“What? You want me to wear a dead person’s shoes?” Kelly was incredulous. “You are having a laugh. Fuck off!”
So they didn’t go up to the vineyard. Instead they stayed on the relatively safe concrete outside the winery while Guy pointed to the vines they could see from that vantage point and let Kelly know what varietal was planted where with the help of a drawing he’d taken hours to prepare.
“Doesn’t mean anything to me,” she told him when he had finished a fairly impassioned speech about the suitability of the terroir at Froggy Bottom for creating sparkling wine. Guy said he could explain it all again if she wanted, but Kelly told him the only thing she wanted right then was to get inside and out of the drizzle.
And so they went into the winery. It was the newest of the ugly-looking sheds that flanked the courtyard, and inside it was like any other factory—all piping and concrete floors. Kelly stared up at the enormous stainless steel vats and started to zone out while Guy explained the whole process of making sparkling wine from grape to bottle. The occasional word—familiar from Daniel Weston’s wine monologues—drifted into her consciousness but seeing the tools of the craft laid before her didn’t make things any clearer or more interesting. Meanwhile Guy’s strong Afrikaans accent began to grate on her. He sounded as arrogant as he looked.
Kelly glanced from Guy to Hilarian and caught him looking back at her. He’d seemed happy enough when he came to her rescue in the Land Rover, but now she decided that he’d taken a dislike to her too. His eyes were narrowed as he regarded her. He probably thought she was stupid and common, Kelly decided. People like him always did. Well, it didn’t matter what he thought. She’d never have to see him again. She wasn’t coming back to this place until the time came to sell it. Kelly had talked to one of the girls at work: a law student at the London School of Economics. She said she thought Kelly would be able to get around the whole trust thing if she wanted to. “Circumvent” was the word she’d used.
“OK,” said Hilarian suddenly. “I can see that our guest of honor is flagging in the face of all your jargon, Guy. Shall we cut to the chase?”
Guy had already prepared a little tasting area in the corner of the winery. He’d covered a small folding table with a white tablecloth and arrayed eight glasses in front of two different vintages of Froggy Bottom’s finest. He poured out tasting measures. Hilarian and Mr. Harper examined the color of the wine against the background of the tablecloth. Kelly listened to Hilarian’s pretentious description of what looked like bubbling piss to her.
“I’m very proud that Froggy Bottom has produced a wine this good,” said Hilarian. “Which is lucky because in five years’ time, I’m going to need your first vintage to be a world-beater, Kelly.”
“Eh?” said Kelly.
“I made a little bet,” Hilarian told her, “with a couple of other wine critics, that your wine would be better than their favorite sparklers. Actually, it was quite a big bet. So if you don’t produce a great first vintage … ” Hilarian pulled his forefinger across his throat in a slashing motion.
Kelly frowned.
“Don’t worry. You won’t be doing it on your own. Guy and I will be with you every step of the way. Now, tell me what you think. Slight hint of grass on the nose,” he suggested. “Biscuity overtones.”
Kelly took a small sniff and a big gulp. She swallowed. She knew the men were waiting for her verdict.
To her surprise, Kelly tasted the grass Hilarian spoke of at once. She also tasted fresh green apples, and the fizz lingered longer than she had expected when she looked at the bubbles in the glass. What word was it that Daniel Weston had used to describe fizziness? Mousse? No, that didn’t sound right.
She didn’t want to make a fool of herself.
“I’d prefer a Bacardi Breezer,” she said at last.
The visit ended fairly shortly after that. Guy and Hilarian helped Mr. Harper get his Audi out of the mud and waved him and Kelly back off to London. With relief.
Visitors gone, Hilarian and Guy retired to the farmhouse for a debrief over what remained of the bottles they had opened for the tasting.
“Thanks for coming today,” said Guy. “I don’t think I could have handled that without you.”
“I think it went particularly well,” said Hilarian.
“English sarcasm, I presume,” said Guy.
