“That bastard Randon stitched me up,” Bill launched into his defense right away. “He took me out to dinner and got me drunk.”
“Bill,” said Christina, full of faux patience. “You’re not some sixteen-year-old girl. You’re a grown man. No one gets a forty-year-old man drunk without his cooperation.”
“Then maybe someone drugged me. Rohypnol or something. I’m telling you, my darling, all I remember after having dinner with Randon is going up to my hotel room and going to sleep. I’d had a hard day. I swear I left him and that girl in the bar. But when I woke up, she was there.”
“Sitting on your cock,” said Christina bluntly.
“No.” Bill covered his eyes. “I swear I don’t know how she even got into my room!”
“How about you let her in? Bill,” sighed Christina, “I’m not an idiot. I don’t want to hear any excuses. You’re a jerk. You’re a dickhead. You’re the sorriest bastard I ever met and I wish I’d never laid eyes on you!”
When it was clear that Christina wasn’t going to accept his assertion that he had been drugged and set up, Bill tried that other tactic. So maybe he had slept with a prostitute. It was, of course, Christina’s own fault. They’d argued before he flew to Paris to try to rescue the Randon deal. Their deal. She’d made him so angry that he needed to let off steam. He deserved to.
“You deserved to let off steam by having some girl blow you? Why couldn’t you have just gotten into a fist-fight like you normally do?” Christina asked. “That way it’s only you who has to face the humiliation the morning after. You have made me look an idiot, Bill. My face is in all the papers next to a mug shot of some girl who looks like she hasn’t seen a dentist in ten years. People want to know what’s so wrong with me that you’d choose to stick your cock in that thing, that slut, rather than in the world’s most beautiful woman. Do you know how bad that is? I’m a laughingstock. They love it. That you would rather go with some ugly little French bitch than fuck me. It’s so embarrassing.”
“Is that all you care about? How you look in the papers?” Bill deftly turned Christina’s argument back on her. “That’s all that matters to you, isn’t it? Not me. Not our marriage. Just how it looks in the news. Is that what’s important?”
“Fuck you,” said Christina. “It is important. I’m going to bed. On my own.”
“Yeah,” scoffed Bill. “Like that’s a change.”
After a night in separate bedrooms Bill convinced himself that Randon had been right. He didn’t need Christina. She was holding him back with her holier-than-thou stance on globalization. She was a model and he was a film star. Their job was to entertain, not proselytize. Quite apart from that, Christina was colder than a penguin’s backside. Not only did Bill never get laid anymore, he didn’t get any appreciation either. He needed someone who understood how hard he worked. Someone who would be grateful for the flowers and the jewelry and not ask what he’d done that he needed to offset with a lastminute gift from duty-free.
Bill hated always being the bad guy. He screwed up sometimes but he wasn’t a bad man. Fuck. Much to his chagrin, he didn’t even really remember what that stupid French slut had done to him. Was he going to have to be punished for some forbidden pleasure he couldn’t even recall? Every guy slipped up from time to time, didn’t he? Anger swiftly morphed into self-pity.
All Bill wanted was to be forgiven, he told himself. To be loved unconditionally. He hugged a pillow tightly against his body like a little boy missing his mother. Christina was supposed to forgive him. Wasn’t that in their marriage vows?
But Christina wasn’t up for unconditional love. The following morning, she departed for the airport before Bill even woke up. She left a note on the kitchen counter explaining that Bill could stay in the Beverly Hills house if he needed to be back in California. She was going to the villa in Napa Valley to think about their future.
“Think about our future.”
Bill read that single phrase as a rejection. If he knew anything about his wife, it was that she had done her thinking the second she saw the video clip, and her decision was already made. And so Bill didn’t bother to call her. Instead, he called his lawyer and sued Christina for divorce. His lawyer suggested that the lack of sex in their marriage amounted to psychological cruelty.
