Vintage

by Olivia Darling

  “I don’t think we need to continue with this charade, monsieur, I know you’re only interested in my champagne house.”

  Randon shrugged his shoulders again and had the decency to look just a little embarrassed.

  “Of course I am interested in Champagne Arsenault. Who wouldn’t be? I was a great admirer of your father, Madeleine. He was a true artist. I have, in my cellar, a bottle of his Clos Des Larmes from 1975. I have yet to find an occasion special enough to warrant drinking such a masterpiece.”

  Madeleine said nothing. The Clos Des Larmes made in 1975 was her father’s favorite vintage; the one he made in the year of her brother’s birth. Her own birth year wasn’t good enough to warrant a vintage at all.

  A wine waiter hovered. Randon waved the man away and stepped a little closer to Madeleine as though he were about to impart a great secret.

  “Madeleine, I understand your loyalty to your father’s memory. You believe that he would want the Clos Des Larmes to stay in the family. Knowing your father as well as I did, I believe he actually had a slightly different plan.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Madeleine.

  “I understand that you spent the last ten years working in London. Investment banking, wasn’t it? The hours are very long, I know. It can be difficult to keep up with your family obligations when your career demands so much from you.”

  “What are you getting at, Randon?”

  “In the ten years prior to his death, I believe I spent more time with your father than you did, dear girl. I presented myself to him as a disciple. I wanted to know everything your father could tell me about champagne. I revered him above all other vignerons. We became good friends.”

  “He didn’t tell me you were such great friends.”

  “When would he have told you? You didn’t see him at all in the year before he died, am I right?”

  Madeleine looked sharply to Axel. Had he told Randon that? The possibility that Randon was actually telling the truth about his relationship with her father was just too horrible. Madeleine tried to picture Mathieu Randon sitting beside Constant Arsenault’s deathbed. She imagined her father telling Randon that his daughter never visited anymore. Randon sympathizing. No. Randon had to be lying. If he’d felt such strong regard for old Arsenault then why hadn’t Randon been at the funeral?

  As though he were able to read Madeleine’s thoughts, Randon continued, “I was terribly sad to miss your father’s funeral. I was detained in New York by bad weather. I asked Axel to pass on my regards.”

  “I don’t think my father missed you,” said Madeleine.

  “Your father confided in me that he wanted Clos Des Larmes to be cared for by someone with a passion for wine.”

  “Stop,” said Madeleine. “Don’t try to tell me that my father would want me to sell Champagne Arsenault to you?”

  Randon gave a little nod.

  “You’re lying, Randon. Family was the most important thing to my father. I may have let him down in the ten years prior to his death but I’m damn well not going to let him down now. I will send you a bottle of my first vintage at Clos Des Larmes to drink when you open the ‘75. And I promise you, it will be a vintage that would have made my father proud.”

  “Or perhaps, as is more likely, you will finish the job your father began and send a once great marque into oblivion.”

  Randon leaned forward and took Madeleine by the elbow as though he were about to give her a friendly kiss good-bye. Instead, she felt his fingers digging hard into the bare flesh of her upper arm as he hissed into her ear, “You’re a proud and stupid woman, Mademoiselle Arsenault.”

  And with that, Randon withdrew.

  Axel remained. He looked nervously after Randon, finding himself between a rock and a hard place. “Madeleine, I’m sorry. He came on a bit strong there. I didn’t know that stuff about your father. I mean, I knew that they knew each other. I didn’t know they’d actually talked about the future of Clos Des Larmes.”

  “Just leave me alone,” said Madeleine. “There’s no point trying to mend bridges.”

  “Madeleine—”

  “Fuck off. If I never see you again it will be too soon,” she said. “You betrayed me, Axel. The only news I ever want to hear of you is that you are dead.”

