Vintage (52 page)

They got to the villa. She thought she might find him there but his car was gone. Strange.

The celebrating continued until one of Todd’s juniors threw up on the patio. After that, Todd decided it was time for everyone to go home. Christina was glad. It had been a very long day. Still she looked forward to raising one more toast to her good fortune when Greg got home.

About half an hour after everyone else had gone, she heard his car crunch into the driveway. Greg walked in, looking considerably less happy than Christina felt.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“Driving. Needed to clear my head.”

“It was my day in court. You said you’d be there. We won, in case you wondered.”

Christina got up and walked across to him. She put her arms around his neck.

“I forgive you for not being there. You’re here now, that’s all that matters.”

Greg unwound Christina’s arms.

“I don’t think I’m stopping,” he said.

“Greg,” Christina was getting angry now. “What’s going on?”

“These arrived by courier today. From Jeremy Fraser. The English tabloid guy. He wouldn’t say how he got hold of them but he did say he could keep them out of the papers.”

Greg handed Christina the brown envelope. She pulled out the prints contained inside.

“What is this?”

“You tell me. That’s Odile Levert, isn’t it?”

Christina’s mouth dropped open as she looked at the photograph of her and Odile standing on the balcony of her Parisian suite. Christina’s sweater was pushed up. Odile had her mouth on Christina’s breast.

“Don’t worry,” said Greg. “This is as far as they’re going to go. I’ve made sure of that. Can’t have Middle America thinking their favorite daughter likes girls.”

“But—”

“I don’t know what else to say. I love you, Christina. But this is too much for me. I wish I were the kind of guy who could get off on pictures of his girlfriend kissing another woman, but I’m not. It just looks like infidelity to me. And in Paris. In the very place I had hoped to propose.”

“Greg, I can—”

Greg simply put his hand up to silence her excuses. “I need some time to think about this.”

“Not too much time,” Christina pleaded.

Greg shook his head. “Maybe it’s for the best if we call this done.”

T
he Thirty-fifth Annual
Vinifera
Magazine Wine Awards ceremony was to be the first big event ever held at San Francisco’s newest hotel, the Gloria. Situated on the edge of the city’s financial district, the fifty-story, seven-hundred-room building, which dwarfed the nearby Transamerica Pyramid, was the jewel in the Gloria Hotel chain’s crown.

Like its sister hotel in London, the San Francisco Gloria had a spectacular restaurant on the very top floor, which was called, just like its British counterpart, Montrachet—to capitalize on the good reputation of its Michelin-starred namesake rather than to save on the cost of printing new menus, of course. Meanwhile, the hotel’s ballroom was the perfect location for the
Vinifera
awards. The room on the forty-ninth floor was elegant and well thought out. The 360-degree view—from the Bay Bridge to the Golden Gate—was stunning. It was quickly booked out for months in advance.

Vinifera
magazine already had a long and fruitful relationship with the Gloria Hotel chain. Elsa Miller, the events manager at the San Francisco Gloria, rolled out the red carpet for Gerry Paine and his team. She was only too delighted to offer a special room rate for the magazine’s
devoted readers, anticipating a hotel full of discerning guests who definitely wouldn’t stint in the bar. Once the deal had been struck, Elsa briefed the head sommelier at Montrachet, who had been imported from London to give the San Francisco restaurant a kick-start. He went into ecstasy as he remembered the sheer volume of wine they had shifted at the dinner following
Vinifera’s
last UK event. All of it top-notch stuff.

The event was duly advertised in the magazine and
Vinifera
’s readers snapped up the chance to spend three nights in San Francisco with the world’s best winemakers. The hotel was soon booked out in its entirety. Elsa Miller anticipated a triumph.

Kelly and Guy arrived in San Francisco the day before the
Vinifera
festival started. Six bottles of Froggy Bottom’s Cuvée Kelly had already been flown out to California with Hilarian earlier that week to ensure that the wine would have time to recover from the journey before the all-important grand tasting.

As she settled into her thirtieth-floor room, Kelly couldn’t help but think how far she’d come since she’d been a mere employee of the Gloria Hotel chain. What a joy it was to be able to lie back on one of the hotel’s famously comfortable beds legitimately, though it still made her feel a little naughty. If Kelly didn’t look out the window, she might have been in the Gloria on Park Lane. The satin bedspreads, the faux-suede upholstery on the headboard and chairs, even the “limited edition” prints on the walls were all exactly the same.

Guy had the room next door, which was a mirror image of Kelly’s. The same fixtures and fittings, arranged on the opposite side of the room.

Guy was determined to make the most of his first visit to San Francisco. Kelly, of course, had been through the
city before on her way to the residential part of her viticulture course at UC Davis. But she hadn’t had time back then to see any of the sights. Now she wanted to make up for it.

Having unpacked, Guy and Kelly took a walk along the Embarcadero to the famous Fisherman’s Wharf. From there they took a ferry to Alcatraz. The legendary San Francisco weather wasn’t on their side. Even though it was May, it was as foggy and cold as a November day back home. But Kelly began to cheer up as they crossed the icy water toward the island where so many famous prisoners had been incarcerated. She couldn’t help but grin as the Golden Gate loomed into view, like a magical castle appearing from the clouds.

Though why do they call it the Golden Gate if it’s always been painted red? she wondered.

Kelly and Guy wandered around lonely Alcatraz in silence, with the other visitors, following the instructions of a recorded tour guide on their headsets. But they shared glances, and when they took off their headphones Kelly found that she was pleased to be able to talk to Guy again. She’d almost missed him for that hour.

