‘Am I? Don’t confuse tasting with drinking, darling. It is one of my great interests in life. That’s why I agreed to buy Caerlyon and the wine from Francis.’
‘I know that, darling. Don’t be grumpy. I was only saying.’
I thought it was an odd remark for her to make, and after a moment I drank my cup of tea and said, ‘I’m going next door; I’ve got bills to pay.’
At lunch that day we opened two bottles of wine, a good white burgundy with the small starter Catherine had prepared, and then a bottle of Bordeaux with the poached eggs and salad. Catherine matched me glass for glass, as if to apologise for her remark at breakfast and show me that she had not meant it; afterwards we stepped out into the bright sunshine, went to Hatchards and bought a pile of great, glossy recipe books for the new kitchen and Robert Parker’s definitive work on the wines of Bordeaux, for me.
It was about six months after we were married that we had our first real row.
Catherine had gone out to have lunch with a girlfriend, and I sat at home and decided it would be interesting to compare a 1989 and a 1990 Château Talbot. I opened both bottles and let them breathe for an hour and come up to room temperature, and then poured out a little of each into two glasses. For me, the 1990 was almost thin, whilst the 1989, if not a great wine, had far more power and finish. It was a fascinating contrast of tastes, similar and yet dissimilar.
When Catherine arrived home, I was scribbling some tasting notes in my book. ‘Nice lunch, darling?’ I asked her.
‘Yes,’ she replied, and bent to kiss me. Then she said, ‘Darling, you do rather reek of wine.’ She looked at the two empty bottles, which I had placed on the sink, and said, ‘Have you drunk all that yourself? Now, today?’
‘Tasting, darling, not drinking,’ I reminded her. She said nothing, but looked at me, and then looked at the two empty bottles, and then back at me. She bit her lip for a second, and then left the kitchen and went upstairs.
I said nothing. I wasn’t going to be lectured about drinking wine. It was the great enthusiasm of my life: I was learning something new every time I opened a bottle. I finished writing up my tasting notes and then went next door to the sitting room, and sat down at the desk I kept my papers in. When Catherine came downstairs, I pretended to be engrossed in the business plan I was writing for my new software consultancy. As a matter of fact, I had been writing the plan for some months now.
‘How’s your new business idea coming on?’ said Catherine, sitting down next to me.
‘It’s coming on,’ I said.
‘You never seem to go
One morning, after dining at the flat of one of our new friends, Catherine said to me, as we sat drinking tea in the kitchen at breakfast, ‘Darling, I think you were quite tight at dinner last night. You talked a great deal about wine. I’m not sure everyone’s quite as interested in the subject as you are, darling.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think I’d had too much to drink, because I didn’t really like what they were serving. It was far too young, absolutely stiff with tannin.’
Catherine stirred her tea and said, ‘Yes, darling, I’m sure you’re right. But don’t you think you’re drinking just a little too often at the moment?’
I was surprised by her remark. ‘Am I? Don’t confuse tasting with drinking, darling. It is one of my great interests in life. That’s why I agreed to buy Caerlyon and the wine from Francis.’
‘I know that, darling. Don’t be grumpy. I was only saying.’
I thought it was an odd remark for her to make, and after a moment I drank my cup of tea and said, ‘I’m going next door; I’ve got bills to pay.’
At lunch that day we opened two bottles of wine, a good white burgundy with the small starter Catherine had prepared, and then a bottle of Bordeaux with the poached eggs and salad. Catherine matched me glass for glass, as if to apologise for her remark at breakfast and show me that she had not meant it; afterwards we stepped out into the bright sunshine, went to Hatchards and bought a pile of great, glossy recipe books for the new kitchen and Robert Parker’s definitive work on the wines of Bordeaux, for me.
It was about six months after we were married that we had our first real row.
Catherine had gone out to have lunch with a girlfriend, and I sat at home and decided it would be interesting to compare a 1989 and a 1990 Château Talbot. I opened both bottles and let them breathe for an hour and come up to room temperature, and then poured out a little of each into two glasses. For me, the 1990 was almost thin, whilst the 1989, if not a great wine, had far more power and finish. It was a fascinating contrast of tastes, similar and yet dissimilar.
When Catherine arrived home, I was scribbling some tasting notes in my book. ‘Nice lunch, darling?’ I asked her.
‘Yes,’ she replied, and bent to kiss me. Then she said, ‘Darling, you do rather reek of wine.’ She looked at the two empty bottles, which I had placed on the sink, and said, ‘Have you drunk all that yourself? Now, today?’
‘Tasting, darling, not drinking,’ I reminded her. She said nothing, but looked at me, and then looked at the two empty bottles, and then back at me. She bit her lip for a second, and then left the kitchen and went upstairs.
I said nothing. I wasn’t going to be lectured about drinking wine. It was the great enthusiasm of my life: I was learning something new every time I opened a bottle. I finished writing up my tasting notes and then went next door to the sitting room, and sat down at the desk I kept my papers in. When Catherine came downstairs, I pretended to be engrossed in the business plan I was writing for my new software consultancy. As a matter of fact, I had been writing the plan for some months now.
‘How’s your new business idea coming on?’ said Catherine, sitting down next to me.
‘It’s coming on,’ I said.
‘You never seem to go
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