Madeleine frowned as she read the meter. “I think we are.”
Henri looked at the reading and nodded. The vines on the hill were already being picked. Only the Clos remained.
“We’re off,” said Madeleine at last.
There was something soothing about such heavy manual work; Madeleine had come to know that well. When you were moving through the Clos, concentrating on removing the bunches of grapes from the vine without damaging them, there was no time to think about hopeless boyfriends or ex-husbands and their new women. After a while Lizzy, whose misery didn’t seem to have abated one bit since she was last in Champagne, actually started to sing. Even if it was “I Will Survive” rather than one of the traditional French songs that had filled the air during the harvests of her childhood, Madeleine was glad to hear it. She joined in on the chorus, laughing when Lizzy stopped harvesting for a moment to sing into the handles of her secateurs.
Gradually, the baskets filled with grapes. Madeleine and Henri loaded them into the back of the Twingo and drove them down to the winery. There, the officials from the CIVC watched as the grapes were poured—whole bunches—into the press. The first pressing was carefully measured out according to the strict guidelines set by the board.
As the juice ran into the tank, Henri used a wine thief to draw some of it out for the women to taste. He poured each of the women a glass.
“A vous,” said Madeleine, toasting her friends.
“To a vintage year for all of us,” said Lizzy.
Each pressing took four hours. The presses at Champagne Arsenault were running all night.
Eventually, four days later, all the grapes from the Clos Des Larmes were safely pressed and in the barrel. The juice that was left over after the carefully measured CIVC limits per kilo had been used was sent away to the distillery, as local law required. There it would be distilled into Marc De Champagne or Ratafia.
High on the excitement of having brought in the harvest (and possibly a little delirious from exhaustion), the girls hit the town in Reims, which was full of local vignerons in liberation mood.
The population of the relatively sedate town exploded during the harvest. The bars were suddenly as busy as the nightclub in Nicosia during high season, and just as rowdy. The air was full of laughter and chatter in accents from every corner of the world, adding to the holiday atmosphere.
Madeleine’s picking crew hesitated at the door to one of the bars on the main street, the Place Drouet D’Erlon.
“Wow,” said Lizzy, looking at the crowd that spilled out onto the pavement. “There is so much talent in here.”
“Terrifying!” said Jane. “I need a drink!”
Inside the bar the jukebox, which lay silent most of the year, played non-stop. Unfortunately, the discs within it hadn’t been changed for the past twenty years, so the music was a medley of the cheesy Europop that Lizzy had mocked so mercilessly when she and Madeleine shared a room in boarding school. That and the perennial Johnny Hallyday. Still, old as the music was, it was perfect to dance to. A couple of glasses of wine and Lizzy was on her feet, bumping hips with a blond guy from Brisbane. Soon she had dragged Madeleine and the others up to join her.
Madeleine gave a small squeak of protest as blondie from Brisbane’s mate wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. With his pelvis pressed against her buttocks, the Australian guy moved to the rhythm of the music. Madeleine was mortified to be dancing that way with a complete stranger but at the same time she felt excited. It was as though the sun in the vineyard had made her skin more sensitive. As the Australian leaned forward to shout his name—Dave—into Madeleine’s ear, the feel of his breath on her skin made her shiver. In a good way.
“Want to get out of here?” he asked after a couple of dances.
“What?”
“Come on.” Dave took Madeleine by the hand and led her out onto the street. They walked a little while and then found a dark shop doorway. Dave pulled Madeleine into the shadows and fastened his lips upon hers before she could protest. But why protest? she asked herself. As they’d danced in the bar, Madeleine had tried to guess Dave’s age and put him in his early twenties, probably a decade her junior. But it didn’t seem to bother him and she couldn’t help but be thrilled by the firmness of his young body. Giving in to the moment, she let her hands stray beneath the hem of his T-shirt and up to his firm high pecs.
Meanwhile, Dave’s tongue flickered inside Madeleine’s mouth. There was no standing on ceremony with this guy. His hands roamed her body freely, squeezing her buttocks and then seeking out her breasts. He pushed her bra out of the way to better get at her nipples. Opening her shirt, he fell upon her nipples hungrily, using his tongue to great effect, then sucking hard until Madeleine moaned with desire. She pressed herself against him, loving the feeling of power she got from knowing that the erection in his pants was all because of her.
Who knew what might have happened had another student picker not interrupted them, lurching into their hideaway to vomit.
“Jeez, Pete. Your timing sucks, mate.”
While Dave attended to his friend, Madeleine slipped away. The moment was definitely lost. But she returned to her friends in the bar with an unmistakable glow about her face. Her friends raised a bawdy toast.
“Where’s Lizzy?” Madeleine asked.
Jane and Helena both looked in the direction of the jukebox. Lizzy leaned upon it, engaged in some tonsil hockey of her own.
Lizzy stayed out all night. When she rolled in as the others were having breakfast the following morning, her cheeks were pink with happiness.
“I broke my man drought,” she said. The girls gave her a round of applause.
That evening, their last evening together, the women fell into a stupor around the dining table. Eventually Helena put her head on her folded arms and actually fell asleep with her half-eaten meal still in front of her. Madeleine raised a toast to her two conscious friends.
