Vintage (19 page)

It was her stupidity that had brought him to this, he told himself as Amelie began to prance around the room,
shedding her clothes like a burlesque dancer. If Christina had been a bit more careful what she proselytized about on national television, if she’d just done a little basic research, Bill wouldn’t have had to suck up to Randon. And if he hadn’t sucked up to Randon, then Randon wouldn’t have paid this rather pretty little whore to suck Bill’s dick. Excellent logic. Flawless, Bill would have said, if Amelie’s talents hadn’t already rendered him speechless.

Bill Tarrant closed his eyes and forgot about everything else.

The following day, the legal team at Domaine Randon and the lawyers representing Christina Morgan signed an official agreement regarding the ISACL debacle. Randon had asked that Christina remain as the face of Maison Randon provided she refrain from denouncing Fast Life in public. Domaine Randon would, of course, fully investigate the allegations of child labor and put them right.

“I knew that ad was just too good to waste,” said Marisa. More to the point, it was just too expensive. Frank Wylie’s services had bumped the budget of a single thirty-second commercial up to that of the average TV movie.

Regardless of the real story behind Domaine Randon’s decision to step down, Christina was satisfied that she had won a moral victory. She agreed to keep her mouth shut.

Hearing the news in Paris, Bill gave an enormous sigh of relief. Pushing an image of Amelie to the back of his mind, he called Christina and told her that he couldn’t wait to see her. He loved her. Everything would be all right.

T
he business of being a small-scale winemaker doesn’t stop at making the wine. It needs to be sold. Guy had discussed with Hilarian the possibility of Froggy Bottom taking a stand at the London International Wine and Spirits Fair at the ExCeL center that year. The cost of a stand was a big outlay for the vineyard at a time when there wasn’t a great deal of money to spare but Hilarian persuaded his fellow trustees that it would be a good way to introduce Froggy Bottom to lots of potential new customers.

“And to see if we can change their minds about us,” he said.

Hilarian was only too aware that like most English wine, Froggy Bottom was seen as something of a novelty by the general public. Not to be taken seriously. But that was before Guy arrived. Two years after it was harvested, Guy’s first vintage for the vineyard was looking—and, more importantly, tasting—very good. It was time to show the rest of the world.

The day before the fair opened, Hilarian drove down to Sussex to help Guy load up the wine and other promotional materials they would need for the Froggy Bottom stand. He found Guy in a grumpy sort of mood.

“How are you getting along with Kelly?” he asked, when they paused in stacking boxes for a restorative cup of tea.

The news wasn’t good.

“Hardly ever see her. She doesn’t get up before noon. Ever. She’s like a vampire. I’ve never managed to persuade her to come out to the vines. I don’t think she’d know what a grape looks like if she slipped on one and broke her stupid neck.”

Hilarian shook his head.

“No need to be so nasty, dear Guy,” he said. “I can’t imagine it’s quite that bad. Perhaps she’s bored. Maybe she needs a trip up to London to cheer her up?” he suggested. “Have you asked her?”

Guy looked panicked. “I haven’t even mentioned I’m going. Don’t tell me you want me to take her to the wine fair?”

“Why not? It might spark some enthusiasm in the dear girl. I’ll suggest it.”

“Please, no,” said Guy. But it was too late. Hilarian had made up his mind.

Hilarian did his best to humor both Guy and Kelly. Guy was a very hard worker. He had enormous talent as a winemaker—managing to turn the acidic piss that Dougal used to make into something almost drinkable was a feat worthy of Jesus Christ himself. But, unusually for the wine trade, Guy could be a bit stuffy. He took his wine-making very, very seriously. It didn’t take an enormous leap of imagination for Hilarian to imagine how Guy might have wound Kelly up.

On the other hand…

The first thing Hilarian spotted as he neared the old farmhouse was the row of empty bottles on the step.

While he waited for Kelly to open the door, Hilarian couldn’t help but pick a couple of the empties up. He expected to see a few bottles of Jacob’s Creek. Maybe some of Froggy Bottom’s finest. And indeed, there were a couple. But he did not expect to see three bottles that had once contained Petrus.

“What? For goodness’ sake!” Hilarian goggled at the vintage and made a quick and horrible calculation in his head. At a Michelin-starred restaurant those three bottles alone would have set you back the cost of a small car. Kelly must have got into Dougal’s cellar. Suddenly feeling a little less indulgent and avuncular, Hilarian hammered for attention.

Kelly eventually opened the door. “Hey, Hilarian.” She looked sleepy. Possibly because she was still wearing her pajamas. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Clearly. I hope you enjoyed this,” he said, brandishing an empty bottle from 1989. “Where did you find it?”

“Oh, that. There are loads of bottles under the stairs. I think it must have been past its sell-by date. It tasted a bit funny but it was all right when we added some Coke.”

“Coke? You … ” Hilarian decided to bite his tongue. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you stay out of the cellar from now on. I’ll take those out-of-date bottles off your hands and bring you some Bacardi Breezers instead, how about that?”

“That’d be great,” said Kelly, quite sincerely.

“Good,” said Hilarian. “Can I come in?”

“Did you bring any fags?” she asked.

Over a cigarette and a cup of tea, Hilarian made his suggestion about the wine festival.

“Great,” said Kelly, shocking him with her speedy and seemingly enthusiastic response. “Saves me having to get the train into town.”

