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Benedict Jones, so if you could show me to him I’d very much appreciate it.’
    He pointed to his headset. I fantasised about ripping it from his ear and crushing it under a Miu.
    â€˜Hi,’ said a voice behind me.
    I swivelled and another unsuitably suited man extended his hand to shake mine. ‘Hi,’ I said, ‘Ruby Stanhope.’
    â€˜Luke Harley. You’ll have to excuse my colleague, Ruby; he was just checking you’re not press, which you’re not, are you?’
    â€˜No. Recovering investment banker, actually.’
    â€˜Good.’ Luke walked me under an arch crawling with star jasmine and along a candlelit path towards a suited congregation in the vineyard. It looked like a vine-side funeral.
    â€˜Nobody told me the dress code was lounge suit,’ I said, embarrassed by my tropical goddess outfit.
    â€˜It’s not supposed to be,’ said Luke. ‘It’s just that most of us don’t own anything else.’
    â€˜The man at the door said this is a fundraiser. What’s the charity?’
    He laughed; then his phone rang. He gestured towards a Clooneyesque man, with substantially more salt than pepper, and centurion pecs. ‘GI Joe senior over there is Jones. I’ll be back in a minute.’
    The only other person at the function in civilian clothes wove through the vines towards me.
    â€˜I don’t think we’ve met.’ Benedict Jones extended his hand.
    Pants man plus jet lag equals regret , my head reminded me.
    â€˜I’m Daphne Partridge’s niece, Ruby.’
    â€˜Pleased to meet you.’ He shook my hand. ‘Welcome to Benedict Estate.’
    â€˜Thank you, it’s lovely to be here.’
    â€˜Your accent is cute,’ he said. ‘Let me guess—English?’
    Psychic, groaned my head.
    â€˜Yes, I’m from London.’
    â€˜I’m told I have a very good ear.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Shall I show you my vines?’
    I tried to keep my eyes from rolling and accepted his arm. ‘So what do you grow here?’ I glanced around at the tailored monochrome and wished I didn’t look like a big blue parrot.
    â€˜Pinot,’ he said, ‘and a little chardonnay.’
    â€˜I hear pinot’s plagued with problems. Or is that just a vinicultural legend?’
    â€˜It is tougher to grow than any other grape,’ he said, ‘but it’s worth the chase.’
    Groan.
    He picked a single grape for me from a perfect bunch. ‘Eat it,’ he directed, dropping it into my mouth. It didn’t taste like I’d imagined. I could taste the spices, but not the fruit.
    I unhooked myself from his arm. ‘Tell me, do you often have parties like this?’
    â€˜Just for Max. We go way back.’
    â€˜Is it his birthday?’
    â€˜You’re charming, Ruby,’ he chuckled, until he realised my question was genuine. ‘Max Masters is the Leader of the Opposition.’
    â€˜As in a politician ?’
    I felt like a dill. There I was assuming I would meet a bunch of grape-lovers. Instead, I would spend the evening with a bunch of apes in suits expecting me to know who they were. The only politicians I knew were the ones I detested for taxing luxury goods and capping bankers’ bonuses.
    â€˜Mingle!’ directed Benedict, looking over my shoulder at a short-skirt suit. I found the bar in the marquee and mingled with the wines, where I was rudely interrupted by a woman sporting big teeth and a too-tight ponytail— think rabbit with an up-do.
    â€˜Christine,’ she announced, thrusting her hand into mine.
    â€˜Ruby.’ I felt her hand deftly deal me a business card.
    â€˜I work for the property development industry.’
    â€˜I see.’ I skimmed her card. ‘In what capacity?’
    â€˜Well, you know, helping them out here and there with a few bits and pieces.’
    â€˜No,’ I said, ‘I don’t know. What kinds of