Vintage

by Rosemary Friedman

  Lying about her age, she had wheedled her way into service in a small hotel in Bonifacio built into the ramparts of the citadel. Making the beds and cleaning the rooms, the walls of which were covered with scarlet fabric, gave her a taste for luxury.

  Although she had already been sexually abused by the superintendent of the orphanage – a situation which she accepted, as she did the physical punishment and frugal meals, as par for the course – she had no idea, until she was taken in hand first by the plongeur, a hot-blooded young man who sweated, stripped to the waist, cleaning dishes in the kitchens all day, and later by a middle-aged male guest (when his wife was out shopping), of the fascinating potential of her own body. Like a musical instrument, it was, she discovered, capable of playing a great many variations on the same tune.

  It was from the Italian tenor, however, who had picked her up in a nightclub in Ajaccio and spirited her away to Bordeaux, where he swore to make an honest woman of her, that she had learned the true art of making love. It was only the Italians, as she was later to learn, who were capable of taking the exercise seriously. The Germans were too fastidious, the French preoccupied with their stomachs, and the English had no idea about women. The Italian tenor, a short and overweight man with a pockmarked face, had initiated her into the finer points of lovemaking, in which his artistry was consummate. Devoting himself, regardless of time, entirely to her pleasure, he had increased it tenfold by the judicious placing both of pillows and himself, while simultaneously instructing her how best to augment his own enjoyment.

  When the singer had abandoned her to return to his wife and children in Paris, she had used her newly acquired knowledge to divert the afternoons of a Bordeaux jeweller. When the jeweller decamped to Abu Dhabi, he had set her up, among the chic fur shops, in the boutique in the Allées de Tourny, in gratitude for the happiness she had given him.

  Claude Balard, a greedy and avaricious man, was dissatisfied with his marriage to Marie-Paule, who would have nothing to do with her husband’s sadistic fantasies. He used the willing Biancarelli, herself a victim both of her abandonment by her parents and her upbringing, as a vehicle for the acting out of his hostility towards women. During their afternoon sessions, he subjected her to a variety of indignities, including tying her to the bed and spanking, which was not altogether playful.

  Charles-Louis, on the other hand, isolated, self-centred, and far removed from reality, looked to the boutique owner to provide him both with the reassurance that he was loved, and the warmth and affection that had been missing from his early life. When the time came to faire l’amour, he could do so only when her back was turned.

  Much of the time with the Baron was spent talking. This afternoon, taking Biancarelli into his confidence and using her as a sounding-board, he had told her that the forthcoming sale of Château de Cluzac had been ratified by his handshake with the South African, Van Gelder.

  Biancarelli was upset that her post-prandial lover would shortly be leaving Bordeaux for Florida. She was going to miss the Baron. Despite his quick temper – which he arrogantly considered a mildly funny extravagance – and his occasional bullying, to which she paid little attention, she was fond of Charles-Louis. In the privacy of her cosy boudoir, in her non-judgemental presence, he reverted to the habits of his childhood and exhibited the touching dependency of the son she had never had.

  The appartement above the shop in the Allées de Tourny was not Biancarelli’s only confessional. The ladies of Bordeaux relied upon her for their tailleurs and their gowns, and she bore each one of them in mind as she attended the prêts-à-porter. Gossiping freely as they riffled through the garments on her rails, the ladies were secure in the knowledge that any indiscretions on their part would go no further.

  Drawing back the curtain of the cubicle, Marie-Paule Balard emerged into the showroom. Biancarelli regarded her client’s turquoise reflection in the mirror.

  ‘Magnifique!’

  It was a lie of course. Although it was not in her nature to dissemble, there were occasions on which it was necessary to be sparing with the truth both to her ladies and her lovers. She did not like to hurt people, to puncture their often frail egos. Where was the point? If she could make them feel better about themselves by perjuring herself a little, she was willing to do so.

