“You’ll have to get the vines analysed and certified, Felix.”
My spirits rose slightly. “I’m sure Georgi can provide all the correct paperwork.”
“I’m sure he can, Felix,” said Willoughby, drily. “But you’ll need to get it independently certified. Go and see the Board of Wine and Liquor, they can advise you.”
My spirits fell again. The Board of Wine and Liquor was a sub-department of the Department of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, and a more spiteful self-righteous bunch of pen-pushing jobsworths was impossible to imagine. They would creep around the shelves of the British High Street, looking for the tiniest misspelling or ambiguity on a wine label. And when they spotted one, they pounced. They had the power to demand a retailer remove everything from sale, on pain of fine or imprisonment.
I had already fallen foul of them once, when I had printed a typically lyrical tasting note on the back label of my new Romanian Merlot. ‘Juicy and full bodied,’ it began, ‘full of the joys of a Mediterranean summer…’ But no, that was unacceptable to the good bureaucrats of the Board of Wine and Liquor. Willoughby received a phone call the day after we launched. Romania has no Mediterranean seaboard – its coast is on the Black Sea. So it was inaccurate, not to mention criminally fraudulent, for us to associate it with a Mediterranean summer.
I’d tried to argue that the wine was merely reminiscent of a Mediterranean summer – that it evoked the generic pleasures of a sun-kissed coast, rather than the salty lick of the waters themselves – but to no avail. At substantial cost we had to re-label the entire stock with a new, officially approved tasting note: ‘Juicy and full bodied, evoking the pleasurable emotions that an informed person might associate with the Black Sea and/or the wider Danube Delta region’.
I visited the Board later that week at their Whitehall headquarters, where I sat across the table from Mr Percival Stark, a small, middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a bristling little moustache.
“So, Mr Hart. You wish to sell an uncertified, unverified wine, made from unknown or ill-defined grapes, from an unregistered and quite possibly entirely fictitious vineyard, as Pinot Grigio. Do I have that correct?”
I imagined holding Mr Stark’s head down the Department of Agriculture’s toilet and flushing it repeatedly as I paddled his arse with a copy of Hugh Johnson’s Wine Atlas.
Stark pored over a large map of South Eastern Europe, shaded according to agricultural usage. He compared it to a long table in another book, detailing grape plantings in former Soviet Bloc countries since 1980. He shook his head. “Rulandské Šedé you say? Plenty in the former Czechoslovakia… some in Slovenia… but I can’t see much planted in Bulgaria.”
“But I’ve seen it with my own eyes! I’m sure you’ll find everything is completely transparent, Mr Stark. Our suppliers are utterly trustworthy and they would be delighted to provide you with any documentation you require.”
“I’m sorry Mr Hart, but that’s just not good enough. We don’t simply accept pieces of paper from random Bulgarians, willy nilly. This is the British Board of Wine and Liquor. We have standards, you see.”
“Can I obtain a certificate from a trusted third party laboratory?”
“No, I’m afraid that’s not good enough either. I think, given the size of the shipment, that a member of the Board of Wine and Liquor must visit in person, namely myself.”
Oh shit. I had a feeling things weren’t going my way. And I’d given Georgi the green light to go ahead and bottle the wine – otherwise I’d have lost it to another customer. If it turned out not to be Pinot Grigio, I’d be stuck up the Danube without a paddle. “I’m so pleased, Mr Stark. I’ll call the supplier and make arrangements.”
Georgi wasn’t best pleased to hear our little deal might be in jeopardy. He fumed and raged at the iniquities of bureaucrats. “This is why we shoot communists these days!” Eventually he calmed down a little and said he would work out a plan.
Stark flew to Varna two weeks later to meet Georgi and Viktor. He took cuttings from the vines and samples of the wine itself, then returned to London to have them analysed.
