“I think she looks rather lovely,” said Hilarian, anxious to avert a disaster and hopeful that there was something better in her case. “Shall we get a move on?”
Guy climbed into the driver’s seat, clenching his jaw with irritation. Hilarian offered Kelly the front seat next to him, but she declined, preferring instead to loll right across the backseat with the earphones to her iPod clamped firmly to her head. She glared out of the window like a teenager being driven to visit her grandmother.
Meanwhile, in Calais, Madeleine Arsenault made a last call to Henri Mason back in Le Vezy before she drove her car onto the train for the Eurotunnel trip to England and the onward journey to the London International Wine Fair.
“Don’t worry about the vineyards,” said Henri. “They’re doing fine. You just get out there and sell your father’s last vintage.”
Madeleine assured Henri that she would do her best.
Having at last made some sense of the piles of receipts and bills her father had left behind and knowing that the vineyards were well cared for under Henri’s watchful eye, Madeleine knew it was time to turn her own attention to promotion. The London wine fair seemed like a good place to start. Madeleine had missed the deadline for securing a stand at that year’s Vinexpo in Bordeaux but London was a big market too. After all, the British were, after the French, the world’s biggest consumers of champagne.
That said, Champagne Arsenault would not have its own stand that year. Madeleine had joined together with a couple of other negociants from Le Vezy. People she liked and trusted to promote her champagne as avidly as they promoted their own if she had to step away from the stand. And so Madeleine was quite excited as she boarded the train, not least because the trip would give her the excuse to catch up with a few of her old friends. Lizzy for sure. Perhaps even Geoff.
After a few wrong turns on her way into London from Dover, Madeleine arrived at her Docklands hotel just before midnight. She ate a disappointing room service sandwich and answered a couple of e-mails before settling down to sleep. One of the e-mails was from Odile Levert, the wine critic.
Madeleine had recently sent a couple of bottles of Champagne Arsenault’s last release to Odile’s office. The moment the bottles had left her hands, Madeleine regretted the move, fully expecting that Odile would at best ignore the offerings and at worst savage them in her column. And so Madeleine was surprised to read Odile’s e-mail, which said, “I was quietly impressed by your father’s last vintage but I would be even more interested to hear your plans for Champagne Arsenault. I notice your name in the program for the wine fair. I’d like to meet with you while you are in London.”
Madeleine had long admired Odile Levert. Not just as a wine critic but as the kind of impeccably elegant woman that all young French girls aspired to be. Madeleine’s father, who had little time for any wine critics, had had a surprisingly large amount of respect for Odile.
“For a woman, she has a remarkable nose,” he said. It was high praise indeed from the old vigneron. Constant would have been pleased to know that Odile liked his last vintage.
Madeleine sent back her acceptance of the invitation at once.
CHAPTER 21
The London International Wine and Spirits Fair was one of Hilarian’s favorite engagements. It was a wonderful social occasion for him. A chance to catch up with old friends and gossip. And, of course, being one of the most recognizable, and affable, wine critics in town, he was treated like a VIP. Hilarian’s column was written with such skill and genuine enthusiasm that even those winemakers he had savaged somehow took his criticism in their stride and continued to send him their bottles. Within five minutes of walking into the ExCeL center, Hilarian had four invitations to lunch.
But before the partying could begin, the Froggy Bottom stand had to be set up. They’d paid for the smallest booth available. They didn’t have the money, or the time, to get proper posters produced, so Guy had painted the Froggy Bottom logo onto a piece of driftwood. He was worried that it wouldn’t look professional, but in the end, Hilarian assured him, it worked very well. There was something artisanal and original about it.
The exhibition organizers were providing glasses to each of the stands. When Froggy Bottom’s box of ISO-standard tasting glasses was delivered, Guy immediately took them out and examined each one as though he were the sommelier in a top-class establishment. Hardly any of them met with his approval.
“These look like they haven’t been cleaned since last year. We’ve got to wash them,” he said.