  Madeleine exited the ExCeL building as though the devil himself were on her tail. She snatched her coat from the cloakroom attendant and threw a couple of pound coins into the tip dish. Then she made for the door, walking as fast as she could. Trying not to run. She didn’t want anyone to see her running. She especially didn’t want anyone to see that she was starting to cry. Though by the time she reached the big glass doors of the exhibition center, she was pretty much blinded with tears, which was how she came to run straight into the chest of someone heading in the opposite direction at equally high speed.

  The man grasped Madeleine by the upper arms to stop her from falling.

  “Steady on,” he said as he set her upright again.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. Happens all the time,” he said. “Women can’t help throwing themselves at me.”

  Madeleine paused just long enough to thank him and to take in the scent of Creed Royal Water, and the teddy bears on his Hermès silk tie, before she was off again, into the night.

  Odile Levert watched Madeleine leave. Madeleine was an intelligent girl but overly emotional, Odile decided. Such softness would be her undoing against an opponent like Mathieu Randon.

  CHAPTER 24

  Though she was nobody’s first choice, none of the PR team could deny that Christina was making a real effort as the biggest celeb at the wine fair. For the Vinifera dinner supporting ISACL, she dressed in Armani Privé. A heavily sequinned dress in pale lemon with matching shoes by Manolo.

  “Almost the color of champagne,” Christina explained to Lauren, the PR girl charged with looking after her. “I thought that would be appropriate for the evening.”

  The evening opened with aperitifs, of course. Guided by Lauren, Christina mingled with the party guests. Except that Christina could never really mingle. As usual, the moment she walked into the room, she found herself surrounded by a knot of admirers, most of whom were too shy to actually talk to her as she made her way around the room like a whale shark followed by a shoal of remoras— a very small whale shark, Christina assured herself, even as the thought popped into her head.

  She spotted the French girl, the one who had been vomited on, in conversation with Mathieu Randon and hoped he wouldn’t call her over for another introduction. The French girl’s dress looked expensive, Christina observed from a distance. And it fit her well. She had a particularly small waist. Curvy. No matter how hard Christina worked out, she could never quite get that shape. She felt another pang of unease of the kind that she didn’t often feel even in a room full of models. Somehow, she felt in competition with Madeleine over more than just their wine.

  The English girl, the one who threw up (Christina couldn’t remember her name), was nowhere to be seen, thank goodness. What a stupid little girl. She had a lot to learn about the art of making a good first impression. Mess up in the first few minutes and you could spend a lifetime trying to change someone’s mind. Though her incredible vomiting stunt had saved Christina from having to get heavy with Gerry over the photo issue. Christina was grateful for that.

  “Christina, can I introduce you to … ”

  Suddenly Ronald Ginsburg stood in front of her, blocking her view of Madeleine Arsenault. He had on his arm a blond woman in her late twenties or thereabouts who wouldn’t be a challenge to Christina even if she spent two years on one of those plastic surgery cruises. Christina didn’t catch her name and didn’t bother to ask to hear it again. Instead she offered the girl her hand with about as much enthusiasm as a princess shaking hands with a stinking shepherdess. Then she turned her attention back to Ronald, who was saying something complimentary about her dress.

  “You look sensational.”<
br />
  Christina couldn’t hear it often enough.

  For the dinner itself Christina was seated with Lauren, the PR person; Gerry Paine, the editor of Vinifera; Ronald Ginsburg; and his guest.

  The chat largely revolved around wine, of course. Gerry and Ronald talked excitedly about the wager.

  “The minute I heard about the Villa Bacchante, I knew that was the vineyard for me,” said Ronald.

  “We mostly grow pinot noir.” Christina fed her dinner companions the spiel that she’d picked up from Bill’s assistant, Teak. “The Carneros region is slightly cooler than other parts of Napa, perfect for pinot, which, as we all know from Sideways, is a very particular grape.”

  Ronald gave her a little round of applause. He was rapt.

  “I can’t wait to come and visit you guys and see exactly how that pinot is planted,” said Ronald.

  “You’ll never get rid of him,” Gerry warned.