“I suppose the one good thing is that you now know for certain you don’t have to worry about someone moving into Froggy Bottom and sweeping all your hard work on the vines aside in favor of planting GM tomatoes or some such nonsense.”
“I’ll raise a glass to that,” said Guy.
They clinked their glasses together.
“So, Hilarian,” Guy asked then, “just how big is this bet you keep talking about?”
Hilarian swallowed. “I suppose you should know the whole story. Fifty.”
“Pounds?”
“Times a thousand.”
Guy, who had been taking another sip of wine, suddenly snorted it all over the table. “That we can make a wine better than a champagne chosen by Odile Levert? Or better than Ronald Ginsburg’s favorite California Blanc de Noirs? Are you crazy?”
“No. I don’t think so,” Hilarian lied. “I have absolute faith in you. And the new chatelaine of Froggy Bottom.”
“Do you think she’s actually going to come here and get involved?”
“I don’t know,” said Hilarian. “I really don’t know. She prefers Bacardi Breezers.” He shook his head with a mixture of amusement and bewilderment. “Poor old Dougie must be spinning in his grave.”
CHAPTER 10
Almost a month had passed since Madeleine’s father’s death. Realizing just how big a mess the maison’s affairs were in, Madeleine had resigned herself to the fact that she would be spending some time in Champagne. Two days after the funeral, she returned to London to pick up her car and the clothes and other bits and bobs she would need for a couple of weeks in the country. But a fortnight had turned into four weeks and still no return to London was in sight. Trust her father to force her to stay in Champagne from beyond the grave. Madeleine’s grief was mixed with large portions of anger and annoyance.
Madeleine spent hours every day sitting in her father’s dusty office going through his papers, trying to work out how the maison’s bank account was quite so far in the red while all his neighbors—even those who made wine that tasted like cat’s pee—swanned around in Mercedes Benz. It became clear that while her father had sent out lots of champagne—the maison was represented in some surprisingly good restaurants and hotels—he hadn’t been quite so good at chasing up payment for it. There were simply dozens of unpaid invoices.
And dozens of gambling chits.
Madeleine groaned as she saw how much money her father had spent on the horses. It would never have happened while her mother was alive, but since she’d died, seven years before, it was clear that Constant Arsenault had done whatever he wanted. And he obviously wanted to gamble. Pity he didn’t have Lady Luck on his side.
Meanwhile, the vines still had to be tended. On arriving in France to bury her father, Madeleine had learned from Monsieur Mulfort (who recounted the tale with some glee, she thought) that Constant Arsenault had been tending his grapes up on the hill alone for the few months before his death. The Clos had been pretty much left to go wild. It transpired that Madeleine’s father had argued with his vineyard manager over unpaid wages. The manager had walked and the maison’s three full-time workers had walked with him. Champagne Arsenault had subsequently fallen behind on every aspect of that year’s production.
Madeleine discussed the situation with Axel, who told Madeleine that as far as he knew, Henri Mason, the former manager, was a good man who would not have deserted her father lightly. Having left Arsenault, Mason tried to find work at Maison Randon. There were no vacancies and thus he was still unemployed. Axel suggested that Madeleine contact the man and ask him to come back. Beg if she had to. Fortunately, she didn�
��t have to beg. Henri Mason was only too happy to return to his former position once Madeleine had made good the shortfall in his wages with money from her own pocket. It was worth it. She had yet to decide what to do with the maison and, as Axel pointed out, a champagne house without its vines was … well, it was just a house.
“The vines are the maison’s biggest asset,” said Axel. “Especially the Clos. You need to get that into shape right away.”
“You’re taking such an interest in all this,” said Madeleine. “I’m very grateful for that.”
“Anything for an old friend,” said Axel.
“You’ve forgotten the stink bomb, then?” Madeleine asked.
“I’ll never forget the stink bomb.”
