Vintage (50 page)

“But … ” Madeleine couldn’t help herself. Her eyes began to glisten.

Mackesy’s mouth twitched. He hated to see a woman cry. Particularly if he was responsible. However obliquely.

“I’m sorry,” said Madeleine, accepting his handkerchief to dab at her eyes. “It’s just that I was rather relying on the money.”

“Well, there’s some other good stuff down there. We should be able to realize about twenty thousand pounds.”

“That won’t even replace the windows,” Madeleine sighed. “Oh God.”

She slumped against the cold chalk wall of the cave. Mackesy had the urge to put his arm around her but resisted. He handed her the bottle instead.

“I’m very sorry,” he said.

“It’s OK,” said Madeleine, wiping her eyes rather more vigorously. “It was a long shot. Thank you for coming over here. Thank you for looking at this.” She put the bottle on the ground, handling it rather less reverently than she had done. Then she leaned over toward Mackesy and kissed him on the cheek. It was the first time she had kissed him since that night in Paris.

Driving his Aston Martin DB4 back to the Eurotunnel later that evening, Piers Mackesy could still feel the touch of Madeleine Arsenault’s lips on his face. The light fresh fragrance of her scent filled his lungs when he took out the handkerchief she had borrowed. Sitting at a set of traffic lights, he drifted off into a reverie about the beautiful Frenchwoman, picturing her wet blue eyes as she took in the bad news about her father’s cellar. It was too sad.

Mackesy pulled his car over into a lay-by and flipped open his Motorola.

Madeleine was sitting in her badly decorated hotel room when she got Piers’s call.

“Had to call you before I go into the tunnel,” he said.

They exchanged pleasantries, though Madeleine didn’t feel much like chatting to anyone. The thought of God knows how much longer in this shitty hotel was not terribly uplifting.

“Madeleine,” he said at last. “I wanted to tell you that I’ve been thinking about those bottles.”

“And … ”

“I think I may have been too hasty in my verdict. Having given it some serious thought, I’m ninety-nine
point nine percent certain that the wine you showed me today is a genuine 1945 Mouton.”

Madeleine blinked in surprise.

“Really?”

Piers took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said firmly. “Yes, it is.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“Just a feeling,” he said.

“So you think I can sell it?”

“Yes. And I would be more than willing to put my name to any letter of authenticity you require. I’m sure that Harry Brown will agree with me and be delighted to put your father’s entire collection in his next fine wine auction at Ludbrooks.”

“You’re serious?”

“I’m going to call him the moment I get off the phone to you. I’m sure he’ll bite your hand off for the chance to have it in his catalog. The Chinese and the Russians have been paying crazy prices for Mouton. So, if you’re certain you’re ready to part with a whole case of it, then we’ll get you enough money to rebuild Champagne Arsenault. Are you certain?”

“Am I ever! Thank you, Piers. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you! If you were here with me right now I would smother you in kisses.”

“Can I collect next time I see you?” he asked.

“Piers Mackesy,” Madeleine scolded playfully. “You have no integrity!”

Harry Brown, head of fine wine at Ludbrooks, practically wet himself with glee when he took Mackesy’s call. Brown envisaged an entire auction dedicated to Constant Arsenault’s collection. A glossy catalog with a bottle of Mouton ’45 on the cover. He pictured the boys and girls at
Sotheby’s and Bonhams turning green. But Mackesy persuaded him otherwise.

“I don’t think we have time for all that,” he told his former colleague. “Madeleine Arsenault is keen to get her hands on the money ASAP You’ve heard about the fire, of course. She wants to start rebuilding. So she needs the cash. I’m afraid if we wait too long, we’ll lose out to one of the other houses. Possibly even Tajan.”

Mackesy paused significantly. He knew that the mere mention of the French auction house would drive Brown insane.

“My suggestion is that you add this case of Mouton on to the end of your next fine wine sale.”

“But that’s in March. The catalog has already gone out … ”

“Call all your big boys and let them know it’s coming up. Six weeks or so is plenty of time for any serious collector. They’re just waiting for something like this.”

“Mackesy, I don’t think we’ll get the best price if we try to rush it.”

“If you don’t rush it,” Mackesy concluded, “someone else will.”

And so Constant Arsenault’s case of twelve bottles of 1945 Mouton found its way into an appendix to the list of fine wines to be sold at Ludbrooks in March.

The crowd that attended the fine wine auctions at Ludbrooks had changed somewhat over recent years. When he first started out in the wine trade, Piers Mackesy knew most of the old buffers who shuffled into the woodpaneled room for the sales. And, truth be told, most of them were more interested in trying to work out how much their cellars were worth than buying anything new.

But one by one, these contemporaries of Mackesy’s father had passed away (their own collections auctioned in
the very room where once they had watched proceedings). Now the auction crowd was altogether different. More cosmopolitan, for a start. To Mackesy’s left an elegant woman talked Russian into her mobile phone. In front of him, two men bantered in Mandarin. They all looked so much slicker than the old crowd. No ruddy-faced bon viveurs. In fact, most of them looked as though they never touched a drop. They were collecting wines like small boys collected football cards. Because it was the thing to do. They didn’t care what was inside the bottle. It made Mackesy feel a little less guilty about what he hoped would come to pass.

Harry Brown strode into the room like a man who thinks he is about to make history.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “It is my pleasure to present to you today some of the finest wine I have ever had the pleasure to auction during my long and illustraious career at Ludbrooks.”