I spent the intervening days in a state of constant tension. I could barely sleep. This was my big gig, my chance to show Clive Willoughby and others that I was worthy of the big league and a shot at being a proper buyer. I imagined being given responsibility for a major area. Spain, perhaps, or California. Yes, California would do very nicely. I could see myself cruising up the coast road to Sonoma in a convertible, surfboard propped on the back seat, stopping to ride a few waves, and catching the eye of a fit young babe as we raced for the same break…
Willoughby popped his head round the door and put his thumb up. “That was the Board of Liquor on the phone. Looks like your Pinot Grigio checked out. Well done, Felix! Better get cracking and ship the stuff, we don’t want to miss Christmas.”
I met Georgi after work at Plovdiv restaurant. I’d phoned him straight away and he roared with delight, insisting that we celebrate.
“I was a little worried for a time there, Georgi. The Board of Wine and Liquor can be real sticklers for this type of thing. How did you win him over?”
“Ah, it was no problem. We had wonderful times with this Mr Stark. He loved the sights and sounds of Varna. We even took holiday snaps!”
Georgi passed me a handful of pictures. There was Percival Stark standing stiffly with Georgi and Viktor in front of the vineyard. There was another of him frowning as he dipped a measuring cylinder into a vat of wine. And there was one of him bending over a bed, wearing a lacy bra and stockings, being spanked by a naked Diana, his little moustache leaping with delight.
My mind wandered back to Diana’s invitation earlier that summer, right outside my bedroom door in the very same Hotel Occident, and I offered the Lord a little prayer of thanks that He had seen fit to bless me with a more strongly magnetised moral compass.
“Mr Stark was not happy that we discover his kinky hobby. Your British Board of Wine, not to mention his wife, would be even less happy, I think. So, we came to an arrangement.” He sighed. “What is this thing with bureaucrats and spanking, eh Felix? It was same in olden days. I think they make other people follow rules because they are so naughty themselves!”
“I had no idea you were a psychologist too, Georgi. You are truly a man of many talents.” I pushed the photographs back towards him.
A vision of California popped into my mind once more. Vineyards full of tall, slim women with Hollywood looks, laughing and waving.
The next vintage was looking very promising indeed.
2.2
Money Talks
Christmas was disappointing for Charlie’s Cellar. I don’t mean for me personally, of course. My Bulgarian Pinot Grigio was the talk of the town – the most successful promotion Charlie’s had ever seen. We’d placed adverts in the national newspapers, built tottering displays in the stores, and people flocked to snap up the finest plonk that money could buy. There was even a small article in the London Wine Trade Review entitled ‘The Wine Buyer Who Came In From The Cold’, describing my Eastern European sourcing prowess in breathless detail.
But our other wines didn’t sell as well as hoped, while beer and spirit sales were a disaster. We were being hollowed out by the competition in the shape of the big supermarket chains. They were cheaper, you could pick up your wine with your weekly groceries, and you didn’t have to wrestle a crack-addled hoodie as you left the store.
And so, in mid-January, as my thoughts turned to skiing holidays and mulled-wine-flavoured cuddles in the corners of Swiss chalets, Clive Willoughby summoned us all to his office. But there was a young man seated in Willoughby’s chair, while the Director of Wine joined us on one of the cheap, moulded plastic seats.
“Thank you everyone for joining us at such short notice,” began Willoughby. But the young man grimaced impatiently and held up a hand, and Clive stopped with a little “Oh!”
The newcomer was a strange-looking fellow,
no more than thirty years old but hairless – as though he had yet to start shaving – with thin, pale eyebrows above sharp eyes. He reminded me of a snake, his head constantly moving, taking everyone in, while the rest of his body remained totally motionless. His delicate hands rested redundantly on the desk, a single gold ring on his pinkie. Looks like a pervert, I thought.
Then he spoke. Quick, precise words, with little context. “You’re all busy people, so I’ll be brief. My name is James Nelson of Canter and Farb Inc. We’re a New York based hedge fund. We completed the acquisition of Charlie’s Cellar and its assets at six thirty yesterday evening. I am now your Managing Director.”
