Vintage

by Olivia Darling

  “Bill Tarrant, I hardly know you,” she said, channeling a Southern belle.

  “So you’ll be glad of the opportunity to get to know me better.”

  They quit the party ten minutes later. She followed him in her little silver Mercedes SLK convertible up through the winding roads above Sunset Plaza to his bachelor pad—an enormous Frank Lloyd Wright-style house with glass walls and panoramic views. He made them nightcaps, which they drank by the pool, looking out over the glittering city below. By the time she had finished her drink, Christina knew for sure she would be staying the night. The cognac had put her way over the limit for driving home. Bill had almost certainly planned it that way. But she didn’t mind. She’d already decided she was going to sleep with him. Even if she never saw Bill Tarrant again, she didn’t care. When her ex found out that she had ended her post-break-up run of celibacy by sleeping with a movie star…

  Bill got to his feet and started to take off his clothes.

  “It’s hot out here. I’m going for a swim,” he announced.

  He wore nothing beneath his well-cut black linen pants.

  Christina followed Bill’s lead, discarding her pale blue silk dress on the poolside lounger. She kept her bra and panties on and jumped into the pool. Bill swam across to her as she surfaced and when she opened her mouth for air, he covered it with a kiss. Moments after that, he divested her of her underwear. He plunged his penis into her and the deal was sealed.

  Afterward, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror in Bill’s en-suite bathroom, Christina thought she hadn’t looked that good since the first time she had Botox (it had never worked quite so well again; she’d simply found other ways to frown).

  “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met,” Bill told her as she climbed back into bed. “And I’ve met most of FHM’s top hundred,” he added with a smirk. Christina swatted him with a pillow but for some reason it didn’t bother her. She knew that the first part of his assertion was true. There was something in his eyes as he said it.

  Christina never went home. They had the traditional Hollywood whirlwind romance. The very next morning, Christina was photographed outside Bill’s home in a baseball cap and one of his big blue shirts. A week later, they were pictured looking cozy in front row seats at a Lakers game. They were seen leaving The Ivy on Robertson Boulevard in Bill’s Hummer. Just a month later, they were snapped “window-shopping” at Harry Winston (in fact, they were just strolling past). They ended the leases on his bachelor house in the Hollywood Hills and her pokey place in Santa Monica and bought somewhere together in Beverly Hills. Bill’s big payday for Maverick funded the beach house in Malibu. He already had an apartment in New York.

  Bill wasn’t the kind of man Christina thought she would end up with. Actors were notoriously unfaithful and had the kind of career paths that made professional poker players look like a sensible option. But Bill seemed to be on an unstoppable upward trajectory. He had a lot of big toys. He had been signed for five new movies. Christina started to wonder if she should take him seriously.

  Two months after she met Bill, Christina was on a shoot for Vogue’s fall collections issue when she overheard a stylist gossiping about Victoria Beckham. “She’ll never leave him,” the stylist said. “She knows that a celebrity couple is worth way more than the sum of its parts. How else is a thirty-something from a nineties girl band going to make a living?” Later on the same shoot, far worse, Christina heard the photographer say to his assistant of her, “We need to do something about the lines around her eyes. How old is Christina these days anyway?”

  The following day Bill proposed, as he often did when he was drunk. This time, Christina accepted. She wasn’t sure she’d made the right decision, but then a month after her wedding, Christina bumped into her ex at a cocktail party. She introduced her new husband to him.

  “Bill Tarrant. The movie star.”

  The old boyfriend went green. Christina was thrilled. It took a lot to impress her extraordinarily wealthy ex. She’d obviously made a very good match indeed.

  And yet she found herself alone on their first wedding anniversary.

  Beauty routine finished, Christina peered at her face in the bathroom mirror. Could Bill really not have waited until the morning after their anniversary to fly to New York? How did that look? What would people think if they knew he would rather be on a plane than have dinner with his wife of one year?

  She’d asked him to stay. He’d asked her to fly to New York with him. She’d explained that she had to stay in Los Angeles because she’d been invited to a fund-raiser sponsored by InStyle.

