The Critic by Peter May Page A

have earned that much from the newsletter, surely?’
    ‘No, he didn’t. There was a point when he got enough subscriptions that he could give up his job. But it was everything else that made him the money. The syndicated newspaper columns. The books—on Bordeaux, Burgundy, Rhone, Piedmont, Rioja. He was producing one a year, and they were all bestsellers. Then there were his radio slots, his half-hour weekly show on cable TV, speaking engagements.’
    ‘I’m surprised he had any time left over to taste the wines.’
    ‘Oh, he always had time for tasting wine. He had a custom-made tasting room in the house. He would spend hours in there. And when he left to go on tasting trips he would be away for weeks on end. You know, he could taste a hundred wines in the morning, have lunch, then go on tasting in the afternoon.’
    ‘If I tasted a hundred wines I wouldn’t be able to stand up.’
    Michelle laughed. ‘He didn’t swallow, Mister Macleod, just tasted and spat.’
    Enzo shook his head in wonder. ‘Even so. A hundred wines in a morning? How on earth could he ever remember one from another?’
    ‘He took notes, of course. But my father had an extraordinary memory. Some people have photographic memories. My father could remember smells and tastes. He could file them away then pull them back at will. He could pinpoint the grape, the year, and the
château
of a wine he hadn’t tasted in ten years.’ She was lost for several long moments in some sad reflection. ‘He had a pretty good memory in general. He used to tell us about when he was a kid, just four or five years old. His parents forced him to learn by heart all the US presidents, and all the US states, and made him rhyme them off as a party-piece for visitors. All the same, he had to train his sense of smell and taste. I used to hold his hand as we walked down the street, and he would close his eyes and identify all the smells that came to him. Cut grass. Tar. Rotting garbage. Cherry blossom. He was good at it.’ She drew a deep breath and brought herself back to Enzo’s original question. ‘So, yes, he always had time for tasting wine, Mister Macleod. It was his family he had no time for.’ She shrugged. ‘You know the rest, I guess. Mom divorced him. Got the house and half his money. And his difficult, adolescent daughter refused to talk to him ever again.’
    Their lamb came to the table then, along with potatoes that had been scooped out, mashed with cream and garlic, then stuffed back in their skins and roasted in the oven. The meat was smoky tender and perfectly pink. Enzo filled their glasses from a bottle of Domaine Sarrabelle Saint André, a hundred percent braucol aged in oak. It was soft and smooth, fruit and vanilla on the tongue.
    ‘So now you know our whole sordid little story,’ Michelle said. ‘But I don’t know anything about you. Are you married, Mister Macleod?’
    ‘Enzo.’
    ‘Are you married, Enzo?’
    He looked up and saw again that strange quality in her eyes, pupils dilated, a penetrating ring of green around black. She flicked her head to toss her hair back over her shoulders.
    ‘I was once,’ he said. ‘A long time ago. Back in Scotland. A girl I was at university with.’
    ‘Any children?’
    He avoided her eyes and focused on cutting his lamb. ‘A little girl. Kirsty. She’s a couple of years older than you now.’
    ‘So what happened?’
    ‘I met someone else.’
    ‘Uh-oh.’
    He smiled ruefully. ‘Yeah, not a very original story, is it?’
    ‘She was French?’
    ‘Good guess.’
    ‘There had to be some reason you were here.’
    He sipped some more Saint André. ‘Her name was Pascale. I met her at a forensics conference in Nice. She was younger than me.’
    ‘Aren’t they always?’
    He shrugged. ‘I’ve always conformed to stereotypes. It’s easier than being original.’
    ‘So what happened?’
    ‘Oh, you know, not that different from your dad. My wife divorced me, got the house and just about