Vintage (45 page)

Odile replaced the magazines on the nightstand and picked up the newspaper she had bought for her train ride. It wasn’t that she was such an avid reader of this particular rag but there was a story she was very interested in following. The rest of the nationals didn’t seem to be quite so bothered. It was a small story, Odile supposed, in the scheme of things. Still, it had captured the imagination of one writer at least.

“A life ruined. A good start with a loving family didn’t protect her from what fate had in store. ‘She was a good student,’ a former teacher from her high school commented. ‘Not outstanding but certainly never a child who would dream of causing any trouble. I’m so shocked to discover that she ended up working as a prostitute. She wanted to be a veterinary nurse.’

“The case has similarities with three unsolved murders from the 1980s,” the piece continued.

Their photographs were laid out in chronological order of their deaths. Three beautiful girls. All brunettes.

Odile ran her finger over the girl in the final picture. Forever youthful and forever smiling—the only advantage of dying before your time was up. Live fast, die young. She’d probably even said that was how she wanted to go, thought Odile. Most teenagers do at some point.

It was too sad. She let the newspaper drop to the floor and turned out the light.

The following morning, Odile woke bright and early for the shoot.

She liked to think celebrity didn’t impress her but as the driver pulled off the main road through Ay onto the side street that led up to the Bollinger compound itself,
she couldn’t resist getting her mirrored compact out of her purse. She powdered away a little shine on her forehead and reapplied her signature red lipstick. She thought of it as putting on her armor. How many women were brave enough to meet a supermodel barefaced?

Meanwhile, Christina was preparing for the meeting in her own way, catering to her own insecurities. The production assistant, Sammy, had spent half the night online and printed out a little pile of articles on Odile Levert. If Odile was intimidated by the idea of Christina’s beauty, Christina was equally intimidated by the thought of having to make conversation with a super-brain like Odile.

With five minutes to go before Odile was due at the house, Christina was cramming in some last-minute study, reading the most recent of the articles Sammy had found. Christina knew that women were her harshest critics. She didn’t want to give Odile any ammunition if she was hoping to write an article suggesting that Christina was just a pretty face.

On her arrival at Bollinger, Odile was swept straight through the courtyard to meet Christina and Edward, the show’s director. Odile was surprised to see that Christina was wearing a cocktail dress. It was six o’clock in the morning.

“We thought it would be nice to shoot your segment as if you ladies were talking at the end of a dinner party,” Edward explained. “You’re about the same size as Christina. Wardrobe has some great dresses for you to choose from.”

“I have my own dresses in my bag,” Odile responded, in a way that made Edward feel just a little ticked off.

“She hates the idea of pretending it’s the evening,” Christina muttered as Odile went away to change. “She’s going to hate the whole program.”

Edward tried not to show that he suspected Christina might be right.

They waited nervously for Odile to be ready. Half an hour later, she emerged from makeup. She looked stunning in a short black dress with her hair scraped back from her face. Christina suddenly felt unsophisticated.

But despite Odile’s initial frostiness, exacerbated no doubt by the fact that Christina had vetoed the idea of filming anything at Champagne Arsenault (she remembered the beautiful Madeleine too well) the segment shoot went smoothly. Edward was very pleased. As was Greg, who watched it all.

“You know,” he said. “We should get Odile on again. She’s nothing like I expected. There’s a kind of easy chemistry between you two. Like you know each other really well.”

Christina nodded. The rapport she seemed to have with Odile once the cameras were rolling had surprised her too.

“Well, I have to go,” Greg announced. “I’m flying to Frankfurt tonight. Boring meeting.”

“What a shame,” said Odile.

“Yeah. I’d rather be in Paris, that’s for sure. Hey, Christina’s at a loose end tonight now that Ronald’s laid up. Maybe you girls should have dinner instead.”

Odile cocked her head to one side.

“Christina and Ronald were going to taste Christina’s new wine together so he could tell her how it’s coming on. But I’m sure your opinion is just as valuable.”

“You forget that I’m backing Champagne Arsenault against Villa Bacchante at next year’s
Vinifera
awards,” said Odile.

“Exactly,” said Christina.

“Then this will be a chance for Christina to show you what you’re up against.”

Odile laughed.

“We don’t have to drink Villa Bacchante,” said Christina.

“No, really,” said Odile. “I would love to.”

“Perfect,” said Greg. “Then it’s all set. I’m glad. I hate the idea of you being in Paris alone.” Greg kissed Christina on the forehead.

“I’ll look forward to it,” said Odile.

A
fter the film crew had packed up and Greg left for Frankfurt, Christina took a private car back to Paris. She was staying at the Hotel Plaza Arc De Triomphe. Greg had booked the Terrace Eiffel Suite on the eighth floor, thinking that it would be the perfect place for him and Christina to have a little pre-Christmas celebration. His meeting had squashed that, but still Christina was very pleased to have such luxurious accommodations. She’d visited the Terrace Eiffel Suite many years before, during Paris Fashion Week when a much more important model was using it as her pied-à-terre.

The original plan had been for Ronald to come to the suite for an early supper with Christina and Greg, to discuss the new season of
The Villa
and to taste a bottle of Christina’s sparkling pinot noir. So, the chef at the Plaza Arc De Triomphe had been put on stand-by to prepare a lovely little meal to complement the Villa Bacchante Blanc de Noirs. It seemed a shame to waste it. But would allowing
Odile to taste her sparking pinot give Champagne Arsenault an unfair advantage in next year’s competition?

“I doubt it,” said Greg. “The wine is in the bottle now. What’s she going to do? Open all the bottles and stick some sugar in?”

Besides, he continued, it would be a good idea for Christina to get to know Odile better. Ronald was getting old. It might be wise to have his replacement lined up.

