Vintage (23 page)

“The minute I heard about the Villa Bacchante, I knew that was the vineyard for me,” said Ronald.

“We mostly grow pinot noir.” Christina fed her dinner companions the spiel that she’d picked up from Bill’s assistant, Teak. “The Carneros region is slightly cooler than other parts of Napa, perfect for pinot, which, as we all know from
Sideways,
is a very particular grape.”

Ronald gave her a little round of applause. He was rapt.

“I can’t wait to come and visit you guys and see exactly how that pinot is planted,” said Ronald.

“You’ll never get rid of him,” Gerry warned.

Then the conversation moved on to wine-world gossip. Christina listened as attentively as she could but beyond a few big names that she recognized, the conversation started to go over her head. She began wondering how early she would be able to get away—her eyes were looking tired and she really didn’t want that caught on camera—but then Ronald brought her back into the conversation.

“You’re the face of Maison Randon, aren’t you?” he said.

Christina nodded. “That’s right. Éclat.”

Ronald smiled. “Great champagne, Randon’s Éclat. You know, I knew Mathieu Randon thirty years ago when he was just starting out, when the champagne house was the only business he had. Of course, it’s two cents to talk
to him these days, now that Domaine Randon’s taking over the world.”

The young blonde on Ronald’s left—the one who Christina had assumed was an airhead colleague of Lauren’s—suddenly sat up a little straighter.

“How does that sit with your views?” she asked.

“I’m sorry. What do you mean?” Christina responded.

“Being the face of Randon Champagne?”

“Maison Randon,” Christina automatically corrected her.

“My apologies, Maison Randon.”

“I’m very happy to be representing such a top-class wine.”

“Really?” The girl raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised. I mean, I read all about the campaign you did for ISACL. We covered it in some depth in my paper.”

“You’re
a journalist?”
said Christina.

“Jennifer Gardner. The
Sunday Herald.”

“She’s doing a profile on me for their Sunday supplement,” said Ronald.

Christina hoped that Ronald would seize the opportunity to talk about himself again but he didn’t.

Jennifer continued, “One of the brands you asked people to boycott is a Domaine Randon brand, right?”

Christina stiffened. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” she said. Of course she knew exactly what Jennifer was talking about but Marisa had assured her that the Fast Life episode was finished and that the only policy from now on was to pretend it never happened. “Fast Life is a really new Randon brand. People won’t make the connection,” Marisa had promised her most successful client.

But this Jennifer girl had made the connection.

“Fast Life
is
a Domaine Randon brand, isn’t it?” she tried again.

Christina could only nod.

“And you’re prepared to continue representing the company despite Fast Life’s track record. Didn’t they have three children actually die in an accident with a loom last year?”

“I … ” Christina hesitated.

“Perhaps you already know what Domaine Randon plans to do about the ISACL accusations regarding Fast Life? Have you spoken to Mr. Randon personally about your concerns regarding the use of child labor to produce his luxury goods?”

Christina found herself blushing. She couldn’t help it. Glancing across the table she saw that Lauren the PR and Gerry Paine had stopped talking and were watching Jennifer’s inquisition with interest.

“It would seem to be the obvious thing to do,” Jennifer continued. “I’m sure, being the face of his champagne, you must have Mathieu Randon’s ear. And I’m equally sure he would want to keep you and your husband happy. A great many people are influenced by the ideals and actions of celebrities such as you. That’s undoubtedly why Rocky Neel asked you to support ISACL in the first place. But maybe it doesn’t really matter to you? Perhaps you thought no one would make the connection. Perhaps
you
didn’t make the connection. I understand how these things work,” said Jennifer, waving her hand dismissively. “Famous as you are, you must get asked to do all sorts of charity work. Your agent picks the best causes for you. The ones that fit your public image. You turn up. You put on the T-shirt. You read a script. It’s just like any other job, right?”

“No. ISACL and its aims are very important to me,” said Christina. “I have a personal connection with the charity. Rocky Neel and I have been friends for years—”

“But you need the Randon ad money to pay the mortgage. Hey, I’m not judging you. We’ve all been there.
Taking a job we know we shouldn’t because we don’t want the bank to take our house back. It’s no different from me writing puff pieces on my editor’s old cronies to pay the rent.” Jennifer waved her hand in the direction of Ronald Ginsburg. “So, I perfectly understand your dilemma. It’s morality versus necessity. Your husband’s last film bombed, right? That must have hurt your bottom line.”

Christina struggled to find an answer. Who did this girl think she was?

“I don’t think I can speak for my husband,” she began. “But this has been a tough summer for the movie business in general and—”

“What were the figures?” Jennifer persisted.

“You know, I really don’t want to talk about this now,” said Christina before Jennifer could come up with the numbers.

“But we’re all interested to hear what you have to say.”

“I just don’t think that any of this has any relevance to—”

Just then, a young and nervous-looking waiter leaned in to refill everyone’s wine. Jennifer frowned at the interruption, but for Christina it was a gift from God. She suddenly reached for her water glass, knocking the waiter’s arm as she did so. Just as Christina had hoped he would, the waiter slopped red wine all over the table and onto her lap. She jumped up, knocking into the waiter again, thus ensuring that she was soaked.