“But nobody’s drunk anything out of them yet,” said Kelly.
“See?” Guy held a glass in front of her nose. “It’s smeary.”
Kelly shrugged. “Looks all right to me.”
“Not to me. I want to make a good impression.”
“You’re doing a very good impression of a complete weirdo,” Kelly said.
“Help him dry up the glasses, Kelly,” said Hilarian. “There’s a good girl.”
“All right,” said Kelly. “If it’ll stop him freaking out.”
They were still polishing glasses when the wine fair officially opened. The immediate and sudden rush of visitors into the hall surprised Guy. At nine in the morning, it seemed a little early to start drinking—even if you were going to be spitting most of it out.
Madeleine didn’t have time to polish glasses before the fair opened. Odile Levert had responded to her e-mail of the night before immediately and suggested that they meet for breakfast. Odile chose the restaurant at her hotel as the venue. She welcomed Madeleine at eight o’clock precisely.
Madeleine was glad in some ways that she didn’t have much time to prepare for her meeting with Odile. More time to prepare would have given her more time to be nervous. As it was, she was shaking ever so slightly when Odile extended her hand in greeting. Madeleine was used to holding her own in rooms full of powerful men but there was something about Odile that really unnerved her.
As she read the menu, she could tell that Odile’s eyes were on her, cool and appraising. She was glad she’d worn her favorite suit, a neat little number in black by Paule Ka. She ordered as carefully as a girl on a date, working out what she could eat without getting in too much of a mess. She settled on toast. Odile just had coffee.
They talked about that year’s crop in Champagne. They discussed some political wrangling within the CIVC. Odile said once more that she was very impressed by the champagne Madeleine had sent her, but Madeleine still wasn’t sure why she merited this face-to-face meeting with a woman who was doubtless courted by the big names: Bollinger, Taittinger, Veuve Clicquot, Domaine Randon.
“I need to find a small vineyard to champion for the purposes of a bet,” Odile said at last. “And I think that you’re the one.”
Madeleine was surprised and thrilled all at once. Was this an official endorsement?
“You think I could win the bet for you?” she asked.
“Don’t get too excited,” said Odile. “There’s a lot of work to be done. And if you embarrass me, I’ll ruin you.”
Just before mid-day, Ronald Ginsburg stopped by the Froggy Bottom stand. Recognizing him at once, Guy bravely offered him a glass, which Ronald merely sniffed before he turned to Hilarian, who had hurried back from talking to a friend to lend Guy his support. He knew exactly what Ronald was about.
“Is this the wine you think will be a world-beater within five years?” Ginsburg raised a sceptical eyebrow.
“We’re looking forward to seeing the Vinifera Wine Challenge results,” said Guy.
“You mean you actually entered this?” Ronald feigned surprise.
“I think Froggy Bottom has a good chance of a respectable rating,” said Hilarian, wishing he could punch Ronald square on his big red nose.
“I’ll see you at the Vinifera luncheon, Hilarian,” said Ronald, pouring his tasting measure of Froggy Bottom straight into the spittoon.
“Who was that old git?” Kelly asked.
“Alas,” s
aid Hilarian, “that old git is probably the most influential wine critic in the world.”
“He’ll be dead soon,” said Guy.
“Hopefully,” Hilarian concurred.
“This is boring,” said Kelly.
Kelly had helped to set up the stand with relatively good grace but Hilarian’s concession to Guy had been to agree that Kelly would not try to talk about Froggy Bottom to anyone, lest she deliver an erroneous or just plain unflattering message about the brand. And so Kelly was relegated to washing the used tasting glasses. And that didn’t suit her at all.
“I’m going for a walk,” she said.
Guy started to protest but Hilarian cut him short with a look. Kelly had been on washing-up duty for four solid hours. “Good idea,” he said. “You could do with a lunch break. Why don’t you go and get yourself a sandwich? Perhaps even taste some wine on your way back to us.” He picked up a copy of the festival’s brochure and underlined a couple of stands. “This is good. And this is very good. I think you’ll like this.”
