Vintage (33 page)

The trio walked to the winery. It was intoxicating to be in Randon’s presence. Who could not be impressed by the way his staff reacted whenever he was around? They
stopped their chattering and practically genuflected as the master strode by. The winery was spotless. The stainless-steel vats were perfectly burnished. The concrete floor was remarkably dry.

Jean-Christophe was waiting for them by the enormous barrels that held the still wine from Randon’s grand cru vineyards at Verzenay and Avize. A long table had been laid with a pure white tablecloth. The glasses—Riedel’s own special design for Maison Randon—were polished and ready. Sitting next to them was a plate of white bread for the purpose of cleansing the palate.

It’s often said that the magic of champagne comes at the blending stage, when wine from previous vintages is mixed with the new wine to create the house style. However, the still wines they were to taste that day would not be blended before they were bottled. Each of the vats contained juice from the grapes of a single vineyard. The delight of the champagne they became would be in the unique expression of each of those vineyards. Ultimate terroir.

As Randon watched, Jean-Christophe opened the tap at the bottom of the vat marked “Verzenay” and allowed a trickle to flow into his glass. He made a great show of holding the resulting liquid up to the pale spring sunshine. The great doors to the winery had been thrown open to allow in as much light as possible for the purpose of examining the color and clarity of the wine.

Then Jean-Christophe took a sniff and a slurp. He held the wine in the cup of his tongue, aerating it. Then he paused, as though waiting for a chemical reaction to take place in his mouth. At last, he spat into the silver spittoon and nodded. He was pleased with what he’d tasted.

With much theatricality, he filled three more glasses. One each for Randon, Axel and Odile.

“I think you’ll find this acceptable,” said Jean-
Christophe with the air of a man who knows that he’s making an understatement.

They all nosed their glasses. Odile took the first sip. She tried hard not to react at once. She wanted a moment to get the words exactly right. But Randon was watching her closely, studying her for micro-expressions that might reveal her true first impression. And he caught one.

“It’s not right,” said Randon. Without even bothering to taste his own, he threw his wineglass on to the floor. It shattered on the concrete, splattering wine and shards of glass all over Jean-Christophe. The cellar master jumped back against the barrel as though Randon had swung a punch at him. Odile felt something—possibly glass—hit her stockinged leg, but she tried to remain still. She didn’t even look down to see if she was bleeding.

Axel stepped forward. He tried to calm the situation down. He held his own glass out to Randon.

“I think this is pretty good.”

“You’ve been in this business five minutes, Delaflote. Five minutes. I don’t want to know what you think. Odile, I’ll give you a ride back to town.”

Randon turned and walked out of the winery.

On the drive back to Paris, Randon made arrangements for the termination of Jean-Christophe’s employment. Odile heard every word of his conversation with Axel Delaflote. She looked out the window. There was no point trying to reason with him. The only way to stay within Randon’s charmed inner circle was to stay quiet. And it was very important to Odile that she didn’t lose her place in the sun. Not yet.

A
day later, having spent yet another hour unsuccessfully arguing with Randon for Jean-Christophe’s retention as the cellar master at Maison Randon, Axel sat alone in his office with his head in his hands. The red lights on the telephone in front of him flickered on and off with the regularity of brake lights in a traffic jam as his assistant, Sabine, tried to connect him to various callers, but Axel didn’t pick up. Eventually, Sabine poked her head around the door.

“You OK?” she dared to ask.

“Of course I’m OK,” Axel snapped.

“It’s just that you’re not picking up. Is your phone working?”

“Just hold my calls for an hour.”

So far, Axel’s promotion to the head of Maison Randon had been the very definition of a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it was everything he had ever wanted. He was heading up one of the most famous champagne houses in the world. There were some fabulous perks. People took him seriously now. He could get reservations in any restaurant in Paris, London, New York. Anywhere. As he had promised that night in the car, Randon had installed Axel in a wonderful apartment near the Domaine Randon headquarters in Paris, complete with antique furniture and the kind of paintings that museums clamored to get on loan. There was also the apartment in the house in Champagne, of course, overlooking the vineyards, with
a live-in housekeeper and chef, so that Axel could entertain company guests in style.

The downside was that Axel knew he had become the definition of a company man. He was expected to be available to his boss at all times. Most people at Axel’s level expect to have to take their work home on occasion, but Randon really took advantage of the concept of 24/7 availability. There were frequent calls in the middle of the night. Axel sometimes wondered if Randon ever slept or if he was, as some of his less reverent employees suggested, a vampire.

And now this. Randon’s explosive rage in the winery had unnerved Axel far more than he dared reveal. Axel had expected that Randon would calm down overnight and agree with Axel’s position that the still wine from the Verzenay vineyards was perfectly good and JeanChristophe should be kept on. But Randon was implacable. He refused to revise his opinion that Jean-Christophe had embarrassed Maison Randon by presenting mediocre wine to such an esteemed guest as Odile Levert. JeanChristophe had to go. Axel had to swing the hatchet.

“But his contract—” Axel tried one last time.

“Will be terminated,” said Randon simply before he put down the phone.

Eventually, Axel could stand to be in his office no longer. Informing Sabine that she should tell callers he was down in the
crayères
and thus could not be contacted on his mobile, he headed out.

But Axel didn’t go down into the caves. He walked out of the Maison Randon compound and kept walking, hoping that some exercise might clear his head. An hour later, he found himself up on the hill, standing right by the Arsenault vineyards. There was no one up there. Neither in Madeleine’s vineyards nor as far as Axel could see in either
direction. The rows of vines didn’t look like anything much at this time of year, just gray sticks, so harshly pruned one might fear they would never bud and blossom again. But Axel was remembering a time when the vines looked very different. He remembered Madeleine in her cut off shorts, a smudge of dirt on her face somehow adding to her sexiness. Axel felt a familiar twitch in his groin at the thought of Madeleine beneath the tree after their picnic.

