Vintage (34 page)

“Of course.”

“Then?”

Axel shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

“Drugs? Girls?”

Axel shook his head.

“Boys?” Randon ventured.

“No. I mean … no. Of course not.”

“Come on, Axel. There must be something. You can tell me. And it will be strictly between us. We’re out of the office now. I’m not going to pass on your answer to the human resources department.”

Axel laughed nervously.

“Axel, if you can’t express your vices, what chance do you have of them ever being fulfilled? If you tell me that you like fat girls with big muffs, I may well be able to find one for you. If you don’t tell me, you’ll never know what I can do. And one thing I like to do for my friends is cater to their needs.”

“Really,” said Axel. “I can’t think of anything I need. You’ve been very kind. The chance to head up Maison Randon. The apartment. The house in Champagne is magnificent.”

“Boring,” said Randon, waving Axel’s praise away.

And suddenly Axel found himself wondering how he could appear more interesting. Which was exactly Randon’s plan, he knew. Still he resisted being drawn.

“You know,” said Randon. “The main reason I wanted you at the head of Maison Randon is that you remind me of myself at your age. You’re a clever guy. Ambitious. I thought to myself that Axel Delaflote is a man who sees things differently. He’s not constrained by the usual social mores. Because trying to be a good man is directly incompatible with being a great man.”

“I think I understand.”

“You know also that the real secret of champagne is dirt.”

Axel nodded. He’d heard this speech before. First the dirt in the vineyard and finally the dirt in the glass…

“Our flaws are what make us sparkle,” Randon mused.

They were passing through a red-light district now.

Randon’s car stopped at a set of traffic lights and Axel found himself looking into the face of a working girl leaning against a wall as though he might know her.

“Remind you of the girls by the market in Reims?” asked Randon.

Axel’s head spun as he turned back to face his boss. He felt instantly guilty, though there was no way that Randon could know where he’d been earlier that evening. Was there?

“You should be more careful,” said Randon. “You don’t know where they’ve been.”

But how did Randon know where he’d been? Axel said nothing.

“And they’re not renowned for their discretion.”

He did know.

“Our little secret,” Randon said.

At last the car pulled up outside a large house. It had the air of a place long deserted. Some of its windows were actually boarded up. It certainly didn’t look like there was a party going on.

Randon patted his young protégé on the knee.

“This will cheer you up. Let’s go inside.”

Axel knew he was stuck. He followed Randon up the dark path and into the house. Behind the tatty-looking door lay a different world entirely. Inside, the house was like a jewel case, all gilding and velvet and mirrors reflecting candlelight. A woman dressed in nothing but a suspender
belt and high heels greeted Axel and his boss. Randon tucked a bank note into the top of one of her stockings. She took Axel by the hand and led him farther inside.

“I’ll take care of you,” she said.

Randon, meanwhile, turned and left.

T
he harvest at Froggy Bottom was a turning point for Kelly. Chastened by her heart-to-heart with Hilarian and encouraged by the reaction of her friends, who had been so thrilled to take part in the
vendange,
she began to consider that winemaking might not be such a boring occupation after all.

Kelly realized that Hilarian had done her an enormous favor by keeping the whole rave incident from the trustees. She was grateful for that. But she wasn’t surprised to learn a few months later that he expected a return on his investment of belief.

One Sunday afternoon, while Kelly was helping him to wash up after lunch, Hilarian broached a difficult subject.

“When did you leave school?” he asked.

Kelly immediately bristled. “Sixteen, why?”

“Did you take your exams before you left?”

“Some of them,” Kelly lied.

“Kelly,” said Hilarian. “The trustees and I have decided that you would benefit from some more formal education.”

“What?”

“Just that. Some more education.”

“You want me to go back to school?” said Kelly.

“Not school,” said Hilarian. “College. Winemaking isn’t just about squashing the grapes and letting them stew, as I’m sure Guy will tell you. There’s chemistry involved.”

Kelly blanched. “I failed chemistry.”

“Well, here’s your chance to pass. I’ve brought you something to look at.” While Kelly dried her hands, Hilarian went to his briefcase. He pulled out a leaflet about distance learning with the Viticulture and Enology Department at UC Davis. “This would be the ideal place for you to start.”

Kelly gave the leaflet a cursory glance while Hilarian made a cup of tea. Then she put it back down on the table.

“I’m not clever enough to do that,” she said.

“Kelly, I know that’s not the truth.”

“You don’t know that. I was the thickest girl in my class. Everyone said so.”

“Everyone?”

Kelly nodded. She wasn’t being unduly modest.

Kelly had no positive memories whatsoever of her brief years in education. From her first day in school—aged five—when she was sent to stand in a corner for asking a question without putting her hand up, to the very last, when she walked out halfway through her maths GCSE, she could not remember a single moment of praise. The expectation that she would be a failure had been set at the very beginning and repeated to her so often over the years that it naturally became a fact. The thought of setting foot in a classroom again had never occurred to her, and now that Hilarian brought it up, she could only assume he was trying to make a fool of her in some subtle way.

“I haven’t got any qualifications at all,” said Kelly. “I won’t even be able to get on this course you want me to take. Why can’t you and Guy just tell me what to do?”

