Vintage

by Olivia Darling

  Marisa had some other good news. Guilty Secrets, the lingerie company, wanted Christina to take part in their annual fashion show. It was a big deal. Guilty Secrets wasn’t La Perla. In fact, their underwear was rather cheap and tacky. But the Guilty Secrets fashion show had taken on a life of its own and become something more than a simple fashion fixture. It was an annual event on a par with the release of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition or the Pirelli Calendar. Being chosen to be in the Guilty Secrets show was an acknowledgment that you had one of the best bodies in the business.

  “I’ll only do it if I get to be the last girl on the catwalk,” said Christina. The last spot was the most important. The final girl got to wear the showstopper outfit—the jewel-encrusted bikini—and make the picture that would appear on the front pages of just about every newspaper in the world.

  “Would I have agreed to anything else for my favorite client?” Marisa asked.

  Christina snapped her phone shut with a smile. Forget Bill and his stupid tantrums. Forget that sleazeball Mathieu Randon. Everything was all right in her world.

  CHAPTER 19

  A couple of days later, Bill Tarrant flew to Paris to promote his latest movie. He was slightly surprised but very gratified when his agent called to say that Mathieu Randon had requested an opportunity to meet. He was absolutely delighted when Randon suggested dinner. That was a good sign, Bill decided. If Randon just wanted to vent, he would have done so in his office over a bottle of mineral water. Dinner proved Bill was not on the shit list.

  Bill met Randon at Eponine—one of the best new restaurants in the sixteenth arrondissement. Bill wasn’t surprised they got a table. The big business guy and the film star. Still, he was excited as he got ready that evening. Though he was at the top of his game as an actor, giving Brad Pitt a run for his money, lately Bill had been craving a different kind of recognition. He was secretly in awe of guys like Randon who juggled millions of dollars on a daily basis. Bill had only played—quite literally—at being powerful in that very tangible way. But he had ambition. He wanted Randon to recognize that he had the potential too.

  Randon was already at the restaurant when Bill arrived. Bill took that as another good sign. Randon wasn’t going to keep Bill waiting. It was a fairly clear indicator of the balance of their relationship.

  “My dear friend,” said Randon. He stood up and greeted Bill with a friendly clap on the back.

  “Matt. I’m glad we got the chance to meet like this,” said Bill. “Good table,” he commented as he sat down. “Perfect view of the room.”

  “And of the lovely young ladies of Paris,” Randon added just as Bill’s attention was drawn to a girl in a very short skirt who was doing her best to climb onto a bar stool without flashing her underwear. She didn’t succeed.

  Bill nodded approvingly. Randon laughed. He seemed to be very relaxed. Bill allowed himself to think that everything was going to be fine.

  But of course, Christina’s faux pas had to be the first topic on the agenda. Bill brought it up as soon as he could. He thought that pre-empting Randon on the subject might help him control the conversation’s outcome.

  “What can I say?” said Bill. “I did my best to convince her that she’s talking rubbish, but she won’t back down. You know what it’s like. The more I argue with her, the more entrenched she gets. She’s a very headstrong woman.”

  “I understand,” said Randon. “The world has changed since men could tell their wives what to do.”

  “Could they ever?” Bill sighed. “I think in the old days, women were just more sensitive about letting us guys believe we were in charge.”

  Randon gave a little snort of amusement. “That’s why I’ve never married. But let’s not allow this little problem to spoil a wonderful evening. I understand that our people have been negotiating a compromise that will suit us all,” Randon said as he summoned the waiter and ordered, of course, a bottle of his own champagne.

  And that was it. Bill was astonished at how quickly the subject of Christina’s boycott seemed to have been forgotten. Dealt with in a couple of minutes. Instead, Randon wanted to talk about Hollywood. About Bill’s movie career.

  “I saw your new movie,” Randon said. “I had your agent send me a DVD.”

  “You did?” said Bill. He was surprised. His agent hadn’t mentioned it.

  “Yes. It was quite a revelation. I enjoyed your performance very much. You have great range.”