“Sure. Thanks.” She shuffled off.
Kelly didn’t bother with a sandwich. And she didn’t much feel like tasting wine. The stands Hilarian had chosen were manned and surrounded by besuited old duffers, who either looked at Kelly as though they wanted to lick her or closed ranks as she drew near like she was one of those Romanian women with a tightly swaddled baby you see rattling empty coffee cups on the Tube.
Kelly caught snippets of their conversation as she passed. “Great length. Medium body. Hint of asparagus.” She knew what they meant but she was sure that if she said the same sort of thing, it would only make those wine snobs laugh. Wine was for snobs, she concluded. Someone from her background would never fit in.
Fortunately, wine was not the only thing available to the keen punters. Kelly discarded Hilarian’s brochure with its careful underlining and made straight for the spirits section. It wasn’t long before she found something that took her fancy. There were no Bacardi Breezers to be had but there were several similar beverages. And there was plenty of neat vodka.
Kelly could do neat vodka if she did it quickly enough. Which she did, downing three shots in five minutes. By a Finnish vodka stand, Kelly even made herself a couple of friends. Iain and Ryan from Johannesburg were saving up to travel around Europe by working at a Majestic Wine Warehouse in South London. Entrance to the strictly trade-only wine fair was the best perk of their job so far, they told Kelly.
“Man, this is crazy,” said Ryan. “Can you believe all this alcohol is free?”
Ian and Ryan accomapnied Kelly on a tour of the best of the spirits section, quickly enlivening the experience further with their rugby players’ drinking games.
“No one can drink more than a South African,” Iain roared as he slammed an empty shot glass on a counter.
“Watch me,” said Kelly, downing another shot of vodka and lining up her own glass for more. “London girls are invincible.”
Iain and Ryan watched in awe as Kelly matched them drink for drink.
An hour later, the trio found themselves in front of a stand promoting absinthe: la fée verte. A green fairy fashioned in thin neon tubing buzzed and crackled on the canopy. By this stage, all three of the new friends were swaying. Several stand owners had pointedly ignored them when they tried to get served, but the guys in the absinthe stand were from South Africa too. They weren’t about to curtail their fellow countrymen’s fun and games.
“What is this shit made of?” asked Kelly, recoiling from her first sniff of the viscous green liquid.
She didn’t bother to listen to the sales pitch; indeed, the guy in the stall didn’t bother to give it. Instead, she followed lain, pinched her nose and tried to tip the shot down her throat without letting it touch her tongue. She shuddered as it burned its way toward her stomach.
“That was disgusting,” she said. “Who the hell drinks this stuff?”
“Like another?” asked the guy in the stand, melting a spoonful of sugar and letting the syrup drip into the glass.
“Yes, please.”
Big mistake.
CHAPTER 22
While Kelly was drinking for England, Hilarian was also representing his country, at the Vinifera luncheon. It was quite an exclusive affair. Hilarian was there in his capacity as a sometime columnist for the magazine, as were Ronald and Odile. But they were all three expected to sing for their rather tasteless chicken. Each of the critics found themselves matched with a couple of Vinifera’s biggest advertisers. Hilarian made small talk with a chump from Galaxy, the world’s biggest wine and spirit company, who admitted that he had come from a job selling white goods and preferred beer to chardonnay any day of the week.
The lunch was mercifully short. After an hour or so, Gerry Paine, Vinifera’s editor, announced that coffee would be served in an anteroom. Freed from their obligations, the three critics soon found themselves together in a corner.
“Ah, the unholy trinity!” Gerry Paine infiltrated their cozy huddle. “What do you three talk about when you’re off in a corner like this? Not comparing fees, I hope?”