  “It’s going to get four pages in the August issue,” she said.

  “Well, if that’s more important to you … ” Bill concluded.

  It was important, Christina told herself. She needed to be seen at that fund-raiser. Her public profile mattered just as much as Bill’s did. In any case, he was only going to New York for some cheesy award ceremony where he wouldn’t win a thing. It would have been a far better idea for them both to go to the InStyle party. To present a united front. Remind people they were a double act.

  Just as she was about to fall asleep, her mobile started to ring. Christina made a grab for it. Bill’s plane should have landed in New York about fifteen minutes earlier. Perhaps …

  “Happy wedding anniversary, my darling. I hope you’re having a fantastic day,” said her mother.

  Christina assured her parents that life as Mrs. Tarrant was absolutely wonderful, but she couldn’t convince herself. When her mother hung up, Christina lay back on the pillows and nibbled absently at a cuticle as she looked at the framed black-and-white photos on the bedroom wall. She had been photographed by all the greats: Meisel, Bailey, Testino. The Bailey photo was her favorite. She was just twenty-one when he took it. She was running down a beach, her long hair flying out behind her. Physically perfect and full of optimism that shone from her laughing face.

  Christina hadn’t been booked by Bailey in five years. She hadn’t had a cover in almost as long. Turning her face away from the haunting images of her past perfection, she felt a tear spring to her eye.

  CHAPTER 9

  The news that she had inherited a farmhouse and a vineyard in Sussex did a great deal to improve Kelly’s mood on the day she learned of her father’s death. She immediately started fantasizing about the money she would get when she sold the place and the smart London flat she would buy for herself with the proceeds.

  Unfortunately, the fantasy didn’t last long.

  “Oh dear. I’m afraid you can’t actually sell the farmhouse,” said Mr. Harper. “At least, not yet. The conditions of the will are that the house cannot be sold for at least the next five years.”

  “What?” Kelly was furious. “But you said it was my house.”

  “Not quite. It’s in trust,” Mr. Harper repeated.

  Kelly was not glad to hear that. Five years was for-fucking-ever in her world.

  “Your father explains in this letter, which he asked me to give to you. I think the idea is that you should produce a ‘vintage’ of your own before you make a decision whether or not to pass the farm on to someone else.”

  Kelly looked confused.

  “Vintage?” said Mr. Harper. “It’s a wine term. Five years is roughly how long it takes to make a bottle of good sparkling wine, which is what Dougal was producing at Froggy Bottom.”

  Kelly looked at Marina. Marina shrugged in response.

  “So, basically, what you’re saying is I can’t get my hands on any money until I’m twenty-three?”

  “But it’s an exciting opportunity for you to learn about wine … ” Mr. Harper tried.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Kelly. “Forget it. I don’t know fuck about wine and I’m not bloody living on a farm. Just call me when the five years are up.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. The conditions of the will are that you have to get your hands dirty, as it were, to get any money at all.�
�

  “But I don’t know anything about wine! I told you.”

  Mr. Harper explained that Kelly wouldn’t be expected the run the vineyard on her own. There was already a vineyard manager in place at Froggy Bottom and there were three trustees to take care of the financial arrangements: Dougal’s former accountant, Reginald Bryden; his former bank manager, Georgina Nuttall, and Hilarian Jackson, Dougal’s great friend. Overall responsibility would remain with Mr. Jackson until the five years had passed.

  “He’ll steer you right. He’s a noted wine critic,” said Mr. Harper.

  “I’ve never heard of him,” said Kelly.

  Still Mr. Harper persisted. He pulled a map out of his briefcase and showed Kelly exactly where Froggy Bottom lay. It was pretty close to London, he pointed out. Between Brighton and Lewes on the South Downs.

  “Brighton?”

  Kelly perked up a little. She had been to Brighton often as a child, and later she and her friends would sometimes catch a train down there to go clubbing. A big house near Brighton was much more appealing than a vineyard in the middle of nowhere.