  Then the conversation moved on to wine-world gossip. Christina listened as attentively as she could but beyond a few big names that she recognized, the conversation started to go over her head. She began wondering how early she would be able to get away—her eyes were looking tired and she really didn’t want that caught on camera—but then Ronald brought her back into the conversation.

  “You’re the face of Maison Randon, aren’t you?” he said.

  Christina nodded. “That’s right. Éclat.”

  Ronald smiled. “Great champagne, Randon’s Éclat. You know, I knew Mathieu Randon thirty years ago when he was just starting out, when the champagne house was the only business he had. Of course, it’s two cents to talk to him these days, now that Domaine Randon’s taking over the world.”

  The young blonde on Ronald’s left—the one who Christina had assumed was an airhead colleague of Lauren’s—suddenly sat up a little straighter.

  “How does that sit with your views?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry. What do you mean?” Christina responded.

  “Being the face of Randon Champagne?”

  “Maison Randon,” Christina automatically corrected her.

  “My apologies, Maison Randon.”

  “I’m very happy to be representing such a top-class wine.”

  “Really?” The girl raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised. I mean, I read all about the campaign you did for ISACL. We covered it in some depth in my paper.”

  “You’re a journalist?” said Christina.

  “Jennifer Gardner. The Sunday Herald.”

  “She’s doing a profile on me for their Sunday supplement,” said Ronald.

  Christina hoped that Ronald would seize the opportunity to talk about himself again but he didn’t.

  Jennifer continued, “One of the brands you asked people to boycott is a Domaine Randon brand, right?”

  Christina stiffened. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” she said. Of course she knew exactly what Jennifer was talking about but Marisa had assured her that the Fast Life episode was finished and that the only policy from now on was to pretend it never happened. “Fast Life is a really new Randon brand. People won’t make the connection,” Marisa had promised her most successful client.

  But this Jennifer girl had made the connection.

  “Fast Life is a Domaine Randon brand, isn’t it?” she tried again.

  Christina could only nod.

  “And you’re prepared to continue representing the company despite Fast Life’s track record. Didn’t they have three children actually die in an accident with a loom last year?”

  “I … ” Christina hesitated.

  “Perhaps you already know what Domaine Randon plans to do about the ISACL accusations regarding Fast Life? Have you spoken to Mr. Randon personally about your concerns regarding the use of child labor to produce his luxury goods?”

  Christina found herself blushing. She couldn’t help it. Glancing across the table she saw that Lauren the PR and Gerry Paine had stopped talking and were watching Jennifer’s inquisition with interest.

  “It would seem to be the obvious thing to do,” Jennifer continued. “I’m sure, being the face of his champagne, you must have Mathieu Randon’s ear. And I’m equally sure he would want to keep you and your husband happy. A great many people are influenced by the ideals and actions of celebrities such as you. That’s undoubtedly why Rocky Neel asked you to support ISACL in the first place. But maybe it doesn’t really matter to you? Perhaps you thought no one would make the connection. Perhaps you didn’t make the connection. I understand how these things work,” said Jennifer, waving her hand dismissively. “Famous as you are, you must get asked to do all sorts of charity work. Your agent picks the best causes for you. The ones that fit your public image. You turn up. You put on the T-shirt. You read a script. It’s just like any other job, right?”

  “No. ISACL and its aims are very important to me,” said Christina. “I have a personal connection with the charity. Rocky Neel and I have been friends for years—”

  “But you need the Randon ad money to pay the mortgage. Hey, I’m not judging you. We’ve all been there. Taking a job we know we shouldn’t because we don’t want the bank to take our house back. It’s no different from me writing puff pieces on my editor’s old cronies to pay the rent.” Jennifer waved her hand in the direction of Ronald Ginsburg. “So, I perfectly understand your dilemma. It’s morality versus necessity. Your husband’s last film bombed, right? That must have hurt your bottom line.”

  Christina struggled to find an answer. Who did this girl think she was?

  “I don’t think I can speak for my husband,” she began. “But this has been a tough summer for the movie business in general and—”

  “What were the figures?” Jennifer persisted.