The three critics laughed politely. That was exactly what they had been talking about. Still, it wasn’t worth complaining about that to Gerry Paine. Paine wasn’t just the editor of Vinifera, he was the owner of the magazine and a good few others besides. He didn’t need to turn up at the office every day to pay the mortgage. He did it because he liked to keep his hand in. Gerry was a true wine enthusiast and he’d bought Vinifera to give him exclusive access to the world he loved and the people who knew about it, like Hilarian, Ronald and Odile. Naturally, they all three despised him.
There was a moment of awkward silence. Odile jumped in to keep the conversation going.
“We were just talking about our little wager,” she lied.
“A wager?” Gerry cocked his head to one side. “I’m interested,” he said. “What’s the bet?”
“Oh, just a small blind tasting we’re planning for five years’ time. You see, Hilarian here thinks that English wine is catching up with the rest of the world. Thanks to global warming. Ronald stupidly thinks that American sparkling wine has earned the right to be called champagne. And I, well I’m a traditionalist. I will always favor la belle France. So we’re all going to pick a vineyard from our own country to champion and see which performs best with this year’s vintage.”
“Sparkling wine?” Gerry clarified.
“Yes.”
“And have you chosen your vineyards?”
“Hilarian has rather romantically bet his shirt on his old friend’s place, Froggy Bottom.”
“Where you’re trustee? To that girl?”
Hilarian nodded.
“I’m backing Champagne Arsenault,” said Odile. “I met Madeleine Arsenault for breakfast this morning.”
“Another girl,” said Gerry. “How about you, Ronald?”
Ronald shrugged.
“We have to decide today,” Odile reminded him.
“I can’t make my mind up,” said Ronald. “The United States is full of fantastic contenders.”
“For sure,” said Odile.
“I’ve got the perfect idea,” interrupted Gerry. “If you’ll allow me to interfere. A bet like this would be a great story for Vinifera. It could be the new Judgment of Paris.”
The three critics shared a look. But it was best to let Gerry think he was coming up with something original.
“What would be even better is if all three of the vineyards you chose were run by women. We could have them on the cover of the mag dressed as goddesses.”
“I wasn’t necessarily going to choose a vineyard with a woman at the helm,” said Ronald.
“You are now,” Gerry told him. “Ginsburg, I’m putting you in touch with someone very special. I’ve got the perfect Californian vineyard for you.”
Ronald looked to the other two in exasperation. Odile smiled slyly into her coffee cup. Hilarian too stifled a chuckle. They had no doubt
that Gerry would choose a stinker of a vineyard.
“The supermodel”—beginning a sentence about a vineyard with the words “the supermodel” was warning enough—“Christina Morgan, has a vineyard. In Carneros. She makes sparkling wine.”
“Perfect,” said Odile before Ronald could protest.
“I am loving this,” said Gerry. “Just the thought of Christina Morgan on the cover. A real coup for Vinifera. But I know I’m probably taking the fun out of your little bet, so I’ll throw in an incentive. A hundred thousand pounds for the vineyard that takes the top prize. And fifty thousand for the critic who champions it.”
Odile raised an eyebrow. Ronald coughed. Hilarian exclaimed, “Crikey, Gerry. Are you sure?”
“It’s worth it,” said Gerry. “I’d probably have to pay half that again to get Christina Morgan on the cover. The advertising revenue will double. And maybe we’ll do it every year. Like the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated… perhaps the girls should wear swimsuits.”
“I hardly think that’s fitting—” Odile began.
“Great idea, Gerry,” Hilarian spoke over her.
“Brilliant. Glad you all agree. Let’s get the three girls together for a little photo shoot right now, shall we? Your girl at Froggy Bottom is still a teenager, isn’t she, Hilarian? Jane,” Gerry called his assistant over. “Would you go down to Champagne Arsenault and invite Madeleine Arsenault to join us by the Froggy Bottom stand in half an hour. I’ll deal with Christina myself,” he concluded. “She’s here today too. Excuse me.”
He went in search of his supermodel.
“Now things get interesting,” said Odile. “I must tell my little protégée.”
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.
Vintage Page 14
