Vintage

by Olivia Darling

  As the show never failed to mention, the Villa Bacchante was a proper, working vineyard, but Christina no longer had to worry about how she would distribute her wine and persuade people to buy it. In fact, she had the opposite problem. The wholesalers couldn’t get enough of her. It was difficult to meet the demand. It meant that Christina faced an interesting dilemma.

  She had hoped to age her wine in the bottle for at least two years before it was degorged and the fermentation process stopped. But her management team tried to persuade her to bottle far earlier than she wanted to in order to get it into the shops.

  “Strike while the iron is hot,” said Karl, who worked with Marisa on maximizing Christina’s exposure. “In two years’ time, the public will be going crazy over some boyband star’s cider instead. Then you can keep your wine in barrels for ten years. Twenty. You’ll have made your fortune.”

  Christina was almost ready to agree. But Ronald Ginsburg stopped her.

  “There’s no way you’re going to rush out your first vintage,” he said firmly. “I’ve got money riding on you, remember.”

  “That’s not a persuasive argument,” said Christina.

  “OK. Forget me. Forget the money. You have a reputation riding on it. I believe that if we do this right, we can win that wager at the Vinifera awards and the Villa Bacchante will be established as a winery to be reckoned with. A good reputation will long outlast the show.”

  Christina wavered. She had definitely enjoyed the serious attention the villa had been getting in the pages of Vinifera as pundits discussed the progress of her wine in anticipation of Ronald’s silly competition.

  “You want to be taken seriously, I hope,” said Ronald.

  Christina did. “OK,” she said. “We’ll stick to the plan.”

  “Good girl.”

  It wasn’t as though Christina needed the money. Her bank account was looking very healthy indeed. Especially since the launch of the magazine to accompany the show. Within two months of hitting the newsstand, Villa Living was rivaling Oprah’s O. Like Oprah, Christina appeared on every cover of her magazine. She had just shot the Thanksgiving cover, for which she dressed in suitably autumnal shades of orange and brown.

  She was doing far better than she ever imagined possible. Suddenly, the question of what she would do when the modeling came to an end was no longer an issue. She barely had time to breathe. She did however find time for her continuing involvement with ISACL. Following the success of the “I Don’t Buy It” campaign, ISACL had become the Hollywood charity of choice, inundated with requests from all the big agents, keen that their clients should be associated with such a popular cause. Christina went from being a minor player in the charity to being the star around which it revolved. She was fronting the latest campaign, standing right in the middle for the group photograph that would appear in Vanity Fair. Rocky stood to the side of her: Midge Ure to her Bob Geldof. People soon forgot that ISACL was Rocky’s baby.

  Christina was interviewed in the New York Times Sunday magazine.

  “The ‘I Don’t Buy It’ campaign is still an important initiative for ISACL,” she told the interviewer. “Consumer pressure works. Many of the brands we named and shamed in that first infomercial investigated the working practices of their suppliers as a result.” She discussed a high-profile case in which an American designer had moved her production back to the United States after discovering that child labor had been used to produce some of her designs. The designer had raised her prices to cover the increased costs but had found, to everyone’s surprise, that the public were only too happy to pay extra for a clean conscience.

  “Her business is booming,” Christina confirmed. “And as a gesture of gratefulness, I wore one of her dresses to the Vanity Fair Oscars party.”

  The journalist continued, “You famously lost the Maison Randon advertising campaign as a result of your involvement with ISACL and it’s been rumored that was part of the reason for your divorce from Bill Tarrant, who was dropped from the campaign at the same time. Do you ever think that the personal cost of your principles might have been too high?”

  “Not at all,” said Christina in a heartfelt way. “In fact, I can look back on the Maison Randon episode and say that it freed me from a lot of things that were wrong in my life.” She talked about the series of events that had led her to the place in which she found herself now. She brimmed with happiness as she talked about how Greg had come back into her life and the domesticity they now shared between Los Angeles and the Napa Valley.

  “No,” she concluded. “I have no regrets at all. I can’t imagine any sum of money that would be worth more than my spiritual enlightenment, the freedom I gained from it and the way my life has turned out as a result.”

  “Spiritual enlightenment,” Randon spat when he read the piece. That stupid American woman was still spouting her yoga speak. And libel! Following the “I Don’t Buy It” campaign, Christina had entered into an agreement that she would never mention the name of Champagne Randon in an interview ever again. She had just fucked up in a big way. Randon picked up his mobile and flicked through the contacts until he found the number for his lawyer. They had every reason to slap a writ on her that afternoon.

  But then Randon thought better of it.

  He closed his phone. Perhaps the best course of action was to appear to ignore this latest indiscretion. To go after her with writs might have the opposite effect to that which Randon wanted. His beloved brand name had appeared just once in an interview that would be old news by Monday morning. Taking Christina to court would put Maison Randon on the front pages again in a bad way. Who goes to such lengths to protect their innocence unless they’re guilty, was what Randon thought every time he saw that someone had initiated a libel action. And yet, Christina could not be allowed to get away with it. Something had to be done to bring that stupid woman back down to earth. It was time to get creative.