  “You know, I really don’t want to talk about this now,” said Christina before Jennifer could come up with the numbers.

  “But we’re all interested to hear what you have to say.”

  “I just don’t think that any of this has any relevance to—”

  Just then, a young and nervous-looking waiter leaned in to refill everyone’s wine. Jennifer frowned at the interruption, but for Christina it was a gift from God. She suddenly reached for her water glass, knocking the waiter’s arm as she did so. Just as Christina had hoped he would, the waiter slopped red wine all over the table and onto her lap. She jumped up, knocking into the waiter again, thus ensuring that she was soaked.

  “Why you clumsy … ” Ronald got to his feet and rushed to Christina’s assistance.

  “It’s OK, Ronald. I’m fine,” she batted away his attempts to mop down her cleavage. “Really,” she assured the waiter. “It’s just a bit of wine. I’m OK. I’ve got a spare dress. Excuse me, everybody.”

  Christina fled from the table.

  The second she was out of sight, Christina dove into her handbag for her mobile and called Marisa in New York to ask for her advice on how to deal with the journalist girl. Christina knew that after she presented the awards, Randon was expecting her to join him and his team at the Domaine Randon table for another photo op. Christina could already imagine what the journalist would make of that.

  Marisa was not in the office. Christina got through to Marisa’s assistant, Louis, instead.

  “Darling, don’t worry about it. You will be magnificent!” he said. It was the kind of advice that worked when Christina was feeling nervy about stepping out onto the catwalk in a swimsuit made of nothing but a couple of carefully folded dollar bills, but this was different. The journalist was questioning her integrity and so far Christina had not found the right answer.

  “Are you all right in there?” Lauren called through the dressing room door. “Gerry has just gone up onstage to start the speeches. We don’t want to leave him up there on his own for too long. He’s so boring!”

  “Just a minute,” said Christina.

  She could think of no way to buy herself more time. She stripped off the ruined dress and replaced it with the backup:
a hot pink version of the same design. Then she touched up her makeup. Her reflection in the mirror frowned back at her. Christina pressed on the two worry creases between her eyes, hoping to make them disappear. If only she could make Jennifer the journalist disappear too.

  “Miss Morgan?” Lauren knocked on the door again.

  “I’m ready,” Christina called back, feeling further from ready than she had ever been.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, Miss Christina Morgan.”

  Christina took to the stage and tapped on the mike. She wondered if the audience could hear her heart pounding against her rib cage as she prepared to make the speech of her life. She glanced back at the table where she had been sitting with Ronald Ginsburg and the others. Jennifer Gardner was leaning forward expectantly, pen poised over a pad of paper. Christina gave the woman who had been giving her such a hard time a nervous smile.

  “Time to do the right thing,” Christina said to herself.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began. “I’m so glad to be here this evening. Not as a model but as a fellow wine-maker. It’s a real honor to be in such great company. You have welcomed me into your bosom and I’m truly grateful for that. But my passion for wine is eclipsed by my passion for the charity we’re here to support this evening. It’s an involvement that has changed my life. ISACL stands for the International Society for the Abolition of Child Labor.

  “Now, you might wonder what child labor has to do with you, but glancing around this room tonight, I can see that many of you are unknowingly supporting the practice, wearing clothes and shoes produced by children who work sixteen hours for as little as a dollar a day.”

  Christina glanced down at those faces in the crowd she was able to see. She seemed to have their attention.

  “It is up to all of us to make sure that the children in the Third World have the same opportunities our own children do. That is how we make a better future for everyone. So I’m here today to tell you that I’m standing by everything I said on behalf of ISACL when I made that infomercial two months ago. One of the brands I asked the general public to boycott was Fast Life, a sportswear brand that you may or may not know as a subsidiary of Domaine Randon, parent company of Maison Randon champagne, for whom I am ashamed to say I have made a commercial. Ladies and gentlemen, I have decided that I can no longer be the face of Maison Randon because I do not support child labor. It really is as simple as that. Monsieur Randon, change your working practices or accept my resignation!”