Vintage (21 page)

Ronald was furious. “I’m stuck with the novelty vineyard! A model, for heaven’s sake. She’ll have forgotten about the vineyard and be off adopting African babies before the harvest’s in.”

Hilarian just wondered whether Kelly had anything in her suitcase that didn’t make her look like a stripper.

The girls in charge of PR for the wine festival had lobbied hard for ISACL to be the charity benefiting from the
Vinifera
party on the festival’s last night. It wasn’t so much that they were particularly bothered about the terrible injustices of child labor than that they wanted to meet Rocky Neel, the charity’s founder. Right up until the week before the festival, it looked as though their wish might be granted. Rocky’s assistant said that the big star would not miss the festival for the world.

“For the world, I tell you! He’s just so excited that you wine people are getting behind our cause.”

Two days before the festival began, however, the ISACL PR called to announce that Rocky was undergoing some “personal difficulties” and would not be flying through London en route to the next leg of his world tour after all. The girls prayed for Cold Steel’s drummer, Jimmy “The Thunder” Curtis, as a replacement. When they heard that what they got was Christina Morgan, who was already flying in for the festival as part of her promotional duties for Domaine Randon, a groan went up around the office.

Still, there was no doubt that Christina was giving value for money. She had committed herself to spending an entire day at the fair as well as appearing at the
Vinifera
party. She was giving an interview for the official wine fair podcast when Gerry Paine caught up with her and told her about the bet.

At first she was a little unsure about his proposition.

“You want me to take part in a wager? I don’t know, Gerry. I’m not sure I want to get involved in something like that.”

“But I thought of you right away,” Gerry assured her. “When Odile Levert mentioned that she would be backing Champagne Arsenault, I knew that I would have to help Ronald out by suggesting a vineyard of true caliber.”

“This will be the first year ever that Bill and I have made our own wine,” Christina warned him.

“And I have no doubt that you will do it wonderfully. I was very impressed by the cellar notes you produced for
Vinifera
’s festival issue.”

Gerry had already asked Christina to write a small article about her top five wines of all time in the hope of getting her on the cover that way.

“They confirmed to me that you’re a woman of great taste,” he added.

“Well … ” Christina cast her eyes to the floor as she accepted the compliment. “Woman of great taste” was an epithet she aspired to—though, in truth, Marisa had written the notes for her. Marisa, freed from the constant dietary concerns that plagued her stick-thin clients, was a real foodie and wine fanatic.

Still, Christina was hooked in by the unearned compliment. If she’d had time, she would have written the notes herself. When Mathieu Randon took her and Bill on a guided tour of Maison Randon in Champagne, the wine-maker had declared her tasting notes on his champagne “inspired.” And since Bill had spent so much of their money on that white elephant of a vineyard, Christina had been reading up on viticulture in the Carneros region. How hard could it be?

Persuaded that Gerry genuinely thought the Villa Bacchante would produce great wine under her stewardship, Christina’s only worry then was that Gerry’s wager would clash with her obligations to Domaine Randon and ISACL, but a quick phone call to Marisa assured her that it would not.

“So you’ll have your photograph taken with the other contestants?” Gerry asked her.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Christina. “I have to be kinda careful about my image. I need to meet the other women first.”

“Of course,” said Gerry. “Though I don’t think you need to worry about being outshone.”

Christina laughed as though the thought had
never
crossed her mind.

Madeleine didn’t need any persuading. When Odile told her that Gerry Paine had heard about the wager and insisted on covering it in his magazine, Madeleine was delighted. She was grateful for any kind of publicity. She happily left her stand in the care of her neighbor and followed Odile to the first meeting of the three competitors.

“Hilarian Jackson is championing an English vineyard called Froggy Bottom,” Odile explained. “It belonged to a good friend of his and now he’s a trustee of the place until its teenage chatelaine comes of age. Ronald Ginsburg has picked a supermodel.” Odile rolled her eyes. Madeleine was confused.