“Because we can only take you so far. And I think you have great potential. If you do this course, you’ll be able to tell Guy and me what to do. You’ll be able to shape the future of Froggy Bottom on your own. All I’m asking is for you to make a little bit more effort.”

Effort. The very word made Kelly tense.
Not enough effort. Needs to make more effort.
In that word she could hear the voices of every teacher she’d ever had the misfortune to meet joining together in a grand chorus inside her head. But they never seemed to notice when she
did
make an effort. Nothing would ever be good enough.

“Just drop it, will you?” Kelly snapped. “I don’t want to go back to school.”

She left Hilarian sitting at the kitchen table and fled upstairs. When she came back down again a couple of hours later, he was gone. The leaflet was still on the table. Kelly dropped it in the trash bin.

After that scene, Kelly thought that she had heard the last of Hilarian’s scheme to get her back into education. She certainly didn’t bring it up. Having to think about her school days had really upset her. Her teachers had often accused her of not giving a damn. The reality was very different. She had cared enormously. It hurt so much. So her first assumption, when the parcel of books from Amazon arrived, was that Hilarian was being cruel.

Kelly called Gina to moan.

“They just won’t let it drop. Guy and Hilarian bring it up every bloody day. I don’t know how many times I have to tell them I was never any good at exams. It’s not going to be any different now.”

She expected her best friend to sympathize and agree with her. But Gina didn’t. Instead, Gina said, “I think they’re right. You should do it.”

“You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?”

“Why should I line myself up to look a fool all over again?”

“Do you think you’re getting back at the people who called you stupid at school by refusing ever to learn anything new? If I were in your position, I would jump at the chance. I will jump at the chance as soon as I get together enough money.”

Kelly felt slightly ashamed as she thought of how Gina was still trying to get together her college fees.

“Are you really not interested? Or are you just being chicken?”

“Gina … ”

“You are,” said Gina. “You’d rather definitely remain ignorant than risk looking a fool in front of a teacher. You’re a chicken.”

Nobody called Kelly Elson “chicken.” As soon as she put the phone down, Kelly crossed the courtyard and got Guy out of bed to tell him that she wanted to sign up for the week long course. She made him file her application via the Internet, there and then, so that she wouldn’t have a chance to back out.

“I’m really glad you’re going to do this,” said Guy.

“Me too,” said Kelly.

She lay awake for ages that night, wondering what on earth she had let herself in for.

W
ith her first vendange safely undergoing its second fermentation in bottle in the dark chalk caves beneath the house, and the dormant vineyards in Henri’s capable hands, Madeleine decided it was time to go back to London.

Apart from her disastrous trip to the wine fair at ExCeL, she had not been to London since the weekend after her father’s funeral. In the meantime, Lizzy had been looking after Madeleine’s apartment for her. Lizzy’s unfortunate split with the physics teacher had been, in one way, a godsend. It meant that Lizzy had needed somewhere new to live and quickly. Madeleine had an empty apartment and needed a house sitter. Everyone was happy(ish). But a year later, Lizzy had met someone wonderful—
“really
wonderful this time”—and wanted to move out of the flat and into his house in Surrey. The flat was empty again. Madeleine needed to clear out her things and make the place fit for a proper tenant. Someone who wouldn’t want to be surrounded by her stuff.

Madeleine approached the business of emptying the flat with her usual professionalism. She consulted with a leasing agent, who advised her which pieces of furniture would appeal to a corporate renter and which should be removed. With that knowledge in mind, Madeleine went around the flat with a wodge of Post-it notes, marking those pieces that would remain, those that would be shipped to Champagne and those that would be taken
straight to the dump. It didn’t take long. Madeleine was not particularly sentimental about the furniture in her London home, all of which had been chosen by an interior designer.

She was similarly unsentimental about her more personal belongings. She decided that almost all the clothes in her wardrobe would have to go. If she hadn’t missed them in the best part of a year, she wouldn’t miss them now. In fact, Madeleine was so keen to declutter her life that she even brought with her a case full of clothes from the house in Champagne, designer duds that might raise a few quid through one of those genteel dress agencies. Madeleine was ruthless. She needed cash for her champagne house, not Chanel.

It was as she was packing her belongings that she found the old shoe box. It had been stuffed to the back of her wardrobe, at the bottom of a pile of other shoe boxes. The difference was, this one didn’t contain Manolos or Louboutins.

Madeleine hadn’t looked inside it for ten years. She sat down on the bed and stared at the string that tied the box shut. She could leave it shut, if she wanted. She almost didn’t need to open it, so clearly could she picture what she’d find.

Inside the box were the few things she hadn’t been able to leave behind when she left Le Vezy to move to London permanently, seven years earlier.

There were letters from her mother, written to Madeleine while she was studying at Oxford. Madeleine’s mother had beautiful handwriting and an equally elegant turn of phrase. There were birthday cards. Again written in Madeleine’s mother’s hand.
Des Maman et Papa.
Constant Arsenault never signed the cards himself.

And here was a photograph of Madeleine with her brother and Axel Delaflote. They were standing in the Clos. Axel and Georges had an arm around each other’s shoulders. Madeleine, a couple of years younger and much shorter, stood in front of them. They were all smiling at the camera. The best of friends.