Willoughby stirred again. “I’m afraid they’ve asked me to retire. I’m very sorry to be…”
Snakey pervert held up his pale hand once more. “Not appropriate right now.”
I jumped as Gillian brought her palm down hard on the table, her rings cracking against the wood. Snakey’s head flicked to her and I saw a split-second flash of fear across his face. You pussy, I thought. I bet you got bullied at school, probably by someone like me.
“I’m not going to sit here, putting up with this! How dare you!” I could see tears welling in her eyes. Paul and Henri remained silent, their heads bowed. I wondered if she was going to hit him. I hoped so. “Come on Clive,” she said, rising to her feet.
Willoughby stood, slowly, and she took his hand. They left the room, and Tinto Towers, forever.
His composure regained, Snakey looked at each of us with his little darting head. “Anyone else resigning? It would be efficient to get everything out in one go.”
No one spoke. The head flicked to me. “You did the Bulgarian deal, right?”
I nodded.
“You’re doing her job. Ok?”
I nodded again. There’s a time and a place for principles and martyrdom, but this wasn’t it. Felix Hart, Official Wine Buyer for Italy, Spain and Germany. Worked for me.
No-one said anything for a few seconds.
“Well? Go and do whatever it is you do.”
We left the office and headed to the Royal Oak. We found Clive and Gillian at our usual table, she dabbing at her red eyes with a lace handkerchief. Willoughby was looking calm and perhaps slightly relieved. He was only a couple of years from official retirement anyway and they must have given him a lump of cash to go. Gillian would be all right too, she might not be receiving any severance pay but Henri once told me she was married to a rich stockbroker and lived in one of the largest houses in Muswell Hill.
“Well chaps, the future of Charlie’s Cellar is in your hands. God help us.” Willoughby smiled at us.
“I’m not sure I want to work for that arse ’ole,” commented Henri, uncorking a bottle of Champagne. “Maybe I will go back to France.”
“I can’t believe that horrible little man thinks he can do a better job than you, Clive,” sniffed Gillian.
“That’s very nice of you, Gill. But he has absolutely no interest in wine, of course.”
“So why is he Managing Director of a wine merchant, Clive?” asked Paul, quietly.
“Because Charlie’s Cellar owns three hundred prime commercial properties in London and the Home Counties, not to mention the residential apartments over them. That’s worth more than the next fifty years of our annual profits. If we ever make a profit again, that is.”
There was a period of silence. And there it was, my first lesson in high finance. The simple fact was that I worked for a large real-estate company that happened to have a small wine-selling operation on the side. And if Willoughby was correct, it probably wouldn’t be long before our new owners sold us off, converting our stores into estate agents, nail salons and fried-chicken outlets.
Bugger. Just my luck that no sooner had I landed a real wine-buying job than the company decided to get out of buying wine. There was also the little matter that I was living for free on company property. I couldn’t see that arrangement continuing for long.
“Anyway. Here’s to selling wine and making money the respectable way!” Willoughby raised his glass of Champagne and we clinked glasses. “Keep the old tradition going, won’t you boys? Save a space at the table for us.” Willoughby wiped a tear from his eye.
There was only one thing for it, and I wasn’t going to waste a moment. Until we were closed down and I was bodily ejected from Tinto Towers, I vowed to drink, travel and fornicate my way around as much of Europe as humanly possible.
***
I lodged an official notice with the Land Registry stating that I was a long-term legal occupant of the flat in Little Chalfont. Wodin, who was something of an authority in these matters, said it would give me protection against sudden eviction by my asset-stripping employer. In this way I became both an agent of global capitalism and a radical communist, simultaneously. I’d never been one for politics but, on balance, I felt I’d fused the best of both ideologies.
Our new owners took not the slightest interest in what the wine buying team got up to. There was a sales reporting meeting every Monday chaired by the snake, but so long as the cash flow was tolerable and the profit margins didn’t slip, we could do what we wanted. True, the travel expenses budget was slashed, but in February the entire finance department was told their jobs were due to be outsourced and that they would be made redundant.