“Well, Matthew,” said Bill to Randon in a phone call on the day his divorce papers were served. “I took your advice and filed for divorce. You were right. Christina was just one big downer on my career. Now, you and I should get together and discuss that movie idea of yours. I think now would be a great time for me to look into the possibility of directing. Shall we meet in New York?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Randon, who knew that the time had come to let Tarrant know that his services were no longer required at Domaine Randon either.
“But I don’t get it!” Bill protested.
“Bill, old buddy, you were photographed passed out drunk with a prostitute. People are saying you’ve got a drinking problem. Do you know how tough the advertising-standards people are these days? It doesn’t look good. A drunkard advertising champagne? May I suggest you call your local branch of Alcoholics Anonymous. And, incidentally, my name is not Matt.”
CHAPTER 29
That same evening Mathieu Randon sent word to Odile Levert that she should meet him at Bibliotek. When she received the message, Odile couldn’t help smiling. Bibliotek was one of her favorite restaurants.
She arrived ten minutes late, as was her custom. She liked to ensure that her dining companion would be at the table before her. She wore black, as was usual in the evening: an elegant dress by Lanvin that hung beautifully from her mannequin-style bones. Her hair had been cut just that afternoon into an extra-sharp bob that emphasized her ageless cheekbones. Her heels finished the look of polished perfection that had the girl on the front desk standing to attention and promised good service all evening.
It gave Odile quite a kick, walking into Bibliotek and having the staff fawn over her.
Randon stood as she approached their table. He leaned to kiss the air on both sides of her face.
“I don’t know how you do it,” he said admiringly. “You look younger every time we meet. How long have we known each other now, Odile?”
“Almost fifteen years,” she told him.
“Ah yes. Since you were just starting out as a critic. Vinexpo. I could tell you had something even then.”
“Because I approved of Éclat?” Odile joked. “Thank you.”
The waiter, who shook out Odile’s napkin and placed it on her lap, hid the critic’s mischievous smile. It tickled her enormously that Mathieu Randon still thought that day at Vinexpo was the first time he’d laid eyes on her.
Hilarian and Ronald had Odile Levert all wrong. She didn’t come from some grand old French family at all. She’d had her introduction to wine in a rather more prosaic setting than the elegant dining hall of Champagne Arsenault, or the grand ballroom at Maison Randon. Like all French children, she’d been raised on vin de table, but she got her first taste of something good in the kitchen of the five-star restaurant where she was working as a waitress. The sommelier had taken her under his wing and the rest was history.
And history has a habit of repeating itself.
Odile Levert had joined the waiting staff at the new Parisian restaurant Bibliotek with her fraternal twin sister, Odette. They were named after the princesses in Swan Lake. Their mother, Erica, was obsessed with the ballet. She was convinced she could have been a star of the stage herself, if she had been born into a different family. And married a different man …
The twins’ father was a charming but violent man. He was also a hugely talented chef. When he was in a good mood, there was no better place to be than in the family kitchen. When he wasn’t Erica bore the brunt of his dissatisfaction with life. After that, Odile. For some reason Odette was untouchable in her father’s eyes. Perhaps it was her beauty. He called her his little angel, of cou
rse.
Odile always saw the disappointment on people’s faces when Odette introduced her twin sister. Odette had the timeless beauty of a Renaissance portrait, a movie star or a fashion model. Odile had similar features but they were just a little less well put together. Her big brown eyes were a little too close. Her nose just a little too big. The difference in the girls’ looks was reflected in the tips they made as waitresses.
That night, almost twenty years ago now, Odette and Odile were assigned to look after a party of six businessmen. A very important party, the chief waiter informed them. “Don’t fuck it up.”
Odette distributed menus with the wide, white grin that guaranteed her at least fifteen percent from the start. From her place behind the bar, Odile watched the customers settling in. She noticed at once the man who would become so important to her. There was something about him that reminded her of their father. He was white-haired though probably only in his early thirties. He was well dressed, of course. This was the kind of restaurant that demanded a certain level of style—and income. From the way he was leaning back in his seat while his companions all leaned toward him, it was clear he was the one to impress. Odile didn’t like the look of him.