“Thank you. Thank you so much for being here for my first harvest. I’m so grateful you’re all here today. I don’t know what I would have done without you. Truly I am the luckiest woman in the world to have such wonderful friends.”
“Oh, stop it,” said Jane. “We only came to get a look at the Australian students with their tops off.”
Lizzy dabbed at her eyes. “I came because I love you, Mads,” she sniffed.
Madeleine gave her dearest friend a hug.
“Over-tired,” Madeleine mouthed at Jane over the top of Lizzy’s head.
“You’re never coming back to London, are you?” asked Lizzy then.
“I don’t think so,” Madeleine admitted at last.
“Well, I miss you madly,” Lizzy responded. “But I think you’ve made the right choice.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I know you always used to say that you didn’t care about this place, but it’s obvious that you do. It matters to you that you make good champagne here, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose it does,” said Madeleine.
“And I don’t think it’s just about showing your father what you’re capable of anymore.”
“Of course not,” said Madeleine. “He’s dead.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t think he would have cared anyway.”
“That’s not true. He did love you, Mads. You know that too. Sometimes, when you and I were living together, when he called the flat and you weren’t there, he and I would have a little chat. He wanted to know everything that was going on in your life. He was so proud of you. I know how it must have seemed after Georges died. Your father knew that was when things really went wrong. He wanted to bridge the gap between you but he didn’t know how to begin. Lots of men are like that. I think my father only ever used the L word once in his life, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it.”
Madeleine nodded.
“But anyway, it’s not just about your father. This is your place now. You want to make great cha
mpagne for you. And I want to drink a bottle of it when I finally manage to drag some poor sucker down the aisle.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Madeleine.
As she went to bed that night, Madeleine recalled her conversation with Lizzy. Though she had said it with some authority—that she was going to be staying in Champagne—the strength of Madeleine’s assertion had surprised even her. It was as though until that moment, she herself had not known she’d actually made her decision. But she had. Watching her grapes go into the press had felt so natural.
For the first time in a long while, Madeleine found that she was able to fall asleep quickly. She wasn’t worrying about anything. The vendange had gone without a hitch and the second she tasted the raw juice, she knew that Henri was right: the grapes were more than good enough to make a Clos Des Larmes. Madeleine closed her eyes and for once she dreamed of opening a bottle of good champagne rather than drowning in it.
The following afternoon, Madeleine gave her friends a lift to the railway station in Épernay, whence they would catch a train to Paris. After waving them off, she parked her car and walked into the town to run some errands. She saw Axel Delaflote coming out of a bank. She wasn’t certain he had seen her. He was talking into his phone. For a moment, Madeleine thought about hiding. She looked about her for an open shop to dip into. But she changed her mind. Instead she walked straight by him with her head held high. She had done it. The grapes were harvested. The juice was pressed. And Henri Mason had confirmed that they would make a Clos Des Larmes.
Catching sight of Madeleine heading straight for him, Axel tried to wind up his phone conversation. He put his hand out as if to stop her. But the person on the other end of the call would not stop talking. In any case, Madeleine didn’t even look at him. She kept on walking and thanked God that she’d washed her hair just that morning.
Madeleine Arsenault was a vigneronne. And this was going to be a vintage year.
CHAPTER 32
In Napa Valley, the harvest was a little later than expected. An unexpectedly cold and rainy spring had set the season back. But a warm August had made up for the slow start, and finally, in the second week of September, Enrique, the vineyard manager, was satisfied that the pinot noir had reached its peak.
The Villa Bacchante had its own pressing equipment of course. Brand-new stainless-steel vats. The very best on the market. And new French oak barrels in which to effect a first fermentation. And Christina Morgan had more than enough money to pay for a huge gang of the itinerant workers who drifted around California to bring the grapes home in a day. But Marisa had other ideas. She got out her BlackBerry and started to make calls.
A movie about a man who inherited a vineyard in France had instilled a somewhat romantic view of the grape harvest in the Hollywood mind-set. Add to that a promise of a party and soon the Villa Bacchante had no vacancies. The staff at the nearest private airport could not believe their luck as Marisa and Christina’s glamorous pals booked slots to land their Gulfstreams and helicopters.
“Are you crazy?” Christina asked. “Why do they want to come up here?”
“Because they care about you,” said Marisa. “And they want to help you. Let them help you, Christina. You don’t have to be so self-sufficient all the time.”
Enrique was only too pleased to have a bunch of actors and supermodels on his team, though he didn’t expect them to last a day.
In the end, they did quite well. Only one of the models begged off mid-morning, fearing unsightly sun reddening that could be a problem for a lingerie shoot the following week. But even that girl continued to help out, assisting the housekeeper as she set up a picnic lunch in the shade of some eucalyptus trees.
“When finally the first trickle of juice ran from the tap into a glass, Enrique handed the glass to Christina.
“For good luck,” he said.
Christina took the glass. Her friends waited expectantly. She made a big show of properly “tasting” the pale liquid inside. She held it up to the light to see the color and clarity. She sniffed the “bouquet.” Finally, she took a sip and swilled it around her mouth as though testing the balance of alcohol and acidity. “Yes,” she announced finally. “That definitely tastes like grape juice.”
