‘It’s . . . is this a golf course?’

Bette leaned forward in the driving seat, craning to see the view up ahead to her right. Tina leaned back obligingly. The Lexus slowed to take a turning. In the back seat Angie and Rocco exchanged a glance.

‘She sent us to a golf course?’ Bette asked, equals parts disgusted and mystified.

‘I think it looks nice,’ Tina said.

Bette looked unconvinced but they were on a single-track, circular driveway and it seemed resistance was futile: Bette Porter was going to eat dinner at a golf-course restaurant on a Saturday night and that was that.

‘Dear God . . .’ Tina heard her mutter as they parked up and undid their seat belts.

‘Aunt Helena told you it was good, Mom,’ Angie said.

Bette gave a sceptical-sounding grunt, but soon she was following the others along an immaculately landscaped path, past a ‘sculpture’ of a blue pig and towards the oversized pinewood door that was the entrance to Cork Fire Kitchen.

While they waited in the reception area, Tina could not take her eyes off Angie. She looked so grown-up in skinny light-blue jeans, a dove-grey tee-shirt and a tailored black jacket. The ever-present Yeezys and a peace-sign pendant kind of gave her age away, but she’d put on another little growth spurt and was now as tall as her Mama T.

Bette saw Tina’s gaze and knew it was an effect of not seeing their child every day, as Bette did. When Angie and Rocco were several feet away, looking at a large map of the Temecula Valley, she put her hand on Tina’s waist and caressed it. Tina turned.

‘She’s changing again, isn’t she?’ Bette said, looking at Angie too.

Tina smiled, a little verklempt, but luckily the maître d’ appeared.

‘Hi,’ she said, ‘may I have the name?’

‘Rocco Pozzi,’ Rocco strode over.

‘Bette Porter,’ said Bette at the same time. Tina and Angie both looked at Bette, who blinked rapidly but didn’t look at Rocco as she added, ‘Two separate parties.’

‘Of course,’ said the maître d’ and checked her table plan. ‘Your tables are ready.’

They checked their coats and then Angie and Rocco were shown to a two-seater with a great view of the fairway, while Bette and Tina were taken to a corner booth.

Chapter 11

From: ben@onepointsix.com

To: tina@onepointsix.com

Subject: Checking in

Dearest Tina,

How is everything? Hope it’s good, going well. Could we have a catch-up on skype tomorrow? 0830 your time works for me but please suggest alternatives.

We miss you round here! 

Big hug from me.

Ben x

Tina read the email and then shut her phone. Before she saw it, she’d been strolling a row of vines, pushing a mountain bike alongside her and trying not to obsess over the phone call she had with Bette after her meeting with Wendy.

‘Good,’ Bette had said.

Good . . . Tina had been sitting out on the balcony of her room, straining every last sinew to decipher exactly the tone in her voice. Good? Tina closed her eyes. Was she being tactful? Was she keeping it short because she was driving, or resented Tina having called, or because she was hungry? Maybe she was overjoyed but thought it unseemly?

‘I’m glad,’ Tina said quickly. Bette didn’t reply. ‘I’m sorry, I . . . Should I not have called? I thought—’

‘I just need a little time to process it, Tee.’

A drumbeat of distant panic had begun in Tina’s chest. She pushed it down. 

‘I’ll call you when I get home. Back to LA.’

The way Bette clarified ‘home’ as ‘back to LA’ buzzed like a mosquito in Tina’s awareness. What did it mean?

‘Mhmm.’

Silence. Tina’s jaw was trembling. She didn’t trust her voice.

Then Bette said, ‘You didn’t tell me she collects photographs.’

‘Does she?’ Tina said, too loud.

‘Yes. They’re amazing . . .’

The rest of the call was a blur. Tina’s ears pounding as Bette spoke about photographs, which Tina didn’t give a fuck about, and she stood up, pacing and screaming at herself not to panic, it didn’t mean Bette had spent the whole session being avoidant, which maybe she was entitled to do anyway, since this meeting was originally supposed to take place next week and it was Tina who brought it forward because Wendy had a space on Thursday. Maybe it would be good to have it out of the way? Good for who? Was that controlling? 

Bette had sensed something wrong on the call. Tina said she had to go. Bette told her she loved her. Some moments later Tina had heard someone calling her name. Kurt was down on the driveway, astride a mountain bike. Did she want to go with him to collect samples on the south-west side? Act as if . . . Float past . . . Take the body and the mind will follow. Tina knew them all, and sometimes they worked. 

Bette knew she shouldn’t have worn a skirt. It was a favourite, a Prada wraparound in grey mohair, but far too short for this sofa. She lifted herself up slightly, trying to get fabric to switch from being under her bottom to covering her knees, but it was no use. The gigantic cushions were eating her up, her legs were exposed above the knee, the air-con was on and she was going to be freezing, and these were all facts.

‘Are you uncomfortable?’

‘My legs are cold,’ she said, rubbing them. ‘I’m sorry, do you have a throw or something?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

Wendy got out of her creaky leather armchair and went slowly towards an armoire tucked in a corner of the room. Bette had noticed she seemed to have a bad hip. She watched leaves flutter outside the window, heard the click of a key, some rustling, and then the click again.

‘I’m afraid I must have taken it upstairs.’

The woman’s speech was slow, and had a level, opaque quality that Bette associated with Foxworthy. She felt her goodwill unravelling. A disaster if she didn’t stop it.