  You had, of course, to know your customers. An intuitive knowledge of psychology, of the weird and wonderful processes that made people tick, was Biancarelli’s stock in trade. It accounted for her success both in business and in bed.

  Little Madame Balard held the turquoise satin skirt, which was far too long for her stunted figure, in both hands and pirouetted before the mirror.

  ‘Qu’est-ce que vous pensez, Madame Biancarelli?’

  Biancarelli, pins in her mouth, fell to her knees. Grasping the superfluous material at the hem of the beaded dress, which flowed on to the grey carpet, she turned it up expertly.

  ‘Elle vous va très bien,’ she said. It suited her.

  Marie-Paule Balard smoothed her plump, beringed hands over her stomach where the turquoise satin, pulled tight, was wrinkled.

  ‘Shall I tell you a secret?’ Biancarelli’s mouth was full of pins. She inclined her head. ‘You’ve heard that Château de Cluzac is for sale?’ Biancarelli nodded. ‘Monsieur Balard is buying it!’

  Biancarelli removed the pins from her mouth. ‘Vraiment?’ She knew perfectly well it was untrue.

  ‘Negotiations have been going on for some time between my husband and Baron de Cluzac. You mustn’t mention it to a soul.’

  Biancarelli, indicating that her client should turn, made the sign of the cross to indicate that her lips were sealed.

  ‘Château owners! And what a château…’ The little body quivered with excitement. ‘Badly neglected of course. Can you imagine?’

  Deciphering the sub-text, Biancarelli knew that what Madame Balard was trying to tell her was that no longer would the Balards be subjected to the intermittent myopia of the château owners at the Fêtes de la Fleur, no longer would she be humiliated, but would be able to humiliate in her turn.

  The hem completed, Biancarelli stood up and put her hands on the back of the dress where the material strained over Marie-Paule’s hips. She was not required to comment on Madame Balard’s secret. Refraining from disillusioning her about the sale of Cluzac, she stuck a pin, as an indication to her seamstress to let it out as much as possible, into the seam of the turquoise dress.

  ‘Un petit centimetre ici…’

  It would need a great deal more than a centimetre. She hoped that there would be sufficient material to accommodate Madame Balard’s ample hips, not to mention her bosom.

  ‘Voilà!’ She stood back.

  ‘I’m not quite sure about the colour…’

  It was time for the psychology, for the strong reassurances which would not only convince Marie-Paule that she looked svelte and elegant, but that the turquoise satin, although arguably a little tight, was the most suitable dress in the shop. She had already, on several visits over the past week, tried on all the others. The scarlet halter-neck was too revealing – her arms were not her best feature – the floral chiffon too diaphanous, and the long pleated skirt with the tailored silk jacket made her look like a lampshade. It was make-up-your-mind time, the distasteful acceptance of the fact that the hoped-for miracle would not, on this occasion, be wrought.

  The recognition that she would never be Isabelle Adjani was followed, as night followed day, by the inevitable doubts.

  ‘You haven’t sold this model to anyone else?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘It’s very expensive!’

  Biancarelli caressed the fabric. ‘It’s the finest slipper satin.’

  ‘A small discount, perhaps…?’

  Biancarelli shook her head. Madame Balard did not possess the ladylike qualities of a château owner. Besides, it was too early in the season to start slashing her prices.

  ‘Well, if you’re quite, quite sure, B
iancarelli, I suppose it will have to do.’

  ‘With Madame’s pearls and some satin shoes…’ Biancarelli moved in for the kill.

  ‘I already have a turquoise evening bag…?’

  ‘Perfect. I’m sure Monsieur Balard will like it.’ She knew very well that Monsieur Balard couldn’t give a damn.

  ‘The alteration will be completed in good time?’

  ‘But of course…’ Biancarelli moved to the desk. ‘You will bring your shoes to the fitting.’

  Madame Balard tottered towards the cubicle.

  ‘You won’t tell anyone what I’m wearing? You’ll keep it to yourself?’

  Biancarelli was making out the bill.