“What are you going to do about the old place when you’ve sorted it out?” Geoff, her former boss, asked every time he called with news of the job hunt, which was daily. She could hear the desperation in his voice. Poor Geoff. His ex-wife was snapping at his heels like a Hermès-clad hellhound. “You can’t be planning to stay out there forever, Mads. I mean, you’re not … are you?”
Geoff wanted Madeleine to tell him she was coming back to London to be part of the killer team that would get him a position at another, better bank. But Madeleine couldn’t give him that answer. At least, not yet.
“You should make the most of this time off,” Madeleine suggested instead. “Enjoy your children.”
“Yeah, right. Have you met my lovely daughters? Take after their mother.”
One afternoon, tired of calling the maison’s debtors to claw back what little she could of the money her father was owed, Madeleine drove up to the Arsenault vineyards above the village. She sat down on a picnic table erected for the tourists who flooded the region each summer. Looking down over the valley, she remembered sitting in that same spot with her father and her brother, Georges, while Constant pointed out features in the vineyards below and explained why they were the luckiest children in France because they stood to inherit the best patch of land on earth.
Well, Constant was wrong. A year later, Georges was dead and Madeleine came to see the vineyards as cursed. Could she ever feel any differently? Could she have a life in Champagne?
There were bright spots. Definitely. Well, at least one bright spot. She’d been seeing a lot of Axel Delaflote. He was often in the village, attending to Maison Randon business; Randon had several hectares in Le Vezy. After that first night, when they made love in front of the fire, Madeleine had told herself not to expect too much, but despite her reservations—including the peculiar fleeting thought that at any moment, Axel might revert to calling her names over the wall of the Clos—something seemed to be growing between them. If she didn’t actually see Axel, then she spoke to him every day. Was he interested in something serious?
Madeleine’s phone shattered the peace of her moment on the hill with a tinny rendition of “The Ride of the Valkyries.” Geoff had changed her ringtone for her back when they were still fighting for their jobs. It was a battle cry. She had rather liked it, but now it just made her dread the sound of Geoff’s voice.
Thankfully, it was Axel’s number that appeared on caller ID.
Madeleine relaxed.
“Do you have plans for dinner this evening?”
“Well, as you know, my diary is absolutely packed these days,” Madeleine laughed. “But perhaps I can squeeze you in.”
CHAPTER 11
Unfortunately, Axel’s plan for a romantic dinner with Madeleine was scuppered by a call from his boss. Mathieu Randon had been in the United States, visiting the Manhattan headquarters of Fast Life, a sportswear firm he’d had his eye on for some time. It was a relatively small company but it was ripe for dramatic expansion, having recently become deeply cool thanks to the endorsement by a popular rap star who claimed that she never wore anything else.
The owner of Fast Life was keen to sell to fund an ugly divorce. Randon was keen to buy, sensing an opportunity to profit from the other man’s misery. And so he called a meeting of the main board of Domaine Randon to expedite the process. His flight landed at Charles de Gaulle at 7 P.M. The meeting in the Paris boardroom was called for eight o’clock—clashing exactly with Axel’s dinner reservation in Champagne.
And so, when he should have been sipping champagne with Madeleine, Axel was pouring himself a glass of still iced water while Randon’s new personal assistant (who bore an uncanny resemblance to the unfortunate Bertille) passed out folders containing everything the team needed to know about Fast Life.
Axel wasn’t quite sure what he was doing there, sitting at a table with the most important players at Domaine Randon. He could only imagine it was because his direct boss at Maison Randon, the champagne house’s Managing Director, Stefan Urban, was holidaying in the Maldives. Axel tried to convey the impression that he wasn’t fazed, however. He was just glad he was wearing his best suit, pulled out specially for dinner with Madeleine.
Axel Delaflote had always been ambitious, but unlike Mathieu Randon, his ambition had not been instilled in him as a means of living up to the family name. On the contrary, Axel had grown up thinking that his family name meant merde. He wanted to succeed in spite of it.