  “I suppose I ought to have a look at it,” said Kelly. “It sounds a bit better now.”

  The day came for her to visit Froggy Bottom for the first time.

  Mr. Harper picked her up for the drive down to Sussex.

  “You must be very excited,” he said.

  “Sure,” said Kelly. But she was soon feeling uncomfortable about the whole thing again. This place was nowhere near Brighton. At least not within cabbing distance. As they drove through a couple of tiny villages that didn’t even have their own pubs, Kelly could already feel the boredom that would eat into her bones if she actually had to live there. And then it got worse.

  Mr. Harper asked Kelly to navigate for the last part of the journey.

  “Turn up the farm track,” was the first instruction Kelly read aloud.

  Within three minutes they were out of sight of any human habitation. It was as though they had driven back in time. Kelly felt oddly apprehensive. The downs rolled before them like a quilt freshly shaken out, rain-forest-frog green against the gunmetal gray of a stormy May sky. It had rained solidly for the past fortnight and now it looked as though it was about to start again. Mr. Harper’s brand-new Audi A8 didn’t seem quite such a smart choice of transport anymore. This really was a track, two deep channels worn by years of tractor traffic. As they drove on, Kelly stared out of the car window in horror. If Mr. Harper feared for his Audi, Kelly feared for her boots.

  A large puddle loomed across the track ahead of them. It was as wide as the child’s paddling pool in the park near Kelly’s house and the muddy water made it impossible to tell how deep it was.

  “I guess we’ll just have to chance it,” said Mr. Harper, manfully.

  It was a bad mistake. The Audi got just halfway across the mini-lake before it was stuck. The channels were too deep, impossible to navigate in anything less than a Land Rover. Mr. Harper revved the engine but the car was going nowhere. Not forwards; not backwards. Just nowhere.

  “I’ll have to get out and push,” he said. “You steer.”

  “You are fucking kidding me,” said Kelly.

  “I’ll steer if you push?” Mr. Harper attempted a joke that failed to elicit a smile from either of them.

  “Fuck off.”

  Mr. Harper opened the car door and looked at the puddle that swirled around the car as dark as chocolate milk. Wisely, he took off his shoes and rolled up his trousers before getting out. Kelly moved across into the driver’s seat.

  It was hopeless. After three more minutes of wheel-spinning, Mr. Harper reappeared from behind the car. He was absolutely drenched from the water that the tires had kicked up. He opened the driver’s door and leaned inside.

  “I don’t seem to be making much progress,” he admitted. “Perhaps if we push together?”

  Kelly stared at him in horror. “I’m not getting out of here,” she said. “Send someone to fetch me.”

  Mr. Harper nodded with resignation. He got out his mobile to call the farmhouse. There was no signal.

  “What now?” Kelly asked him, her voice getting shrill with panic.

  “Just stay here,” said Mr. Harper bravely. “I’ll walk down there. It can’t be far.”

  “It better not be. I’m cold and hungry.”

  “And I’m soaking wet,” said Mr. Harper. He waded to the other side of the puddle, put on his shoes and followed the path until he was out of sight.

  “Great.”

  Kelly remained frozen behind the steering wheel, staring in the direction Mr. Harper had disappeared. Forgetting his experience, she pulled her mobile out of her handbag. She could at least call one of her mates and moan until she was out of this hellhole. But her phone could find no signal either.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” she swore at the screen. “For fuck’s sake! I didn’t even want to be here. I just want to go home!”

  Then all was quiet again. Nothing but the sound of the wind rustling through the wheat in the fields on either side. Nothing at all. Until a frog jumped from the puddle through the open driver’s door and straight into her lap.

  It was more than three quarters of an hour before Mr. Harper returned. By that time, Kelly had almost given up hope. As it was, she had completely lost the will to be polite or friendly to her father’s solicitor and the man who made up the rescue party in the Land Rover.

  “Hilarian Jackson,” said the man, extending his hand. Kelly could tell at once that he was posh. He was properly equipped with Wellington boots and had the red face of a bon viveur. “I’m representing the trustees today,” he explained to Kelly. “Piggyback?”