  Bill nodded enthusiastically. He did have great range. Not many people acknowledged that. The critics certainly didn’t understand.

  “Very convincing,” Randon continued.

  “Thank you. You know,” said Bill, getting braver, “I think it’s important to diversify. Lately I’ve been thinking I want to have a go at directing.”

  “Really?” asked Randon.

  “It’s the natural step for me to take. When you get to my position as an actor, you’re practically directing yourself anyway. For example, in the movie you just saw—Do or Die Trying—about half of that stuff was scripted but the rest was me ad-libbing. Deciding how the character should be on the fly. You know what I mean?”

  Randon nodded.

  “I helped my co-stars with their character development too. They seemed to appreciate that. And one of my great strengths is that I have a natural eye for the composition of a scene. I’ve always had that eye, but when you’re just starting out as an actor, no one takes any notice if you pipe up and say, ‘Hey guys, don’t you think this scene would look better shot from this angle?’ ”

  “That must be difficult,” said Randon.

  “It sucks,” said Bill, sensing sympathy. “And when you get to our stage in life, Randon, you don’t want some spotty kid straight out of film school telling you what to do. It really gets my goat. I’m a professional. I know film. I am film.”

  Bill emphasized his point by waving a forkful of rare steak in the air.

  “So what exactly do you want to do?” Randon asked.

  “I want to do a western,” Bill announced. “But not like the old-style westerns. This one is going to be real. There’s an appetite out there to know what really happened when the West was won. The historical point of view.”

  “And you’d like to star and direct?”

  “You got it. I’ve been thinking about it for years. I picked up this book a few months ago by this historian out of Princeton. It’s amazing stuff. And so relevant to the way we live today. The parallels between the Wild West and what goes on in the House of Representatives right now … well, it made my hair stand on end. That’s how I know a good idea when I’ve found one. My hair, quite literally, stands on end.”

  “Fascinating. It sounds like a project I could be very interested in.”

  Bill put his fork down and looked at Randon intently. He allowed himself to believe that Randon was serious. Why wouldn’t he be?

  “You could?”

  “Absolutely. Doesn’t everyone want to get into movies at some point?” said Randon.

  “Then come out to the States,” said Bill, leaning back in his chair and throwing his arms out magnanimously. “I’ll fix up some meetings. Matt, let me tell you, I would be more than happy to have a guy like you on board.”

  “Thank you,” said Randon. “I would like that.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “More wine?” Randon topped up Bill’s glass.

  Another bottle later and Bill felt truly relaxed in Randon’s company again. He regaled Randon with tales from his life in the limelight. Discretion flew out of the window. He impressed Randon with a long list of sexual conquests that sounded like a roll call of every Academy Award Best Actress nominee since 1985. Then he moved on to the people he hadn’t slept with, a short list comprised of two actors well known for defending their heterosexuality.

  “That baby? Turkey baster, I’m telling you. He is not interested in girls at all … Unlike my lady wife.”

  Randon leaned forward. “Real
ly?”

  “Oh yeah. Behind the scenes at some of those catwalk shows. The girls are all over one another. Sodom and Gomorrah. You could make a fortune if you released a video.”

  “Quite. That’s very interesting. But it’s getting late, and right now, I’ve got someone I would like you to meet.”

  “Oh yes?” Bill asked.

  “Oh yes. Someone I think you’ll appreciate very much.” Randon flipped open his mobile and sent a text.

  An hour later, in a sumptuous suite at the Hotel Crillon, Randon took the petite dark-eyed girl by her shoulders and led her towards Bill as though he were offering the actor her hand in marriage.

  “I think you’ll find an evening in Amelie’s company quite relaxing,” he said with a smile.

  “Relaxing” wasn’t the word for it.

  Like the little wrap of cocaine Bill found in the top drawer of the bedside cabinet, exactly where Randon had said it would be, Amelie’s attentions were complimentary. And absolutely exhilarating.

  She had naughty brown eyes and a mouth as red and wide as a British postbox. How could Bill resist? Why should he?