  ‘Rest assured, Madame!’

  The fact that Madame Balard was wearing turquoise satin for the Fête de la Fleur was not the most earth-shattering of her secrets.

  Helping her client out of the dress, so that she would not scratch herself on the pins, she averted her gaze from the salmon-pink corselet from which the pallid flesh bulged both above and below.

  Suddenly aware of the silence, Biancarelli realised that outside in the street the rain had stopped. Holding the turquoise dress over her arm, she turned off the lights in the shop, which was filled with light so bright that she would have to wind down the blinds to protect the display in the window.

  ‘The rain has stopped,’ she trilled to Madame Balard, smiling and lifting her face to the sun, her life’s blood, which streamed in through the window. In the café opposite, the waiters, napkins beneath their arms, were mopping the wet tables.

  ‘“Après la pluie le beau temps!”’

  Ten

  After a tedious morning spent in the company of tax inspectors Monsieur Huchez and Monsieur Combe, who over the past few years had been hounding him regularly, Baron de Cluzac was glad to take his red Aston Martin DB6 MK1 sports coupé from the garage, and set out for the Convent of Notre Dame de Consolation in Toulouse to visit his sister Bernadette.

  It was the custom of the fisc to assume, unless convinced otherwise, that in any industry profits were being made. Aware of the fact that during the eighties Bordeaux wine sales had practically doubled (one estate had earned pre-tax profits of 62 million francs), and informed of the Baron’s turnover by his negociant, Claude Balard, Monsieur Huchez and Monsieur Combe had come to enquire, for the umpteenth time, after the French government’s substantial slice of the cake.

  The amount which, according to them, the Baron now owed the government in back-taxes was both ludicrous and astronomical. It had been an extremely irksome morning and, having seen the two fonctionnaires off (until their next visit), he was relieved to get out on to the open road. Having informed Bernadette of the forthcoming sale of Château de Cluzac to Philip Van Gelder, he would, in the fullness of time, get in touch with Clare.

  Although his sister Bernadette, who had taken the vow of poverty, was not permitted to possess so much as a pin or a piece of paper, he had no doubt that the convent, always in need of funds, would put her share of the proceeds to good use. He wished he had similar faith in his daughter.

  Thinking about her, an exercise that never failed to jack up his blood pressure, he allowed a BMW driven by a woman to overtake him, which irritated him even further. Putting his foot on the accelerator in order to regain his superior position on the road, he recalled his last meeting with Clare.

  He had gone to London to attend a car auction at the Royal Air Force Museum in Hendon, where he had his eye on a chocolate brown Buick Riviera Custom Stretch with an unusual quarter vinyl roof. Having visited his tailor in Savile Row, ordered some shirts in Jermyn Street and, to his chagrin, been out-bid for the Buick, he had diplomatically left the wife of the cabinet minister (with whom he was having an affair) to attend a soirée at Number 10 with her husband, and taken his daughter for dinner at Claridge’s.

  The fact that Clare had marched into the foyer, where he was on his third whisky, half an hour late, wearing a duster round her head, a cheesecloth dress which had seen better days, and sneakers, and carried several iridescent green Marks and Spencer’s bags, did nothing to improve his mood.

  Had Charles-Louis produced a son, as big and powerful as himself, he might possibly have respected him. Contemptuous of women, whom he lusted after but regarded as sexual conveniences, he had never paid any attention his daughter’s needs and feelings, never actually listened to what she had to say, and never regarded her as anything but permanently inferior.

  Having categorically refused to try for a place at Oxford, all she could manage to do with the education he had bestowed upon her was to waste several years at drama school. This had resulted in a stint as stage manager, followed by several TV commercials, a couple of appearances at the Edinburgh Festival (in fringe theatres), and a spell as a flamenco dancer. After this she had set herself up in a London street market as a brocanteuse. The truth of the matter was that Clare was indolent. She underestimated herself. Born into the French nobility – an advantage which she had no hesitation in throwing away – the best she had been able to produce by way of a boyfriend, at least on the last occasion they had met, was a percussionist in a band.