  “Anything. Just get me out of here. A frog left slime on my skirt.”

  Hilarian just laughed. “They don’t call this Froggy Bottom for nothing. Let’s get you in my car.” He hauled her out of there and gave her a fireman’s lift.

  The view from that final bit of road was breathtaking, but Kelly didn’t notice. She was almost crying as the Land Rover crested the last hill that hid the vale of Froggy Bottom. She didn’t see the chalk cliffs stretching into the distance or notice the seabirds wheeling overhead, brilliant bright white flashes of flight against the blackening clouds. She certainly didn’t notice the neatly planted vines, marching up the south-facing slopes like regiments of thin, green soldiers.

  All Kelly could see was the mud that lay between her and the house.

  “I want to go back to London,” she said.

  There was one person at Froggy Bottom who really did hope that Kelly went back to London. Guy Harcourt had been running the vineyard for the past three years. He couldn’t believe the girl’s luck. In Guy’s opinion, she had inherited one of the best vineyards in Europe.

  Guy had come to England from South Africa. He was passionate about grapes. At just twenty-three he had far more knowledge than many men twice his age. It was largely because he was so young that old man Dougal had taken Guy on, thinking he would be able to pay him half the wages of someone more experienced. Guy didn’t mind. It was worth the pay cut to be able to run the vineyard his way, without any interference.

  And so, as far as Guy was concerned, the best-case scenario (after the old man leaving the vineyard to him) was that it should go to someone fairly disinterested, so that he could continue to experiment without having to justify himself.

  He was hugely relieved when he discovered that old Dougal Mollison had not left the vineyard to his legitimate children (they had to make do with the enormous house in Norfolk and the Scottish shooting lodge with its associated fishing rights). But he didn’t expect the illegitimate child to be any more exciting. He certainly didn’t expect her to be beautiful.

  It took a rare vision to notice that Kelly Elson was beautiful behind the cheap makeup and tight ponytail that showed off her thrice-pierced ears to perfection. The ring through her nose distracted from its snub prettiness, and as for her attitude … it was very hard to
notice the elegance of Kelly’s heart-shaped face when she jutted her chin out so belligerently.

  “I’m your new boss,” she said to Guy when Hilarian introduced them. “You better impress me.”

  They were off to a very bad start.

  “There is no way this is going to work,” Kelly said to herself as Hilarian led her into the farmhouse that he referred to as her “new home.” For a start it was far from new.

  “The original building dates from the sixteenth century,” Hilarian explained. “The outhouses were built in the eighteenth. It’s been in your father’s family all that time.”

  The place was disgusting. The ceilings were low. The windows were tiny. It was dark and smelled of mildew. The furniture was ancient too. Kelly saw no point to antiques. The three-piece suite in the sitting room made her mother’s settee look positively smart. Neither did the inglenook fireplace impress her.

  “You mean like you have to light a proper fire if you want to sit in here in the winter?”

  “Yes,” said Hilarian. “Or in the summer. It does get chilly out here. But I think it’s rather romantic.”

  “Filthy,” Kelly said. Not to mention labor intensive. The rest of the tour confirmed her worst fears. There wasn’t a radiator in the place. There was no dishwasher in the kitchen. The washing machine was on its last legs. Hilarian merely laughed when she asked about a tumble dryer. There was no shower in the single bathroom. Kelly turned on a tap full blast and was rewarded with a trickle of cold brown water. How could anyone live like this? Kelly certainly didn’t intend to.

  Guy was in charge of the tour of the winery.

  “Let’s start with the vineyard itself,” he said.

  “You’ve got to be fucking joking,” said Kelly. “In these boots?” She indicated the dagger-sharp heels. “It ain’t happening.”

  “We must have a pair of wellies around here somewhere,” said Hilarian. He went back into the farmhouse and returned with a pair of green Hunters. “Bit big,” he said. “But we’re not going to walk far. These must have been your father’s,” he added.