  Randon spent a few moments sitting at his desk, just looking into space as he ran a few pleasant scenarios—pleasant for him, that is—through his head. Then, with his humor partially restored, he picked his phone up again and scrolled through the numbers therein until he found Odile Levert’s.

  PART

  FOUR

  CHAPTER 49

  That year Gerry Paine threw the Vinifera Christmas party at Macéo. It took place two weeks before Christmas. The guest list was comprised of the usual suspects. Hilarian caught the Eurostar over on the morning of the party and met up with Odile and Ronald for a quick sharpener in Willi’s Bar before they put on their best professional faces for the official engagement next door.

  Hilarian noticed at once that Ronald was wearing a new Rolex. Gold. It was impossible not to notice. Ronald was waving his arms around like a Muppet.

  “Don’t let it catch the light like that,” Hilarian told him. “You might blind me.”

  “Nice watch,” said Odile. “If you like that kind of thing.”

  “A little gift to myself. From my television fee.”

  Hilarian shook his head. Bloody Ginsburg. To think he had been so angry when Gerry Paine insisted he champion Christina Morgan and her Villa Bacchante for their wager. The old git had lucked out big-time with his segment on her TV show.

  “They’ve commissioned another season,” said Ronald, as he adjusted the time on his watch by a couple of minutes.

  “Perhaps you might like to share the wealth,” said Hilarian. “Must be exhausting for you week after week. You should take a holiday. I can think of a couple of people who might be suitable stand-ins.”

  “Christina and I have a great rapport,” said Ronald, ignoring Hilarian’s hints. “She’s a true professional. And a fantastic winemaker, to boot.”

  “You still think she’s got a chance against my Arsenault Clos Des Larmes?”

  “Clos Des Larmes?” Hilarian said the name with reverence.

  “First vintage in a decade.”

  “You really think it was such a good year in Ch
ampagne?” said Ronald.

  “I do,” said Odile. “I look forward to taking your money. Trust that I will buy myself an altogether more tasteful souvenir than your piece of bling, dear Ronnie.”

  “You’re forgetting about Froggy Bottom,” said Hilarian.

  “Yes,” said Ronald. “We’re all forgetting about Froggy Bottom.”

  Hilarian took a thoughtful sip of his drink. Ronald wanted to get a rise out of him, he knew, but he wasn’t about to give in to the goading.

  “Look out,” he said instead. “Here comes Gerry.”

  “What are you three doing in here?” Gerry asked. “The party’s started next door.”

  Of course, no wine magazine’s Christmas party could really be expected to be a sober sort of affair. By five o’clock, the guests who had begun the afternoon talking about that year’s en primeur prices were confessing their darkest desires. Ronald Ginsburg in particular took great advantage of Gerry Paine’s hospitality. So it was hardly surprising that the old guy was a little unsteady on his feet as he stepped out of the restaurant onto the icy street. The leather soles of his handmade shoes offered very little grip and he was soon “arse over tit” as Hilarian put it. When Hilarian, Odile and Ronald himself had finished laughing at the sight of Ronald on his bottom in the gutter, they realized that Ronald couldn’t get back up. Hilarian and Odile did their best to help him, tucking their arms beneath his armpits, but the pain was too much.

  An ambulance was called at once. Ronald had broken a hip.

  Hilarian and Odile accompanied Ronald in the ambulance. Ronald had almost begged Odile to come along, fearing that his schoolboy French would not be enough to keep the Parisian doctors from sawing off his leg. All the cockiness he had shown in Willi’s Bar was gone. He looked every one of his seventy years as he lay on the gurney beneath a gray blanket.

  An X-ray revealed that the break was a bad one, which would require a complicated operation and a long period of recuperation afterward. Ronald would not be going home for Christmas. That was for sure.

  He definitely would not be fit to film a segment on Champagne for The Villa’s special New Year’s edition. He’d been planning to drive out to the country from Paris that very evening. The film crew had arrived at Charles De Gaulle from Los Angeles that afternoon and was probably even now settling in at the Château Les Crayères.

  “Well, you’re not going anywhere,” said the surgeon. As it was, because Ronald had been drinking all afternoon—and drinking heavily—the operation he needed would have to be put off until the morning at the very earliest. He was facing a night of agony.

  “This is a disaster,” said Ronald. “Worst of all, I was supposed to be having dinner in Paris with Christina the night after the shoot finished. Just her and me. In her hotel suite so we could taste her wine.”

  “Oh dear,” said Odile. “But probably for the best, Ronald dearest. You know she would have been all over you like a rash.”

  Hilarian sniggered into his handkerchief but managed to disguise it as a sneeze.

  Hilarian had to leave to catch his train back to London. Odile stayed a little longer, translating the forms that Ronald had to fill out before the operation could take place. She stepped outside for a moment to check her messages on her mobile and found one from Randon.

  “I have a small favor to ask of you,” he said.

  She called him back and told him about Ronald’s accident. When Randon replied, “It’s an ill wind,” she knew exactly what he meant.