Odile was just a couple of minutes late. She was wearing a black dress that Christina recognized as Alexander McQueen. It gave Odile an air of austerity and authority that was softened by a quirky collar and big cuffs. Christina wished she had dressed up a little more. Treating the suite as a “home away from home” she’d gone for a big cashmere sweater and jeans. She hoped that dinner would distract from her outfit.

Within seconds of Odile’s arrival, a young waiter arrived in the suite with a chilled bottle of Villa Bacchante’s Blanc de Noirs.

“The moment of truth,” said Christina as the waiter twisted the cork from the bottle.

“Looks good,” said Odile, observing the wine as it was poured into the glass. It gave a beautiful fine mousse and the color—thank goodness, thought Christina—was a perfect pale rose-gold.

“Shall we?” Christina lifted her glass toward her nose.

“This is the first bottle you’ve opened?”

“In company,” said Christina.

“Then I’m honored.”

They were silent as they appreciated the bouquet. Christina’s shoulders softened as she confirmed that it wasn’t corked, that is, tainted and moldy-smelling, at least. Odile raised her spirits further when she announced,
“This has a lovely forward bouquet of peaches and apricot. The autolytic notes are very subtle.”

Odile took a sip and cast her eyes downward as she searched for words to describe the taste.

“Very crisp. Lovely finish.”

Christina exhaled with relief.

By now dinner was ready to be served. Christina and Odile seated themselves at the dining table, which had a fabulous view of the Eiffel Tower.

“I never get tired of seeing it,” said Christina. “I grew up in Iowa. Sometimes when I’m in Paris, I can’t quite believe I’m here. I have to pinch myself.”

“I have the same feeling in California,” said Odile. “Every time I’m in San Francisco on my way to Napa, driving over the Golden Gate Bridge. As a girl, I never thought I’d get out of France.”

Christina was surprised. Odile didn’t seem like the kind of woman who had ever doubted her potential.

The waiter laid in front of them an appetizer of foie gras that was the perfect compliment to the Blanc de Noirs. The entire menu had been designed so that the diners could drink the same wine throughout, from the lobster main course to the chocolates at the end.

All the same, as each course arrived, Christina took a sip of wine nervously, praying that there would be no clash of flavors. There wasn’t. At least, none that she could detect. And though she watched Odile very closely, Christina didn’t see anything on her guest’s face that betrayed disappointment with the matching of the food and wine. Perhaps Villa Bacchante could include “good with most foods” in its next press release.

“You must be very excited about your first vintage,” said Odile.

“I am,” said Christina.

“Well done,” Odile toasted her. “I think Champagne Arsenault has some serious competition.”

While the waiting staff was clearing the dining table, Odile suggested that she and Christina take their coffee out onto the terrace. It was cold out there though crisp and dry. The two women cradled their coffee cups to keep their hands warm.

On the hour, the lights on the Eiffel Tower flickered so that the world-famous landmark seemed to glitter like a Christmas decoration.

“I still get a kick out of that,” Christina admitted. “Though you must find it boring, living here, seeing it all the time.”

“Not at all,” said Odile. “From time to time, when I look up and see La Tour Eiffel, I think about the other people who are looking up at it at the same time. Think of how many people have been proposed to at the top of it, or in its shadow. It’s a wonderful romantic symbol in this city of lovers. Think of how many people are kissing as they gaze on it right now.”

Christina saw Odile’s eyes flicker toward her lips. Christina glanced through the terrace doors into the suite. The table had been cleared. The staff was gone. When she looked back at Odile, the Frenchwoman was still focused on her mouth. Christina felt heat flood her cheeks.

“There’s a view of the Eiffel Tower from every single room in this suite,” Christina said as breezily as she could. “Even the bathroom. There’s a special kind of glass in the windows. It looks opaque, but you flick a switch and suddenly it’s clear.”

“I’d like to see that.”

Christina would ordinarily have been happy to show anyone the view from the bathroom, but it felt quite
important right then to keep Odile in the public areas of the suite.

“Show me,” Odile persisted. She began to walk inside.

“OK,” said Christina. “It’s in here. Through the master bedroom.”

They walked into the master en suite, which was as big as the average sitting room. The bathroom was decked out in white marble with gold accents. Over the bath hung what looked like an enormous gilt mirror.

“Watch this.”

Christina pressed a button on a handset inside a waterproof sheath. The mirror was suddenly a window. The Eiffel Tower twinkled at them again.

“That is amazing. It would be wonderful to have a bath and look at that view.” Odile stroked the edge of the marble tub. “It has a Jacuzzi,” she observed.

“Yes,” said Christina.

“Can we use it?”

Christina’s expression was unsure.

“I always think it’s such a pity to stay in a place like this and not make the most of it. Live like a rock star. Let’s open another bottle of your Blanc de Noirs and see how it tastes in a truly decadent setting.”

Odile had already turned on the taps. She took a bottle of bubble bath from the counter and squeezed it all into the running water. Soon the bath was full of tiny bubbles, creamy and thick, like whipped cream.

“I’ll find you a bathing suit to wear,” said Christina. “I brought a couple on this trip.”

“I don’t need one.” Odile smiled. “Unless there’s a strict house policy that bathing suits must be worn.”

Christina’s mouth dropped open. “No,” she said eventually. “Of course not. I just thought … I thought you might be more comfortable.”

“Covered up? I’m a Frenchwoman, my dear. We’re not quite so shy about our bodies as you Americans are. Not that you personally have any reason to be so shy.”

“I’m not shy,” Christina spluttered.

“Of course not.”

Odile slipped off her shoes then pulled her dress off over her head in one fluid motion. Beneath it, she wore only a pair of plain black panties. Silk. Well cut. No bra. She had small breasts that didn’t really need the support.