“A supermodel’s vineyard. Christina Morgan. Have you heard of her?”

“She’s married to that movie star Bill Tarrant.”

“Well, I certainly haven’t deliberately watched any of his films,” said Odile. “The man is idiotic. I don’t suppose he knows the first thing about wine. They’ll be no competition.”

Madeleine had gone slightly quiet, but she wasn’t thinking about how good a winemaker Bill Tarrant would be. She was thinking about being presented to one of the world’s most beautiful women.

“How do I look?” she asked Odile.

“Stand still,” said Odile. She reached out and smoothed a thumb over one of Madeleine’s eyebrows. “Now you look perfect.”

“Thank you.”

“We’re meeting by the Froggy Bottom stand,” Odile explained. “By all accounts it looks rather homemade and
Gerry thinks that’s the kind of fun image we need to launch the competition. Alas,” Odile sighed, “Gerry Paine is an utter fool.”

At the Froggy Bottom stand, Ronald Ginsburg awaited the arrival of Christina Morgan like a Labrador waiting to be allowed to run amok in a butcher’s shop. It hadn’t taken him long to get over his horror that Gerry had chosen his vineyard for him once Gerry’s assistant had shown Ronald a picture of Christina on her iPhone.

“Christina, this is Ronald.” Gerry introduced them.

“I am honored,” said Ronald, practically genuflecting.

Christina, used to being drooled over, gave him a weak smile.

“I said to Gerry that I would be thrilled to back Villa Bacchante. I’m a big fan of Carneros. I’m sure you’re going to make a fantastic wine.”

“I’m just a beginner,” said Christina.

“That’s where I come in. I’ve been telling Hilarian here that I intend to keep a very close eye on you and your wine.”

“Bill will like that,” said Christina. “Who is that?” she asked Gerry, seeing him wave to Odile Levert.

“Odile Levert, the French critic, and Madeleine Arsenault of the eponymous champagne.”

“She’s one of my competitors?”

“Yes.”

Christina couldn’t disguise the coldness in her appraising look as Madeleine drew close. If Madeleine had never worked as a model then she could have. She was almost as tall as Christina, at least five feet nine. Her shiny dark hair had the kind of bounce to it that hairdressers spent hours trying to re-create in Christina’s poker-straight locks. Her olive skin was clear and smooth. She walked with elegance even though she was wearing flat
shoes. Christina did
not
want to be photographed next to her.

“Gerry,” she said. “I really think I need to talk to Marisa again before your photographer does his thing. Perhaps it would be better if you photographed the other two girls today and I sent in a photo of Bill and me at the vineyard. Wouldn’t that give any piece more variety? More glamour?”

Odile and Madeleine were upon them.

“May I introduce Madeleine Arsenault,” Gerry began.

Christina nodded at Madeleine.

“This is an amazing opportunity,” said Madeleine to the assembled crowd. “Don’t you think so?” she asked Christina. “Though it’s terrifying to think that Odile has so much riding on my champagne.”

Christina just nodded again. She was too busy checking Madeleine for a flaw to engage in conversation.

“How has the weather been in Napa this year?” Madeleine tried.

“I’ve not spent much time there,” said Christina briefly. “I spend most of my time traveling. I have a pretty international career.”

“Of course,” said Madeleine, feeling slightly put down. As she was supposed to.

“I’m Odile Levert.” Odile stepped forward and shook Christina’s hand. “This really is a pleasure.”

Christina gave Odile a lukewarm greeting in return. Odile was older than Christina but she too was surprisingly attractive. Like the French movie stars that Bill was always raving about, Odile had an aura about her. A confidence that shone through the direct way she met Christina’s eyes.

Christina suddenly felt deeply uncomfortable. In her purse, her BlackBerry buzzed. She fished it out and took a look at the display. She didn’t particularly want to talk to
her mother right then but she decided to take the call anyway.

“I have to take this. It’s my agent,” she lied to Gerry. “I’ll ask her to have her assistant send over some jpegs you can use in the magazine.”