It was true that like the Randons, Axel’s family had been in the champagne business for several generations. But his family name had never been on a bottle. The Delaflotes had always been employees. In fact, his great-grandfather had briefly worked for Maison Randon. His grandfather and father had both worked as cellar masters for Champagne Arsenault.
Axel remembered quite clearly the night when his father Alain had announced proudly that Champagne Arsenault might as well be called Champagne Delaflote, since it was his nose that made the maison’s wine as good as it was. Axel’s entire family had applauded Alain Delaflote that night, but the following day, when eight-year-old Axel repeated his father’s assertion to young Georges Arsenault, he got a kick in the head for his trouble.
“What are you talking about? The Delaflote family are Arsenault’s slaves!” Georges had announced with the kind of cruelty that only a child could show.
From that moment on, Axel was ashamed of his father. It was true. His father was an employee, not a freeman like Georges’s father. Though he attended the same local staterun school as Georges and Madeleine Arsenault, from that day forward Axel no longer felt their equal. He was a serf. The Delaflotes lived in a house that was rented from Champagne Arsenault.
Even when Madeleine was chosen to play Marianne, symbol of the French Revolution and personification of la liberté et l’égalité, in their school pageant, Axel saw it as confirmation that she had been marked for better things than him from birth. Her beauty was just another in a long list of privileges Axel would never have.
Stefan Urban, head of Randon’s Napa operation, had recognized Axel’s talent and nurtured it further. Axel had felt his heart swell with pride when Mathieu Randon told Urban that he wanted Stefan to head up the champagne operation and Urban responded, while Axel stood in front of his desk and listened in on the call, via speakerphone. “I’m moving nowhere without Delaflote. Axel is my right-hand man. Damn it, Mathieu. He is my right hand!”
Randon agreed to bring Axel back to Champagne too.
“Would you really have turned down the job if he’d refused to transfer me?” Axel asked his boss later.
“Of course,” said Stefan. “You make me look good.”
Such unequivocal support meant a great deal to Axel and so he was determined to be a good representative of Stefan Urban’s team when he joined the rest of Domaine Randon’s board at the huge oval table in the office on the Champs-Élysées.
The meeting continued until midnight. It was tiring but exciting too. Axel had always wanted to be a part of this world in which he found himself now, where people bandied about seven- and even eight-figure numbers without batting an eyelid, though he found it slightly nerve-racking when Randon went around the table asking each person present to give their opinion.
“I’m wearing their underwear right now,” said Axel, regretting the words even as they came out of his mouth. But, thank goodness, everybody laughed. Mathieu Randon laughed hardest.
“Then it’s done,” he said.
Finally Randon called the meeting to a close. Like obedient schoolchildren, the attendees stood up almost as one and began to gather together their belongings.
“Not you, Monsieur Delaflote,” Randon said to Axel.
Axel paused in packing his briefcase, empty but for his phone and a pen. Randon beckoned him to the head of the table. Axel was aware that every gaze in the room was following him.
“I need a dining companion,” said Randon. “And you’re today’s lucky winner. Bertille, call Le Cochon D’Inde and tell them I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“I’m not Bertille … ” the girl began. A smile from Randon quickly silenced her.
Le Cochon D’Inde was one of the best new restaurants in Paris. Ordinarily, its kitchen closed at midnight, but a call on behalf of Mathieu Randon could persuade most Parisian chefs to stay after hours, even if they knew that the great man would order nothing more than an omelet when he did arrive. Randon had recently invested heavily in a couple of restaurants and every eager young chef courted his patronage.
Axel’s mouth watered as he studied the menu. He was ravenous. He fancied a steak. But even as he was reading it, Randon plucked the menu from Axel’s hand and ordered for him too.
“The usual. Two omelets. Much too late at night for anything heavier, don’t you think?”
Axel demurred.
There was to be no wine either. The waiter poured two glasses of sparkling water. Axel prayed that his stomach wouldn’t growl as Randon began to speak.
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