  Sitting opposite her at his habitual table in the restaurant, where both his title and his presence ensured the most attentive of service, Charles-Louis had almost choked over his terrine of quail.

  ‘A drummer!’

  Accustomed to the ill-temper and impatience with which her father had always put her down, unless of course she happened to fit in with his plans, Clare applied herself equably to her smoked salmon mousseline.

  ‘Graham plays with the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment…’

  ‘Never heard of it!’

  Charles-Louis was saved from further comment by the arrival of wine which he had ordered from the list on which Château de Cluzac – thanks, he presumed, to Claude Balard – was not included. Taking his recently acquired half-glasses from his top pocket, he checked the label, which, to the tutored eye, revealed the calibre of the contents.

  By reading the information clockwise, it was possible to deduce the name of the growth, the appellation, the volume, the degree of alcohol, the vintage, the exporter, the name of the bottler, and whether the wine had been bottled at the château – in this case the nearby Château Talbot – where it had been produced. When he had satisfied himself, the Baron indicated to the sommelier that he might remove the cork from the bottle.

  They sat in uncomfortable silence while Clare thought of, and immediately rejected, things to say. Her father didn’t like gossip, was not an intellectual, never read books, had few political views other than a conventional affiliation with the right, was embarrassed by personal contact, and was not terribly bright. She knew that it was useless trying to recount to him anything interesting or amusing which had happened in her life, because, judging by past form, if he actually managed to let her get to the end of the story without interruption, he would insist on careful rephrasing until all the joy and spontaneity had gone out of the account.

  While they waited, her father’s fingers tapped impatiently on the white tablecloth in a familiar gesture. Managing to make the apparently innocent question sound like an insult, he asked Clare how old she was.

  Decoding the enquiry, Clare understood that the information her father was seeking concerned not so much her age, but what she intended doing with her life.

  ‘You know perfectly well how old I am, Papa. I shall be twenty-eight next birthday.’

  ‘Isn’t it time you settled down?’

  ‘I have settled down…’

  ‘When are you going to get married? Find yourself a decent job?’

  ‘I’ve got a job, Papa. Two jobs.’

  ‘You know very well what I mean, Clare. Not as a market trader…’

  ‘Managing the Nicola Wade Gallery is not exactly a jobette! Have you any idea of the work that’s involved? Dealing with the artists, with museums, with collectors, with corporate buyers, entertaini
ng foreign clients? I do all the marketing and exhibitions, we have to work several months in advance, the printing and production – brochures, catalogues, press releases, literature, you name it – take care of the insurance, plan the advertising and artwork, cold-call the clients, tap into business from a totally different point of view. Take last night. I put on an event at just about the biggest firm of corporate lawyers in the City. I managed to persuade them that, if the retinas of their staff were stimulated by hanging art on their walls, increased brain activity would mean increased productivity…’

  ‘A door-to-door salesman! Look at you.’

  Charles-Louis mentally compared his daughter’s appearance with that of young Olympe d’Hautebarque – with whom he had had a brief liaison – whose father’s estate, Château le Maréchal, abutted his own. Thinking of Olympe’s suits in pastel colours, her elegant shoes, her fashionably dressed hair and her discreet jewellery, he managed, on this occasion, to prevent himself from giving voice to his thoughts. He was, as usual, more concerned about his own gratification than with any right Clare might have to please herself. She was saved from the familiar lecture about her appearance and lifestyle, which she knew by heart, by the arrival of the main course.

  The sommelier poured a little of the claret into the Baron’s glass and waited anxiously until the Baron signified his approval. As soon as he had withdrawn, Clare tasted the Talbot.

  ‘Leave it a while,’ Charles-Louis ordered, indicating that she should put down her glass.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know perfectly well why.’

  ‘I’m not bothered. Robert Browning used to put ice in his red wine.’