Guy had missed her too. It had struck him quite recently that wherever he was, whatever he was doing, his first choice of partner-in-crime was Kelly. He felt calm and happy in her presence. She made him laugh. She seemed to find him funny too. He found her beautiful. More than ever on that boat ride back from Alcatraz as the sea-breeze reddened her cheeks. If kissing her wouldn’t have made things so very complicated, with Kelly effectively about to become his boss when Froggy Bottom came out of trust, he might have taken the chance.

They walked back to the hotel from the quay arm in arm. By the time they met Hilarian for tea in the hotel’s
small city garden, the fog had lifted and the sun was shining. They were in a holiday mood.

“Our wine,” Hilarian assured them, “is ready to kick ass.”

The first item on the festival schedule was the welcome dinner, but before then, Kelly and Hilarian had an appointment in the hotel ballroom. Gerry Paine had requested that the three women representing the three vineyards take part in a small photo shoot. Though she knew that it was inevitable, Kelly was a little nervous. She hadn’t seen Christina Morgan and Madeleine Arsenault in the flesh since the wine fair in London, when the bet was first announced. She had an image of Christina of course. There wasn’t anyone in the world who didn’t know her face. However, she had no recollection of Madeleine at all but the sight of her shoes covered in bright green puke.

To her credit, Madeleine didn’t mention the incident at all when she walked into the ballroom. On the contrary, she was very friendly. She kissed Kelly on both cheeks and complimented her dress.

“This is very exciting,
non?”
Madeleine said.

Kelly nodded. “I’ve tasted some of your wine before,” she said. “Five years ago.”

“Then you tasted my father’s wine,” Madeleine explained.

“I liked it.”

“He was a very talented man.”

Madeleine had arrived in San Francisco just a couple of hours before the photo shoot, most of which time she spent trying to track down someone who could confirm that her wine, also sent on ahead, had arrived safely and in one piece. After that, she had just half an hour to change out of her jeans and into one of three dresses she had brought with her.

She’d shopped for something to wear in a tearing hurry. She dashed into Galeries Lafayette while she was in Paris visiting the lawyers who were working on the Champagne Arsenault insurance case. She didn’t feel in the mood to shop that day. The insurance company was still being sticky. Their investigators agreed that it was possible that the fire had been caused by arson but the local police and fire department said that the case was closed. They weren’t looking for any suspects.

And so the insurance payout was still a long way off. And because of that, the hundred thousand prize that Gerry Paine was offering looked more and more appealing. If Champagne Arsenault won, it would mean that Madeleine could continue with her plans to rebuild the house without having to wait for the insurance. It also meant, more importantly, that she could continue to pay Henri and the boys to work the Clos Des Larmes. Madeleine was determined that she would not miss out on a harvest that year.

Though the opening dinner was still a couple of hours off, the lobby of the Gloria Hotel was thronged with photographers. Over the past couple of years, the
Vinifera
Wine Awards had become the kind of event that attracted the paparazzi. It was the latest craze among film stars. You made your money doing movies, and then you became a farmer. In the eighties, the trend had been toward cattle ranching in Montana. These days the fashion was to buy a vineyard and make your own wine. Organic, of course.

The concierge had helpfully provided his favored paparazzi with a list of the stars who would be staying at the Gloria that weekend. Christina Morgan was top of everyone’s list. Post-court case triumph, she was still very much in the news.

Christina didn’t disappoint. At half past six, her limousine
pulled into the circular drive in front of the hotel. Ronald Ginsburg accompanied her, still on crutches. Christina realized what a mistake that was as she found herself marooned on the red carpet for what seemed like an age while the driver hauled Ronald out of the car and he limped around it to join her.

“I’m here as a winemaker,” she said to the paparazzo who asked her for her opinion on her ex-husband’s attempt to part her from the villa. “I don’t want to comment on my private life. Neither do I have any opinion on Bill’s engagement to his co-star.”

She did however answer a couple of questions about that year’s grapes.

“We’re going to make a fabulous vintage this year.”

Then she posed for some photographs. Christina was wearing a beautiful dress. Zac Posen, hazarded one of the girls at the reception desk. “You can tell by the cut.” It clung closely to the contours of her body before flipping out at the knees in a signature Posen fishtail. The pale peach fabric was lent a subtle glitter by the occasional gold thread, which was echoed by the gold buttons down the back. Christina’s long blond hair was piled on top of her head in a neat chignon, held in place by a pin decorated with a bunch of gold grapes.

Though she smiled brightly, anyone looking closely would have noticed the shadow of sadness in her eyes. Never before in her life had she felt so keenly the horror of always being at the end of someone’s lens. Though she’d burned those Paris photographs, the images would not leave her. And the damage they’d caused seemed to be permanent. She tried to call Greg just before she left for the hotel. He hadn’t picked up. He hadn’t picked up a single one of the hundred calls Christina had made since he walked out of her house. He’d given her no chance to explain or even to apologize.

Christina could not wait to get her hands on Odile Levert.

But Odile wasn’t there.

Of the French team, only Madeleine Arsenault was present. Christina took in the woman’s dress. Her shoes. Her hair.

Gerry stepped forward to introduce them.

“Christina, you remember Madeleine.”

Madeleine smiled and offered her hand. Christina didn’t take it. Instead, her eyes narrowed as she looked Madeleine up and down, slowly, like a girls’ school bully. She interpreted Madeleine’s smile as having a slight smirk to it. It was a knowing look, Christina decided. Madeleine was Odile’s little protégée. There was no doubt she knew all about that night in Paris. In all probability, Odile and Madeleine had timed the arrival of those pictures on the tabloid editor’s desk in an attempt to force Christina out of the competition.

Madeleine must be livid that the pictures hadn’t made it to publication, thought Christina. Well, she was going to show that French bitch what she was made of.