“But we might as well take a new picture. All three of you girls are here right now … ”

Kelly Elson had arrived at last.

Kelly thought it would be a good idea for Iain and Ryan to visit the Froggy Bottom stand. It took them quite a while to find it, ricocheting their way down the aisles like three human pinballs, ignoring the disapproving looks of the people they bumped into on the way. When they reached the Froggy Bottom stand, they found it surrounded by a small group of people who were listening earnestly while Hilarian talked about Guy’s revolutionary winemaking methods and his hope for the future of the brand. Kelly had no idea who the other people were. All she knew was they were in her way.

“I need two glasses of my wine for my friends,” she slurred, lurching into the middle of the crowd and leaning on the stand as though it were a bar.

“Kelly,” hissed Guy. “Where have you been?”

“Two glasses,” Kelly repeated. “For my friends.”

Guy didn’t move to serve her. Instead, he tried to draw Hilarian’s attention to the fact that Kelly had turned up.

“For fuck’s sake, Guy. Do as you’re told. This is my bloody vineyard,” Kelly announced, before turning to the crowd, reeling as though she’d just been shot and vomiting absinthe green all over the shoes of Gerry Paine, Ronald Ginsburg and Madeleine Arsenault.

N
ews of Kelly’s spectacular faux pas quickly spread its way around the wine fair, putting a smile even on the lips of Mathieu Randon. Randon had arrived that afternoon on the Eurostar to see how his own people were faring.

The Domaine Randon stand covered a whole block in the “wine village” at ExCeL, promoting as it was not only the house’s champagne but its US sister brand, Randon Prestige, and Randon’s latest wine baby, a New Zealand sauvignon blanc called Randon Symphony.

It was a slick operation. The Randon staff was all uniformed. They had been drilled in their elegant sales patter on a weeklong training course in Paris and warned that drinking on the job would lead to instant dismissal. It was a threat that everyone took seriously. There was no danger that Mathieu Randon would be embarrassed by one of his staff.

Not even Christina Morgan. Randon greeted Christina warmly when they met at the Domaine Randon stand for a quick photo shoot. It was as though the unpleasantness over Fast Life had not happened. In fact, Randon even asked Christina about ISACL’s progress.

“I’ll give you a full update when I’m onstage this evening,” she told him.

Each year the London wine fair culminated in a grand charity event, and the charity that would benefit from the ticket sales that year was ISACL.

“I look forward to hearing your speech,” said Randon. Of course, he had already seen it. Marisa had faxed Christina’s script both to Christina and to the lawyers at Domaine Randon that morning.

Odile Levert had dressed very carefully for the
Vinifera
charity dinner. She was wearing a dress by Azzedine Alaia. Vintage, it might have been called. It was the dress she bought with her first ever paycheck from
Vinifera.
It was a matter of great pride to her that, almost two decades later, she could still fit into the tight black sheath with its little fishtail skirt. It was a matter of enormous pleasure to her that the look pioneered by the eighties’ King of Cling was suddenly very much back in fashion. As she walked across the room, she knew she still turned heads.

Of course, plenty of people were keen to pay their respects to Odile Levert, including Mathieu Randon.

“Odile.” Randon kissed her on both cheeks. “You’re looking wonderful. As always.”

“Thank you,” she said, accepting the compliment as simple fact.

A waiter was circulating with a tray full of sparkling wine. Randon took two glasses and handed one to Odile. They each took a sip of Australian fizz (the wine fair’s exhibitors fought for the opportunity to supply wine for the charity events) and, to the waiter’s perturbation, replaced the glasses forthwith. It was the sixth time that had happened since the waiter first left the drinks station with his tray. The attendees at the
Vinifera
dinner were a difficult bunch to impress.

Instead Randon led Odile across to the Maison Randon table, where one of his employees was uncorking a bottle of Éclat, freshly smuggled into the room in a Domaine Randon cooler.