  Bill hadn’t had sex in a month. Sometimes it made him want to laugh out loud when he thought of the men who envied his sham of a marriage to Christina Morgan, the supermodel. There were whole websites dedicated to their envy. Some jerk was so worked up about it he even sent Bill death threats. But the truth was, since Bill had put a ring on Christina’s finger just over twelve months earlier, he’d been getting less sex than the average eighth-grade pupil. Not that he even wanted it so much anymore; not with Christina anyway. Who was it that said “Show me a beautiful woman and I’ll show you a man who’s tired of fucking her?” Bill now knew exactly what that guy meant. How quickly he’d become immune to the way Christina looked and started to focus on her uglier aspects.

  And jeez, there were plenty of ugly aspects to that woman. Bill should have handed that stalker guy a list. She was bitchy. She put him down the whole time. She was sanctimonious. She was ignorant. She was stupid. Really, really stupid.

  It was her stupidity that had brought him to this, he told himself as Amelie began to prance around the room, shedding her clothes like a burlesque dancer. If Christina had been a bit more careful what she proselytized about on national television, if she’d just done a little basic research, Bill wouldn’t have had to suck up to Randon. And if he hadn’t sucked up to Randon, then Randon wouldn’t have paid this rather pretty little whore to suck Bill’s dick. Excellent logic. Flawless, Bill would have said, if Amelie’s talents hadn’t already rendered him speechless.

  Bill Tarrant closed his eyes and forgot about everything else.

  The following day, the legal team at Domaine Randon and the lawyers representing Christina Morgan signed an official agreement regarding the ISACL debacle. Randon had asked that Christina remain as the face of Maison Randon provided she refrain from denouncing Fast Life in public. Domaine Randon would, of course, fully investigate the allegations of child labor and put them right.

  “I knew that ad was just too good to waste,” said Marisa. More to the point, it was just too expensive. Frank Wylie’s services had bumped the budget of a single thirty-second commercial up to that of the average TV movie.

  Regardless of the real story behind Domaine Randon’s decision to step down, Christina was satisfied that she had won a moral victory. She agreed to keep her mouth shut.

  Hearing the news in Paris, Bill gave an enormous sigh of relief. Pushing an image of Amelie to the back of his mind, he called Christina and told her that he couldn’t wait to see her. He loved her. Everything would be all right.

  CHAPTER 20

  The business of being a small-scale winemaker doesn’t stop at making the wine. It needs to be sold. Guy had discussed with Hilarian the possibility of Froggy Bottom taking a stand at the London International Wine and Spirits Fair at the ExCeL center that year. The cost of a stand was a big outlay for the vineyard at a time when there wasn’t a great deal of money to spare but Hilarian persuaded his fellow trustees that it would be a good way to introduce Froggy Bottom to lots of potential new customers.

  “And to see if we can change their minds about us,” he said.

  Hilarian was only too aware that like most English wine, Froggy Bottom was seen as something of a novelty by the general public. Not to be taken seriously. But that was before Guy arrived. Two years after it was harvested, Guy’s first vintage for the vineyard was looking—and, more importantly, tasting—very good. It was time to show the rest of the world.

  The day before the fair opened, Hilarian drove down to Sussex to help Guy load up the wine and other promotional materials they would need for the Froggy Bottom stand. He found Guy in a grumpy sort of mood.

  “How are you getting along with Kelly?” he asked, when they paused in stacking boxes for a restorative cup of tea.

  The news wasn’t good.

  “Hardly ever see her. She doesn’t get up before noon. Ever. She’s like a vampire. I’ve never managed to persuade her to come out to the vines. I don’t think she’d know what a grape looks like if she slipped on one and broke her stupid neck.”

  Hilarian shook his head.

  “No need to be so nasty, dear Guy,” he said. “I can’t imagine it’s quite that bad. Perhaps she’s bored. Maybe she needs a trip up to London to cheer her up?” he suggested. “Have you asked her?”