“Get on with it, Harry,” Mackesy muttered under his breath.

An hour later, the hammer fell on Madeleine’s case of Mouton ‘45 at five hundred thousand pounds.

“A new record for that wine,” the Russian woman observed.

“Yes,” said Mackesy. “I believe it is.”

“It went to Mathieu Randon,” the woman continued. “I recognize his man. I only hope it’s the real thing.”

Mackesy suddenly felt very hot.

“Would you excuse me,” he said, slipping out of the row during a lull in proceedings. He called Madeleine from the lobby at once. Having driven the wine over, she was staying at Claridge’s. She couldn’t bear to attend the auction herself. Too nervous, she claimed. When Mackesy told her the
figure, she whooped. When he told her who had paid it, Madeleine punched the air.

“Yes! I would just love to see his face when he realizes that he’s just helped me resist his kind offer to take Champagne Arsenault off my hands! Piers, I owe you a drink,” she said.

“A very large one,” said Mackesy.

Madeleine’s heart was full of joy as she prepared to meet Piers Mackesy for dinner that evening. She’d chosen Petrus at the Berkeley Hotel. A suitably extravagant venue to celebrate such a wonderful result. Five hundred thousand pounds was more money than she had dared to dream the Mouton ‘45 would raise. Added to that another fifty thousand pounds or so from the rest of her father’s collection. Madeleine was well on the way to having enough money to start to rebuild the house, no matter what the insurance company concluded.

Mackesy was waiting for her at the table. He looked handsome as ever, in a gray suit. And smelled delicious.

“Creed.”

“Of course.”

Madeleine couldn’t pretend that she hadn’t thought about what it would be like to make love to Mackesy again a thousand times since that evening in Paris. Sitting opposite him now as he told her in comic detail about the characters who had bid for her father’s wine, Madeleine felt the temptation more than ever. But tonight he looked slightly tense.

“Are you all right, Piers?” she asked him.

“It’s been quite a nerve-racking twenty-four hours,” he admitted.

“What do you mean?” Madeleine asked him.

“I mean, if those bottles were ‘45 Mouton, then I am a Chinaman.”

Madeleine narrowed her eyes.

“Your father was an extremely talented winemaker,” said Mackesy. “And he was also extremely talented at making wine labels.”

“What are you accusing—”

“Madeleine,” Mackesy quickly put paid to her outrage, “I have to tell you now. Your father was in league with my old man. They had quite the cottage industry in fake plonk until they fell out over the Facel Vega. Unless I am much mistaken, your Monsieur Randon just paid half a million pounds for twelve bottles I would pass over in Sainsbury’s.”

“But … Piers,” Madeleine was simultaneously shocked and delighted. “Why would you do this for me?” she asked.

“Because I have no integrity.” Mackesy smiled.

Madeleine had plenty to toast that night. The thought of paying Randon off with money that she had effectively conned out of him was too delicious. It called for a lot of champagne.

At the end of the evening, Mackesy took her hand across the table.

Madeleine shook her head. Mackesy withdrew his hand at once.

“You’re right,” he said. “We must never be more than friends.”

“We should call it an evening,” said Madeleine. “I’ll see you at the
Vinifera
awards in San Francisco.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. It’s going to be your night.”

PART

G
erry Paine of
Vinifera
was very excited about the upcoming sparkling wine competition. With two months to go, the contest featured heavily in the magazine, with articles by Odile, Ronald and Hilarian on why they thought that each of their chosen vineyards had the potential to carry the day. Gerry’s dream of a “three goddesses in bikinis” cover shot had not come to pass, but there were plenty of great photographs to illustrate the coverage. Kelly was pictured up to her knees in mud at Froggy Bottom. Madeleine posed in the ashes of Champagne Arsenault, holding a photograph of her great-grandmother, making it clear that she had inherited her forebear’s tenacity. Christina allowed Gerry to use a photograph of her pretending to press grapes with her feet that had been originally shot for
Villa Living
magazine.

Since he was bankrolling the big prize, Gerry had final say on how it would be judged but he agreed with the three critics that it was important that their peers judge the three wines. From a short list of other critics and wine experts who would be in attendance at the festival, Odile, Hilarian and Ronald were each allowed to choose one judge. Three seemed to be the magic number. Three wines, three sponsors and three judges. Still, even with so
few judges to choose, the process of picking the panel took as long as picking a jury, as each critic tried to work out which of his or her peers would be most likely to share his or her taste.

Eventually, however, the panel was chosen. The competition itself would take place on the last day of the three-day festival and the announcement of the result would be the highlight of the grand finale dinner.

Kelly had Hilarian buy her ten copies of the issue of
Vinifera
in which the competition details appeared. She was looking forward to the festival like a small child looking forward to Christmas. Her airline ticket had pride of place on the shelf above the Aga, along with her invitation to the gala dinner with her name written upon it in beautiful calligraphy. She found herself looking at it several times a day, hardly able to believe that in such a short time she would be there in San Francisco, presenting her wine for the judgment of the world.

She had a childish hope that if Froggy Bottom could win the competition, her half siblings would give up their quest to shake the vineyard from her hands. As it was, the lawyer that Hilarian had found seemed to be keeping them at bay, arguing that their reasons for demanding the test were spurious at best.