“Your turn,” said Odette, as they crossed paths in the middle of the restaurant.
Odile tried to mimic her sister’s flourish as she presented the white-haired man with the wine list.
“An aperitif perhaps? May I suggest a glass of champagne?”
There was something cruel about the white-haired man’s smile as he replied, “Yes. Why don’t you suggest a glass of champagne to me.”
“I’d like to recommend the Bollinger. In my opinion, this is an exceptional vintage … ”
As Odile continued with her spiel, she became aware that her customers found something amusing in her delivery. She glanced down at the front of her blouse nervously. Had she come unbuttoned? Odette would have mentioned it, surely. The man to the left of the white-haired guy began to snigger. Soon the entire table was laughing with him.
“Are you some kind of moron?” the white-haired man asked her. “I said you could suggest a glass of champagne to me, not recite your dissertation on the origins of urine.”
Odile stepped back at the force of his words.
“How long have you been working as a sommelier?”
“This is my first month.”
“And your last. You just made a fatal mistake. You suggested Bollinger to the head of Maison Randon.”
Odile blushed to the roots of her hair. She began to make her apology.
“Don’t bother,” said Randon. “Send me someone who knows how to do his job. A man. You see,” he addressed his companions, “women know shit about wine. They’re only good for fucking. And then only until they’re twenty-five.” He looked Odile up and down as though she were a horse. “What are you still doing here?” he asked her then.
Odile did her best to walk, not run, back to the kitchen.
It was a day that would remain imprinted on her memory as though it had been branded there with a hot iron. Clearly, it had not been quite so important for Randon.
“I hear via the jungle drums that Arsenault is in terrible trouble,” Randon observed as they finished their coffee. “Unpaid tax bill? Enormous. Poor little Madeleine must be about ready to sell to big bad Domaine Randon now.”
Odile shook her head. “Apparently not.”
“Well, let her watch her grapes rot.”
“But that’s not good for you, is it? If Madeleine can’t afford to look after her vineyards properly, then it makes more work for you when you finally come to take Champagne Arsenault over. It’s one thing hoping that some disaster will force her to sell at a lower price than you anticipated, but the way I see it, you’d have to pick up the difference anyway. If she cuts corners now, you’ll be paying for it for the next few vintages. Besides, Randon, you and I both know that this is going to be a particularly good year. You could miss out on putting out the first ever Maison Randon Clos Des Larmes.”
“Don’t you think I’ve thought of that?” asked Randon. “Odile, I didn’t invite you to have dinner with me this evening so that you could insult me.”
“I’m sorry. I do hate to see you so exercised. Perhaps you should talk to Madeleine again. Stress to her that the death of her marque would be a far greater disaster than for it to be brought under the caring umbrella of Domaine Randon.”
“Stupid bitch won’t listen to reason.”
“Perhaps it’s the medium rather than the message. Perhaps she needs to hear it from someone she trusts.”
Randon narrowed his eyes.
“But you have a lot to lose too, Odile, if she doesn’t hear the message. What about your bet?”
“What’s it worth to me? A few thousand pounds? Hardly worth getting out of bed for, as your friend Christina Morgan the supermodel might say. I’ve got better things to do than babysit Champagne Arsenault.”
“What would make it worth your while?”
They were interrupted by the maitre d’, who wanted to be sure that Monsieur Randon was pleased with his meal.
“Wonderful,” he said. “But I think we’re ready to leave.”
Odile, who was used to Randon’s sudden lapses in sociability, was only too happy to agree.
The maitre d’ of Bibliotek had been a waiter when Odile worked there. His memory was as faulty as Randon’s. If only he knew, thought Odile as the stupid fool helped her into her coat.