  Guy looked panicked. “I haven’t even mentioned I’m going. Don’t tell me you want me to take her to the wine fair?”

  “Why not? It might spark some enthusiasm in the dear girl. I’ll suggest it.”

  “Please, no,” said Guy. But it was too late. Hilarian had made up his mind.

  Hilarian did his best to humor both Guy and Kelly. Guy was a very hard worker. He had enormous talent as a winemaker—managing to turn the acidic piss that Dougal used to make into something almost drinkable was a feat worthy of Jesus Christ himself. But, unusually for the wine trade, Guy could be a bit stuffy. He took his wine-making very, very seriously. It didn’t take an enormous leap of imagination for Hilarian to imagine how Guy might have wound Kelly up.

  On the other hand…

  The first thing Hilarian spotted as he neared the old farmhouse was the row of empty bottles on the step.

  While he waited for Kelly to open the door, Hilarian couldn’t help but pick a couple of the empties up. He expected to see a few bottles of Jacob’s Creek. Maybe some of Froggy Bottom’s finest. And indeed, there were a couple. But he did not expect to see three bottles that had once contained Petrus.

  “What? For goodness’ sake!” Hilarian goggled at the vintage and made a quick and horrible calculation in his head. At a Michelin-starred restaurant those three bottles alone would have set you back the cost of a small car. Kelly must have got into Dougal’s cellar. Suddenly feeling a little less indulgent and avuncular, Hilarian hammered for attention.

  Kelly eventually opened the door. “Hey, Hilarian.” She looked sleepy. Possibly because she was still wearing her pajamas. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Clearly. I hope you enjoyed this,” he said, brandishing an empty bottle from 1989. “Where did you find it?”

  “Oh, that. There are loads of bottles under the stairs. I think it must have been past its sell-by date. It tasted a bit funny but it was all right when we added some Coke.”

  “Coke? You … ” Hilarian decided to bite his tongue. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you stay out of the cellar from now on. I’ll take those out-of-date bottles off your hands and bring you some Bacardi Breezers instead, how about that?”

  “That’d be great,” said Kelly, quite sincerely.

  “Good,” said Hilarian. “Can I come in?”

  “Did you bring any fags?” she asked.

  Over a cigarette and a cup of tea, Hilarian made his suggestion about the wine festival.

  “Great,” said Kelly, shocking him with her speedy and seemingly enthusiastic respon
se. “Saves me having to get the train into town.”

  “We’re not just going to drop you off in London,” Hilarian warned her. “I’m inviting you to come with us to the festival, not offering you a lift to go shopping or whatever it is you girls do.”

  “Boring,” said Kelly.

  “It won’t be,” Hilarian assured her, “You’re going to help set up the stand. Represent the winery.”

  Kelly groaned.

  “And it will give me an opportunity to introduce you to some different sorts of wine.”

  After that morning’s horrible shock with the Petrus, it was clear that an education was in order, and Hilarian intended to deliver it.

  It was an hour and a half before Kelly emerged from the farmhouse carrying an enormous suitcase.

  “We’re only going for two nights,” said Hilarian.

  “Didn’t know what to wear,” said Kelly.

  That much was clear.

  Guy planned to dress up for the occasion and had packed a suit. He had just one. He’d bought it on sale. It cost a good deal more than he could really afford but he told himself it was important for a man to have at least one proper two-piece. Guy imagined himself walking into Berry Bros. and presenting his wine for their consideration. He was certain that one day soon, his wine itself would open doors all over the world, but until Froggy Bottom’s reputation was established he needed to look the part to wow the old boys in St. James’s.

  Kelly was obviously wearing what she considered to be the best outfit for a day in the capital. Or a day as an extra in a rap video.

  As he took in her short skirt and those stupid little white ankle boots, Guy subconsciously shook his head. He didn’t even know he’d done it until Kelly spat out, “What?” in her usual dulcet tones.

  “We’re supposed to be ambassadors for Froggy Bottom,” said Guy. “There are going to be important people there and you … you look like … ”