“Hooray!” Marisa led the applause.
“While Enrique and the other paid Villa Bacchante staff finished the day’s business at the press, Christina led her friends back to the villa. Her housekeeper had already laid a long table with a white tablecloth and set out plates and silverware. There were big bowls of crusty bread and, for once, it seemed that no one was counting their carbs.
Just far enough away that the smoke wouldn’t get into anyone’s hair, a barbecue was ready to go. Christina took up the tongs herself, taking the role that once was Bill’s. She placed the marinated chicken and steaks on the grill and flipped them expertly, all the while chatting to her guests and sipping a lovely pinot noir from a winery down the valley. The owner had harvested his grapes a few days earlier and was only too happy to help Christina with her own first harvest.
“Helping a fellow farmer,” he told her.
“Wanting to inveigle himself into the social circle of a supermodel, more like,” Marisa muttered. “You know he asked me whether I carry my agency’s book in the car?”
Whatever his motivations, the guy from the farm next door looked very happy as he chatted to Paulina, a Polish model Christina had met back in New York when they were both just starting out. Paulina’s career hadn’t taken off in quite the same way as Christina’s, but she had garnered two Sports Illustrated swimsuit editions before she married the hedge-fund manager who was now her ex-husband.
Paulina was very much in demand. When Christina’s winemaking neighbor skipped off to find her a drink, Ronald Ginsburg, who had flown in that day to offer Christina his support, took his place.
“I’m here to keep an eye on my investment,” Ronald explained to Paulina. “I have to make sure Christina’s wine is tip-top. I’m backing her in a wager and my reputation is at stake.”
“Your reputation?” Paulina was confused.
“Yes,” said Ronald.
Paulina looked at him blankly.
“As a wine critic,” said Ronald, realizing with a sinking feeling that she didn’t know who he was. Neither did she look that impressed.
“That’s nice,” she said, as she accepted her drink from Christina’s neighbor.
Ronald got up and went in search of easier prey.
Another model manqué, Michelle, an English girl who had married a Hollywood producer, was helping Christina with the barbecue.
“Do you remember that interview in the New York Times where you said that modeling is hard work?” Michelle asked. Christina cringed at the memory. That throwaway comment had followed her around like Linda Evangelista’s infamous assertion that she didn’t get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day.
“Well,” Michelle continued. “I used to agree with you until today. We had no idea!” she added with a laugh. “Felt good though.”
Everyone seemed very pleased with the way the day had gone. When Enrique returned, Christina proposed a toast.
“To the man who really knows what he’s doing!”
Enrique accepted his employer’s praise shyly and was persuaded to stay for a glass of wine and a steak. Three hours later, Enrique was still there and leading the dancing.
One of the guys had retrieved an acoustic guitar from the back of his Porsche and was making a pretty good job of a Gypsy Kings cover. “When he got tired of playing, Marisa put some dance tunes on the garden stereo. Christina took off her apron and joined Enrique for a turn around the courtyard. Soon everybody was on their feet, suddenly finding new energy.
“I am having the best time of my life,” was the frequent refrain.
“May I have this dance?”
Christina found herself passed from Enrique into the open arms of Greg Stroud.
“Greg.” Christina smiled up
at her old friend. “I’m so glad you’re still here. I can’t believe I haven’t had a chance to talk to you all day.”
“You’ve been busy,” Greg acknowledged. “But I have you now.”
He whirled her around dramatically. Christina gave a little shriek, though she knew, somehow, that Greg was not the kind of guy who would drop her.
Regaining her balance, Christina wrapped her arms around Greg’s neck and they continued to sway to the music.
“I haven’t seen you in … ”
“Five years,” said Greg.
“Is it that long?”
Christina was surprised and slightly embarrassed, wondering if the long gap was somehow her fault. There had been a time in her life when she saw Greg Stroud just about every day. They’d both been living in New York at the time. She was just starting out as a model, he in TV.
Greg was dating Christina’s roommate, Angelica, a model from the Czech Republic. Greg had married the girl but—green card in hand—she’d moved on to an investment banker. In his grief, Greg had left New York for Los Angeles, buried himself in work and rocketed to the top of a cable network.
They’d been good friends back in the day, though. When Greg heard that Angelica was sleeping with someone else, it was Christina he came to for consolation.
Over a decade later Christina remembered that night in her apartment very well. She remembered Greg’s face, drawn and tired. He hadn’t slept for a couple of days. Angelica had confirmed the rumor via telephone. She was in Milan. Greg was in Helsinki. Greg had offered to fly to Italy to talk things through. Angelica said there was no point. She was flying directly to St. Tropez to join her new lover. So Greg flew back to New York and drove straight from the airport to Christina’s apartment.
Christina tried hard to be sympathetic, but what she really wanted to do was dance around the apartment. The thought of Greg without Angelica was too wonderful.
Greg got his divorce. But a month after it came through, he was dating another Czech model. Christina decided that she simply wasn’t Greg’s type and started dating Rocky Neel instead.
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