If only he could walk down into Le Vezy, knock on the door of Madeleine’s house and have her take him in. What he wanted most of all right then was the distraction of her arms around him. Her soft white skin naked against his. Of course, that wasn’t going to happen. Madeleine hadn’t spoken a word to Axel since the London wine fair. Axel shoved his hands in his pockets and sighed as he began the walk back to his office.

But the desire that had been aroused by thoughts of Madeleine was still with him when he got to Maison Randon and discovered, thankfully, that everyone else had already gone home for the night and there was nothing he could do before morning. Axel still needed some kind of stress relief.

There was certainly, as Randon had joked that first night they dined together, no time for love in Axel’s life anymore and that was frustrating. Axel was used to spending time in the company of women. Women drifted across his path far more frequently now, but there was never time to take them out and these weren’t the kind of girls who would be happy to read in bed while Axel tinkered with a spreadsheet on his laptop. Still, he craved the touch of a woman’s hands.

He had always understood the appeal of prostitutes. The bliss of human interaction without the complications
of a relationship. Lately the idea crossed his mind more frequently. There didn’t seem to be any reason why not.

So Axel got into his car and drove to Reims. He found himself by the old market by the Pont De Mars. There were a couple of girls there, smoking cigarettes and chatting. They were too cold to make much effort to display their wares that night. Axel had to wind his window down and lean out before either girl even noticed he was looking for some company.

The blond one got up first. She sauntered across, her hands thrust deep in her pockets against the cold, though she was wearing a mini-skirt and no tights. Axel shook his head and motioned with his chin toward the other girl, a brunette. The blonde shrugged and headed back to the wall.

The brunette took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled as she leaned in through the car window to discuss terms. The smoke made Axel feel a little nauseous but the girl was pretty, in a cheap sort of way. Axel stretched across to open the passenger door and the girl climbed in.

“My name is Claire,” she said.

Axel nodded. He didn’t need to tell her his name.

“I know somewhere we can go. Take a left past Le Boulingrin.”

As they passed, Axel glanced at the brasserie where he had spent many a happy evening, back when life was much less complicated. The warmth of the light spilling out onto the pavement and the laughter of the people sitting in the window seats contrasted starkly with how he felt right then.

Claire had him turn the car into a dark street with a big industrial unit on one side and some abandoned buildings on the other.

“The cops never come down here,” she explained. “No residents to make a complaint. Just oral, yes?”

Axel nodded again. He pushed his seat back to give her room and reclined it for his own pleasure. While Claire dipped her head to his lap, Axel let his head loll to one side and gazed sightlessly out the window, trying to think of nothing but Claire’s mouth, warm and wet, around his cock. But the stress that had dogged him all day kept pulling him back to a harsher reality. And soon he was looking at the faded words painted below the first-floor windows of the abandoned building he had pulled up beside. “Champagne Arnaud Bernard.” Axel had never heard of the marque. What had become of it? What had become of Arnaud Bernard himself? Did anyone remember him? Would anyone remember Axel after he was dead? He had no wife. He had no family. No real friends. He had nothing but his work.

Was this what Stefan Urban meant when he cleared out his desk and announced to Axel as they passed in the corridor, “It’s you that I feel sorry for. I feel like Atlas handing over the heavens.”

Claire raised her head and looked at Axel with an expression of annoyance. She clearly hadn’t expected to have to work quite so hard for her money.

“I’m sorry,” said Axel, pushing her away from his softening penis. “I’ll drive you back to where I picked you up. This hasn’t happened to me before.”

“That’s what they all say,” said Claire.

Axel dropped Claire off at the deserted market. Her friend, the other girl, was still there, along with a guy who Axel could only assume was their pimp. He’d seen him around Reims before. A big guy with a shaved head and a scar that ran right down the side of his face, leaving his left eye permanently closed.

As Axel’s car drew near, the pimp stepped forward. Axel couldn’t get away quickly enough. He drove back to
Maison Randon. The house was empty. The housekeeper was spending the night with her boyfriend in Épernay. Axel was glad to be alone. He poured himself a glass of red wine and slumped into a chair, but before he could take a sip, his telephone rang. It was Randon.

“Come straight to Paris,” he said. “Meet me at Eponine. Eleven o’clock.”

Axel knew he didn’t have a choice. He headed for the train station.

Axel and Randon talked business over dinner but as Randon didn’t mention the termination of Jean-Christophe’s job again, Axel allowed himself to think he’d got away with it. Perhaps Jean-Christophe had a reprieve.

There were moments, however, when Axel felt a twinge of panic. Such as when Randon asked him how he was enjoying living at the Randon apartment in the sixteenth arrondissement.

“Be a shame to have to leave it,” Randon said.

Axel could only nod. “I like being there very much.”

Axel was relieved when the waiters brought coffee and the end of dinner loomed. He couldn’t wait to get out of the restaurant and back to the relative safety of his Paris flat.

“It’s been a lovely evening,” said Axel, after Randon settled the bill.

“What are you talking about, Delaflote? It’s far from over.”

Axel felt cold.

“We’re going to a party,” said Randon.

They climbed into Randon’s black limousine and glided through the streets of Paris toward an area that Axel didn’t know.

“What are your vices, Axel?” Randon asked him as they traveled through the dark. “And you can’t say champagne,”
he added, with an almost avuncular wag of the finger. “In our world, champagne is not a vice.”