Madeleine accepted Odile’s invitation to the Women in Wine lunch in Paris at once, as Odile had known she would. She met Madeleine in the lobby of the Hyatt Vendôme and embraced her warmly.
“My lovely little protégée. What a pretty dress,” she commented. She could tell from Madeleine’s blushes that the girl was unduly flattered by her praise. “So, how have you been since I last saw you?”
“OK,” said Madeleine.
“I can’t stop thinking about how we’re going to win that little bet with your first Clos Des Larmes,” said Odile. “You will make one this year, of course?”
Madeleine’s brow wrinkled. Odile immediately wound her arm through Madeleine’s and said, “Darling, shall we take our drinks and go outside?”
Odile walked Madeleine out onto the little atrium in the middle of the hotel, whereupon Madeleine unleashed her frustration. She told Odile everything about the tax bill, the rising costs and her fear that she would have to sell. She even, feeling incredibly disloyal as she did so, told Odile about her father’s gambling habit.
“I just feel so unsupported!”
“Ssssh,” said Odile. “It’s OK. You do have people behind you. There are so many people who want to see you succeed. I most certainly do. You know I have a lot of money riding on Clos Des Larmes to win that silly Vinifera challenge.”
“I’ve got a feeling you’re wasting your money,” said Madeleine.
“Not at all. Madeleine, I think what is required here is a little of what the Americans call ‘thinking outside the box.’ You’re justifiably worried that you don’t have enough money in the Arsenault coffers to bring in the grapes from all your vineyards and get them processed this year, right?”
Madeleine nodded.
“Well, silly girl, the answer hits me between the eyes right away! You don’t have to bring in all your grapes.”
“I can’t leave them unharvested.”
“I’m not suggesting that either. I think you should sell them.”
“What?”
“The Arsenault vineyards are all grand cru, yes? What’s the CIVC set as the price for grand cru grapes this year? Pinot must be at five Euros per kilo. Chardonnay at five point three. Sell your grapes. Pay your tax bill.”
“I can’t! Champagne Arsenault has never sold its grapes.”
“Times change.”
“I can’t let someone else have the pinot from the Clos Des Larmes.”
“Ah, I’m not suggesting that. You keep the Clos Des Larmes. You m
ust. I’m relying on you to make a spectacular vintage. But sell the rest. Keep Champagne Arsenault afloat. Just for this year, Madeleine. That’s all that matters.”
That afternoon, Odile helped Madeleine hone her plan. It would be easy to sell the grapes from the vineyards on the hill. The big houses such as Moët were always happy to buy from grand cru vineyards to press and bottle under their own labels to meet the demand their brand image created. Odile knew exactly whom Madeleine should talk to to get the best terms. Such a deal would provide Madeleine with enough cash to pay Henri and the guys and keep Arsenault afloat while the next part of the plan took shape.
The Clos Des Larmes was an entirely different prospect from the vineyards on the hill. The vines in the tiny walled vineyard had been grown using not just traditional but positively ancient methods. Unlike the strictly regimented vines on the hill, the Clos Des Larmes vines grew higgledy-piggledy, in an arrangement known as en foule. They were old vines. Their maturity was reflected in the complexity of flavor in the grapes.
As Odile suggested, Madeleine would keep all the grapes from the Clos Des Larmes for herself, to be pressed in-house for Champagne Arsenault. The vineyard was small. The yield would be tiny. But it would be so valuable. Madeleine remembered that fateful dinner at Montrachet the night her father had a heart attack. The price of the Clos Des Larmes on Montrachet’s wine list was astronomical. If they could make a Clos Des Larmes, then it could save Champagne Arsenault.
“Thank you.” Madeleine kissed Odile. “For making me see sense.”
Odile stroked Madeleine’s cheek affectionately. “In a few years’ time you’ll be able to press all your own grapes again. You’ll make Champagne Arsenault a force to be reckoned with. I believe in you.”
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