Under the circumstances lovely Lucy, Chief Expenditure Clerk, didn’t require much persuasion to transfer a few thousand pounds to my special educational cost centre, where it could sit below the radar and be productively invested in Venetian hotel bills, Barcelona’s finest restaurants, and fact-finding missions up the Mösel with my mouth-watering German wine supplier.
***
I found myself in Naples in September, just as the harvest began. Napoli is a slightly rough old town, and the locals are over-fond of pulling out knives and waving them at anyone who displeases them, but it’s great fun if you know where to look.
I had been travelling for a week with Clara, the export manager for a producer of fine white Greco di Tufo, and she had demanded, in exchange for a good price on her wines, that I give her a proper fettling in every wine district in Campania. I was reflecting on how educational our trip was proving as we killed time in a harbour-side bar, waiting for the ferry to Ischia.
I felt the chunky little Nokia vibrating in my trouser pocket and, lifting Clara’s long bare legs from my lap, I answered it.
“Felix. This is Melissa. You don’t know me but I work for Octane Consulting, a firm of head-hunters. Are you able to talk freely?”
I pushed away the olive that Clara was attempting to insert between my lips. “I am now. Go ahead.”
“My client is a large supermarket chain, based in the centre of London. They are increasing the size of their wine-buying team and your name came up as a person of interest. May I set up an interview for you?”
The big league! This was it! There was only one place the wine business was heading and that was to the supermarkets. They had already throttled Charlie’s Cellar half to death and the high street was littered with the corpses of weaker competitors. They were ruthless, carnivorous and utter bastards.
They also paid well, and I wanted in. “I suppose that might be of interest,” I pondered, trying to sound aloof and hard to get.
“It either is or isn’t. The interview is tomorrow morning at ten thirty at Gatesave Supermarkets’ Head Office. Be there.”
“Ah, but I’m in Naples…”
But she had already hung up. I turned to Clara. “I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut short our study trip.”
She threw an olive at my head and pouted.
“I’ve got a shot at a big job and if I get it, I promise I’ll give you the biggest delivery of your life.”
“That’s-a better,” she winked and smiled wistfully.
Thank God I was in Naples and not in the countryside. I caught a taxi straight to the airport and the evening British Airways flight back to London.
Mr Channing was a huge round man with a vast stomach. Despite this, he was dapperly dressed in a green suit and waistcoat, his tie matching the yellow spotted handkerchief poking from his breast pocket, his hair neatly combed with a side parting. His young assistant had her hair precisely cut in a striking black bob, setting off her pale skin and bright red lipstick.
Channing held an expensive-looking personal organiser, bound in brown fur. He stroked the cover as he spoke, as if it were once a much-loved gerbil, sadly departed but now immortalised, its soft hide enclosing his to-do list. “Good afternoon, Mr Hart,” he purred, in a high, effeminate voice. “We would like to ask you a few questions.”
“The pleasure’s all mine. Shall I run through my career and accomplishments to date?”
Channing’s lips curled upwards. “There’s no need for that. Our agency has already conducted a thorough background check on your employment history. An impressively rapid rise through the ranks of retail and buying it is too, which is why you have come to our attention, of course. Nor is your technical expertise in any doubt, Mr Hart. We have pages of testimonials from your suppliers, from Lisbon to Sofia. They are fulsome in their praise.” Channing held up a wad of papers to illustrate his point.
Good old, Georgi, I thought. If I pull this gig off I’ll be sure to buy ten containers of his innovative Pinot Grigio.
“Rather, we need to form a sense of your personality, your ability to fit in with the Gatesave culture.” Channing stroked his personal organiser slowly. “Tell me, how do you feel about win-win scenarios?”
I had one of those flashes of intuition that told me the classic playbook of management clichés, with its lazy talk of teamwork and mutual respect, was not welcome here. “I’ve never had much time for the concept, Mr Channing. In my experience, whether it’s face-to-face at the negotiation table or on the sports field, when I go head-to-head with an opponent there can only be one winner.”
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