“Why you clumsy … ” Ronald got to his feet and rushed to Christina’s assistance.

“It’s OK, Ronald. I’m fine,” she batted away his attempts to mop down her cleavage. “Really,” she assured the waiter. “It’s just a bit of wine. I’m OK. I’ve got a spare dress. Excuse me, everybody.”

Christina fled from the table.

The second she was out of sight, Christina dove into her handbag for her mobile and called Marisa in New York to ask for her advice on how to deal with the journalist girl. Christina knew that after she presented the awards, Randon was expecting her to join him and his team at the Domaine Randon table for another photo op. Christina could already imagine what the journalist would make of that.

Marisa was not in the office. Christina got through to Marisa’s assistant, Louis, instead.

“Darling, don’t worry about it. You will be magnificent!” he said. It was the kind of advice that worked when Christina was feeling nervy about stepping out onto the catwalk in a swimsuit made of nothing but a couple of carefully folded dollar bills, but this was different. The journalist was questioning her integrity and so far Christina had not found the right answer.

“Are you all right in there?” Lauren called through the dressing room door. “Gerry has just gone up onstage to start the speeches. We don’t want to leave him up there on his own for too long. He’s so boring!”

“Just a minute,” said Christina.

She could think of no way to buy herself more time. She stripped off the ruined dress and replaced it with the backup: a hot pink version of the same design. Then she touched up her makeup. Her reflection in the mirror frowned back at her. Christina pressed on the two worry creases between her eyes, hoping to make them disappear. If only she could make Jennifer the journalist disappear too.

“Miss Morgan?” Lauren knocked on the door again.

“I’m ready,” Christina called back, feeling further from ready than she had ever been.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Miss Christina Morgan.”

Christina took to the stage and tapped on the mike. She wondered if the audience could hear her heart pounding against her rib cage as she prepared to make the speech of her life. She glanced back at the table where she had been sitting with Ronald Ginsburg and the others. Jennifer Gardner was leaning forward expectantly, pen poised over a pad of paper. Christina gave the woman who had been giving her such a hard time a nervous smile.

“Time to do the right thing,” Christina said to herself.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began. “I’m so glad to be here this evening. Not as a model but as a fellow wine-maker. It’s a real honor to be in such great company. You have welcomed me into your bosom and I’m truly grateful for that. But my passion for wine is eclipsed by my passion for the charity we’re here to support this evening. It’s an involvement that has changed my life. ISACL stands for the International Society for the Abolition of Child Labor.

“Now, you might wonder what child labor has to do with you, but glancing around this room tonight, I can see that many of you are unknowingly supporting the practice, wearing clothes and shoes produced by children who work sixteen hours for as little as a dollar a day.”

Christina glanced down at those faces in the crowd she was able to see. She seemed to have their attention.

“It is up to all of us to make sure that the children in the Third World have the same opportunities our own children do. That is how we make a better future for everyone. So I’m here today to tell you that I’m standing by everything I said on behalf of ISACL when I made that infomercial two months ago. One of the brands I asked the general public to boycott was Fast Life, a sportswear brand that you may or may not know as a subsidiary of Domaine Randon, parent company of Maison Randon champagne, for whom I am ashamed to say I have made a
commercial. Ladies and gentlemen, I have decided that I can no longer be the face of Maison Randon because I do not support child labor. It really is as simple as that. Monsieur Randon, change your working practices or accept my resignation!”

“Good God,” said Odile.

“Bit of excitement,” said Ronald.

“Now, that is what I call a resignation. Does Mathieu Randon have a history of having people assassinated?” asked Hilarian.

“If I were you,” Ronald said to Gerry Paine, “I’d get out there and start the dancing.”

Mathieu Randon merely shook his head as Christina finished her passionate speech to a round of raucous applause. He wasn’t going to hang around and dignify the stupid woman’s half-baked opinions with a response. Before the crowd even finished applauding the beatific supermodel, Randon was installed in the back of a black BMW that whisked him back to the Craven Hotel on Park Lane. The driver knew not to make small talk.

As the sole senior representative of Domaine Randon remaining at the wine fair’s awards dinner, it was left to Axel Delaflote to issue a hasty rebuttal of Christina’s claims in the manner he assumed his boss would have expected. Jennifer led the gaggle of journalists that gathered around his table and shot tough questions at him like a firing squad. There would be no opportunity for Axel to relax over port that night.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “Miss Morgan’s revelation is as much news to Monsieur Randon as it has been to you this evening. Of course, Domaine Randon will be investigating claims that child labor was involved in the production of the Fast Life sportswear range. But as
far as Maison Randon is concerned—and I think that all of us gathered here today are rather more interested in wine than in trainers—I can assure you that no children were involved in the production of our world-class wines. Though perhaps you should ask one of the kind gentlemen from Bollinger about their Côte aux Enfants. Now, if you’ll excuse me … ”

The Bollinger rep shook his head and prepared to spin the old yarn for the journalists who hadn’t yet heard it.

“It’s just a legend,” he promised them. “We do have one particularly steep vineyard at Bollinger called the Côte aux Enfants that was traditionally picked by children. Of course, these days … ”

Axel took advantage of the moment to slip away.