  At the Château Les Crayères in Reims, The Villa’s traveling production crew was recovering from their long-haul flight to Paris. Rather than eat in the dining room, Christina and Greg had ordered room service. Christina laughed with delight when it arrived. She had stayed in plenty of top hotels but she had never seen a TV dinner presented quite so beautifully. The sommelier even took a moment out from the restaurant to come and pour their wine.

  Christina and Greg were just about to start eating when the telephone rang. Greg took the call. It was Ronald. She could tell by the look on Greg’s face that the news was not good.

  “Shall I have my office arrange for your wife to be flown over?” Greg asked. “No? Well, if you’re sure that a visit from her definitely won’t make you feel better … But of course you mustn’t worry about the Champagne segment. We’ll think of something. Unless you can suggest anyone who might be a good stand-in.”

  Greg wrote the words “Odile Levert” on a notepad.

  CHAPTER 50

  Odile Levert hesitated for just a couple of seconds when Greg Stroud called and asked—nay, practically begged her—to take over from Ronald for The Villa’s special report from France.

  Greg ran through the list of champagne houses that would be taking part in the following day’s shoot. They were all pretty obvious: Bollinger, Moët, Veuve Clicquot.

  “May I make a suggestion of my own?” asked Odile. “Something a little more boutique. Champagne Arsenault?”

  “We’ll check it out. We need you here really early, I’m afraid. Like before breakfast. Can I send a car for you now? I’m sure we can find you a room here at Les Crayères.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Odile. “Just tell me where you’d like me to appear in the morning and I will be there.”

  Odile was actually already on her way to Champagne. She had taken Greg’s call on the platform at the Gare De L’Est, from whence she took a train to Épernay. She was met at the station by Mathieu Randon’s driver, who took her straight to the Maison Randon house, where she would join Randon himself for dinner.

  Randon, alerted to Odile’s arrival by the gatehouse, was already standing on the front step when she arrived. He opened her car door for her. The perfect gentleman as always.

  “I’m very glad you could make it at such short notice,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks. He led Odile into the house, where a uniformed servant was ready with a silver tray and two glasses.

  “Champagne?” Randon suggested.

  “Of course.”

  Odile followed Randon into the dining room.

  “No Axel this evening.”

  Randon was unable to disguise an irritated intake of breath.

  “He’s in Montpellier.”

  “Ah. And how are his efforts to buy that extra land you want coming along?”

  “Taking rather longer than I hoped. I’m not sure he’s got what it takes. Certainly Madeleine Arsenault seems to be immune to his charms.”

  “She has more tenacity than I imagined,” Odile agreed. “I can’t think of anything that will part her from her birthright, save a real calamity.”

  “Calamities can always be arranged,” said Randon. “Tell me more about her father’s gambling debts.”

  “That would be indiscreet.” Odile smiled.

  But then the conversation moved on to the other reason for Odile’s presence in Champagne that night.

  “So, you’re ready for your television appearance?”

  “I have to admit I’m looking forward to it,” said Odile. “I’m especially looking forward to properly meeting Christina Morgan. Poor Ronald is distraught.”

  Randon laughed.

  “But of course you’ve met her many times,” Odile continued.

  “Unfortunately for me,” said Randon.

  Odile snorted. “Then you still haven’t forgiven her for giving you that ticking off about those poor children. I thought you might hold it against me that I agreed to appear on her show.”

  “When it dovetailed so neatly with my desire to have you here in Champagne tonight? Not at all. On the contrary, I would say that your invitation to appear on the show was the perfect win-win situation for me.”

  One of the house staff trotted over to the table with two white plates. In the middle of each plate was a small tower of thinly sliced vegetables, topped off with a little pastry lattice. While the girl, who was on a sabbatical from Domaine Randon in Napa, explained what she was serving in awkward French, Od
ile studied Randon closely. Randon was too busy studying the girl to notice that he himself was being observed. His desires might as well have been printed on his forehead, thought Odile. The girl certainly seemed to notice. She was blushing crimson by the time she had finished describing the dish.

  Randon sent her away with a nod.

  “Bonne dégustation,” he said.

  Odile had often seen that look in Randon’s eyes. The women he turned it on seemed to respond to it. Odile never had. It had never come up. From the moment she met Randon it was as though he knew where Odile Levert’s extra-curricular interests lay. Once that was out of the way, Randon could address her as an equal rather than as a woman—he clearly didn’t think that women were naturally his equals. She wondered whether she would have been allowed so close to him otherwise.

  “Tell me what you’re going to be talking about on this Villa show,” said Randon. “Plugging any particular house?”

  “You know I can’t do that,” said Odile. “I have my reputation for impartiality to think of.”

  “Indeed you have. To your impartiality,” toasted Randon.

  At midnight, Randon decided that it was time to wind the evening down. Odile knew that he would. She wondered if he would be going to bed alone.

  “I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in Champagne, Odile.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m afraid I will have left to go back to Paris before you get up in the morning but I look forward to hearing exactly how you get along. Don’t spare me any details, will you?”