“We’re not just going to drop you off in London,” Hilarian warned her. “I’m inviting you to come with us to the festival, not offering you a lift to go shopping or whatever it is you girls do.”

“Boring,” said Kelly.

“It won’t be,” Hilarian assured her, “You’re going to help set up the stand. Represent the winery.”

Kelly groaned.

“And it will give me an opportunity to introduce you to some different sorts of wine.”

After that morning’s horrible shock with the Petrus, it was clear that an education was in order, and Hilarian intended to deliver it.

It was an hour and a half before Kelly emerged from the farmhouse carrying an enormous suitcase.

“We’re only going for two nights,” said Hilarian.

“Didn’t know what to wear,” said Kelly.

That much was clear.

Guy planned to dress up for the occasion and had packed a suit. He had just one. He’d bought it on sale. It cost a good deal more than he could really afford but he told himself it was important for a man to have at least one proper two-piece. Guy imagined himself walking into Berry Bros. and presenting his wine for their consideration. He was certain that one day soon, his wine itself would open doors all over the world, but until Froggy Bottom’s reputation was established he needed to look the part to wow the old boys in St. James’s.

Kelly was obviously wearing what she considered to be the best outfit for a day in the capital. Or a day as an extra in a rap video.

As he took in her short skirt and those stupid little white ankle boots, Guy subconsciously shook his head. He didn’t even know he’d done it until Kelly spat out, “What?” in her usual dulcet tones.

“We’re supposed to be ambassadors for Froggy Bottom,” said Guy. “There are going to be important people there and you … you look like … ”

“I think she looks rather lovely,” said Hilarian, anxious to avert a disaster and hopeful that there was something better in her case. “Shall we get a move on?”

Guy climbed into the driver’s seat, clenching his jaw with irritation. Hilarian offered Kelly the front seat next to him, but she declined, preferring instead to loll right across the backseat with the earphones to her iPod clamped firmly to her head. She glared out of the window like a teenager being driven to visit her grandmother.

Meanwhile, in Calais, Madeleine Arsenault made a last call to Henri Mason back in Le Vezy before she drove her car onto the train for the Eurotunnel trip to England and the onward journey to the London International Wine Fair.

“Don’t worry about the vineyards,” said Henri. “They’re doing fine. You just get out there and sell your father’s last vintage.”

Madeleine assured Henri that she would do her best.

Having at last made some sense of the piles of receipts and bills her father had left behind and knowing that the vineyards were well cared for under Henri’s watchful eye, Madeleine knew it was time to turn her own attention to promotion. The London wine fair seemed like a good place to start. Madeleine had missed the deadline for securing a stand at that year’s Vinexpo in Bordeaux but London was a big market too. After all, the British were, after the French, the world’s biggest consumers of champagne.

That said, Champagne Arsenault would not have its own stand that year. Madeleine had joined together with a couple of other negociants from Le Vezy. People she liked and trusted to promote her champagne as avidly as they promoted their own if she had to step away from the stand. And so Madeleine was quite excited as she boarded the train, not least because the trip would give her the excuse to catch up with a few of her old friends. Lizzy for sure. Perhaps even Geoff.

After a few wrong turns on her way into London from Dover, Madeleine arrived at her Docklands hotel just before midnight. She ate a disappointing room service sandwich and answered a couple of e-mails before settling down to sleep. One of the e-mails was from Odile Levert, the wine critic.

Madeleine had recently sent a couple of bottles of Champagne Arsenault’s last release to Odile’s office. The moment the bottles had left her hands, Madeleine regretted the move, fully expecting that Odile would at best ignore the offerings and at worst savage them in her column. And so Madeleine was surprised to read Odile’s e-mail, which said, “I was quietly impressed by your father’s last vintage but I would be even more interested to hear
your
plans for Champagne Arsenault. I notice your name in the program for the wine fair. I’d like to meet with you while you are in London.”

Madeleine had long admired Odile Levert. Not just as a wine critic but as the kind of impeccably elegant woman that all young French girls aspired to be. Madeleine’s father, who had little time for any wine critics, had had a surprisingly large amount of respect for Odile.

“For a woman, she has a remarkable nose,” he said. It was high praise indeed from the old vigneron. Constant would have been pleased to know that Odile liked his last vintage.

Madeleine sent back her acceptance of the invitation at once.

T
he London International Wine and Spirits Fair was one of Hilarian’s favorite engagements. It was a wonderful social occasion for him. A chance to catch up with old friends and gossip. And, of course, being one of the most recognizable, and affable, wine critics in town, he was treated like a VIP. Hilarian’s column was written with such skill and genuine enthusiasm that even those winemakers he had savaged somehow took his criticism in their stride and continued to send him their bottles. Within five minutes of walking into the ExCeL center, Hilarian had four invitations to lunch.

But before the partying could begin, the Froggy Bottom stand had to be set up. They’d paid for the smallest booth available. They didn’t have the money, or the time, to get proper posters produced, so Guy had painted the Froggy Bottom logo onto a piece of driftwood. He was worried that it wouldn’t look professional, but in the end, Hilarian assured him, it worked very well. There was something artisanal and original about it.

The exhibition organizers were providing glasses to each of the stands. When Froggy Bottom’s box of ISO-standard tasting glasses was delivered, Guy immediately took them out and examined each one as though he were the sommelier in a top-class establishment. Hardly any of them met with his approval.