‘Is it a lot of stairs?’ she said. ‘Could I get it for you?’

Wendy smiled. ‘That’s kind of you. I suspect it’s in my study. First door on the right. It’s yellow and white.’

‘The throw?’

‘No, the study. The throw is . . .’ Wendy stared off, her mind clearly blank.

‘I’ll find it,’ Bette said.

Wendy waved her hand and began to go back to her chair.

Bette stepped out into the hallway, grateful to be moving, and for the chance to shave five minutes off the hour. Nice attitude, she scolded herself as she started up the stairs, but then forgot everything when she reached the mezzanine level and discovered a gallery wall crammed with art photography.

Iconic American automobiles, dusty store-fronts, brooding trees, scarecrows, street kids . . . The bottomless blacks and icy highlights suggested some antiquity to the prints. A few were signed. Langdon Coburn, Winogrand, Arbus, a Vivian Meier self-portrait. And the most extraordinary Imogen Cunningham of three female dancers captured at the very apex of a formation jeté. They were in blazing sunlight, their shadows stark. One had her head thrown back, the sinews of her throat, exultant, her body hanging in an eyeblink of pure space—

In the velvety silence out on a track round the north-eastern perimeter of the vines, Tina’s feet struck a steady, crunching rhythm. It was six-thirty on Saturday morning and the sky was endless indigo slashed with flaming scarlet as the sun geared up for another day in paradise.

She slowed to a stop and looked around. This trail was a godsend. Since leaving Toronto, Tina had been so involved in sorting out her head and her heart that she’d all but forgotten about her body. But her body had not forgotten how to run.

‘Watch out for snakes,’ Helena had told her when she asked where was a good place to go on the estate.

‘I will,’ Tina said. ‘Where’s good, though?’

‘I mean it.’

Tina had glanced knowingly at Dylan, who smiled and said, ‘Honey, you grew up in Buckinghamshire. Tina grew up in Arizona. I think she’ll be okay.’

And so now she scanned all around, listening keenly, watching the shadows. Rattlers sometimes came out to warm up in the sun. She’d seen rabbits, there might be bobcats, maybe a coyote.

She took out her water bottle and looked down the row in front of her. About a three-minute run straight back to the house.

It had been completely silent when she left, a stark contrast to the night before. Bud-break was one of the most important, almost sacred, events in the winemaking calendar. Hagan had stayed on, Helena’s son Wilson had flown in from Boston, Bette and Angie had arrived from LA, and almost everyone who worked – or would work, seasonally – at the vineyard was gathering the next day for a party with food and music and celebration.

Tina studied the nearby vines. Even a week ago, these were spindly grey-brown skeletons but now they were festooned with tiny indistinct tufts of green. The effect of looking across their multitude at ground level was uplifting.

She sipped water, sweat cooling on her back. It had been hard getting to sleep last night, knowing that Bette was in the house. She ached to be close to her now. Was caught staring openly by Helena, by Dylan, by Angie.

She looked out at the sky. There was no need to look up: the estate’s elevation meant sky was everywhere, a ridiculous throwaway daily riot of molten orange, turquoise, fuchsia, lilac. To her right the sun was blazing white behind a black silhouette of distant mountains. She’d wondered over the past few years how someone like Helena could enjoy a rural life, but the more she saw her, the clearer it became that the vineyard was really about passion, and savvy, and craft. It brought out the best in Helena. It had been clever of her to gamble that it might.

Chapter 8

Angelica Porter-Kennard wasn’t an AP student for nothing. When she went to sleep on Wednesday night, she set a silent phone alarm for 6:00 a.m., so she could get up and check where Mama T spent the night. At 6:03 she tapped very carefully – not so loud as to reach Mama B’s ears, not so soft as to raise a charge of not respecting Mama T’s privacy – but both guest bedrooms were empty. Untouched. No one was even pretending they hadn’t spent the night together.

She stared at the master bedroom door. As far back as she could remember her home had only ever had one cast-iron rule: If your mommies’ bedroom door is closed, Angelica/Angie/honey/sweetheart/boo, please knock and wait for one of us to come let you in. It hadn’t always worked. ‘Doing yoga’ or ‘playing naked statue’ (a game just for grown-ups, apparently) or ‘getting something out of Mama T’s eye’ had become ‘mommies have special cuddles’, ‘everyone needs time for themselves sometimes’, ‘you can ask us to knock on your door too’ etc.

A wild thought flew into Angie’s head: that she should just knock right now and get them to explain – finally – what was going on. But she didn’t. She went back to her room and lay watching the first five seconds of dozens of TikTok videos and scrolling Instagram to the point of blur. Didn’t even want to talk to Jordi.

Bette, meanwhile, was wide awake. Angie may have thought herself stealthy but her mother had heard every footstep.

She breathed as softly and as evenly as she could, not to wake Tina. They were on their sides, Bette the big spoon as always, on her right side with her left arm tucked around Tina’s waist. Her face buried in her hair, her left ankle in between Tina’s calves, thigh tight against her ass. She recalled so many mornings long ago when this situation would turn towards lovemaking. Bette liked mornings. She liked sleepy kisses and racing against the alarm clock and breathing-in a lover’s neck and crotch, warm and musky . . .

But now, nothing. Bette sent enquiries to her nerve-endings, looking for that electric tingle of arousal, and was surprised they came back blank. She was also surprised that this didn’t faze her.