Vintage

by Olivia Darling

  Janet was getting ready to close up the shop when Gina arrived.

  “The minute I saw this woman walk in I thought, she’ll have something for our Gina. She was exactly your height. She even looked a bit like you. Nice dark hair. She brought in loads of stuff. Says she’s relocating. Lucky it’s just me in today so none of it has gone out on the floor. I saved it all for you.”

  “Thanks, Janet.” Gina gave the older woman a hug. “You are a star.”

  “I’ll make us a nice cup of tea while you look through it,” said Janet. Then she turned the sign on the shop door to “closed.” Gina took off her denim jacket and opened the first box.

  “Oh my God, Janet!” Gina exclaimed as she picked out a small black bag. “I have to have this. This is real Chanel!”

  CHAPTER 39

  One of the people Christina had been most pleased to see during her first harvest at the Villa Bacchante was her old New York friend Greg Stroud, who was now the head of a lifestyle cable channel headquartered in Los Angeles.

  It was in his capacity as head of the Good Life Channel that Greg found himself in San Francisco one weekend in April. Christina was delighted to get the call asking whether she’d mind if he dropped by her place before heading home to So-Cal.

  Greg drove up to Napa as soon as his last meeting ended. He arrived just in time for the sunset. And a night cap.

  “This place is so great,” Greg said as he shrugged off his jacket and laid it over the back of one of the patio chairs. “I feel like the city is a million miles away.”

  Christina handed him a vodka tonic, mixed how he’d always liked it. She’d been surprised by how much she’d looked forward to seeing him this weekend.

  “I’m really glad to have you here again,” she said. “I hope you’re not expecting to be entertained in too much style, however. Everything’s pretty casual.”

  Casual? Christina laughed at herself. Hardly. She had spent much of the day getting ready for Greg’s visit. She’d asked Ernestina to stay a little later than usual to help put together a deceptively simple-looking meal. Meanwhile, Christina arranged the flowers that the gardener had cut that morning. She was pretty good at arranging flowers. When she thought she might marry the finance guy and thus spend a lot of time entertaining snotty New York socialites she’d actually done a course in “hostess skills.” She also spent a good hour arranging the framed photographs on top of the piano. Would Greg be impressed by a picture of Christina with Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger? she wondered. She couldn’t remember Greg’s politics.

  After the, Christina had to prepare herself. When Greg arrived she was wearing a multi-colored chiffon maxidress by Cavalli, accessorized with a pair of simple flat gold Jimmy Choos. Around her neck she wore a couple of heavy bead necklaces. She looked as though she had just walked in from the beach—Nikki Beach, St. Tropez, that is, rather than the wilder reaches of Malibu. Her ensemble was simple. Casual. Beautiful. Greg had no idea that she had tried on eleven different outfits before settling on this chic “at home” style.

  Greg admired the dress. He admired the flowers. He praised the food. He went into raptures over the wine.

  “Is this really Villa Bacchante’s own?” he asked his hostess.

  “It is.”

  “It’s fantastic. I bet you’re glad you got this place in your divorce settlement.”

  Christina nodded. “I can’t accept any of your praise, though,” she admitted. “This bottle is five years old. Made long before I turned up.”

  “But imagine what your own wine will taste like in five years’ time,” Greg said to her.

  “It better be good.” Christina told Greg about the Vinifera competition. “Ronald Ginsburg was up here earlier this week tasting the still wine we’ve just transferred into the bottle.”

  “Ronald Ginsburg? I’m impressed. I bet half the wine-makers in this valley would kill to have Ginsburg as a mentor.”

  “I think he gets just as much out of it as I do,” said Christina, recalling that whenever Ginsburg went to kiss her good-bye he somehow always managed to miss her cheek and plant a smacker on her mouth.

  Greg and Christina hadn’t spoken to each other since the harvest so there was plenty to catch up about—weddings, divorces, comings and goings, comings-out. Christina’s jaw dropped at the news that a mutual friend was leaving his wife for the pool boy.

  “Isn’t it meant to be the other way around?” she laughed.

  And then they were on to their own news. Greg claimed not to have much, before he revealed that he had been headhunted by a rival cable channel for a vast amount of money, stayed put at the Good Life Channel for even more money and was remodeling his house in Bel Air around the Hockney painting to which he’d treated himself with the resulting golden-handcuff cash.

  “And how about you?” he asked Christina. “How come we don’t see you in LA anymore?”

  “I’ve been taking time out to reflect,” Christina admitted. “Rethinking life. Before I did the ISACL campaign, I felt like my career was on an upswing. And then Bill got caught with that slut in Paris, and you know the rest.”

  “Go on,” said Greg.

  Christina took a sip of wine. She hadn’t really spoken about her disappointment with the way life had gone with anyone but Marisa, but there was something about Greg that made her feel like unburdening herself. They’d shared a lot of secrets when they were younger. “I got dropped by Guilty Secrets for being out of shape.” It was the first time Christina had admitted that. Marisa had persuaded Guilty Secrets to present Christina’s departure as her decision. “After that Marisa assured me that something else would come up but nothing has. My diary is looking somewhat empty these days. I really think that my career as a model is finally over. I’m unemployed and unemployable.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re a winemaker. Maybe you should concentrate on making wine.”

  “You mean making a huge loss? I had no idea how expensive this business is. When I first got here to Napa, someone said to me that the best way to make a small fortune in wine is to start with a big one. They weren’t kidding.”

  “But you make great wine here in Carneros.”

  “So does everybody else. The Villa Bacchante is just another boutique winery in a valley of boutique wineries. Why should anyone choose my wine over Schramsberg or Domaine Randon?”

  “You need to make this place stand out. It’s just a matter of marketing. Capitalize on your celebrity.”

  “Easier said than done. I swear there’s a big reverse snobbery that makes wine buffs automatically dismiss a wine made by anyone faintly famous.”

  Greg shook his head. Christina brought the subject to a close by asking him to help her carry the dishes back into the kitchen. Though it had been a beautiful day, it was starting to get chilly. They finished supper at the kitchen counter.

  But as they drank their coffee, Greg looked pensive. Christina was about to ask him what was on his mind, expecting to hear about some infighting at work or some girl who was tugging on his heartstrings, when Greg said, “The ISACL campaign showed me a side of you I didn’t know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re not just a pretty face. You came over as well as any of those actors and presenters. Have you ever thought about presenting?”

  “What? Some fashion TV show?”

  “No. Something different.”

  “What else would I be qualified to present?”

  “Luckily for you, it’s just come to me. We could make a show. You and me together. Like a cross between a reality show and a food show, based here at the villa. We could film what’s going on in the vineyard at any time of the year then come back into the house for a cooking segment. Right here.”

  “In my kitchen?”

  “Sure. It’s a great kitchen. This Tuscan style. I love it. Everybody loves it.”

  “But I can’t cook,” Christina laughed.

  Greg indicated the remains of the beautifu
l spread on the counter before them.

  “Wish I could take the credit, but it was all Ernestina’s work,” she admitted.

  “Ah well. You don’t have to be able to cook,” said Greg. “It’ll be like a house party. Each week a different chef will come in and cook his speciality. You’ll choose the wine to go with it.”

  “I don’t know enough about wine either!” Christina exclaimed.

  “Do you think any of the guys you see on TV really do? We’ll have someone research that, of course. How about your friend Ronald Ginsburg? Now, that would be a coup. He’s America’s most respected wine critic and you have him wrapped around your little finger.”

  Christina rolled her eyes.

  “I bet he’d come on board. All you’ll have to do is look … lovely… which shouldn’t be hard.”

  For some reason, the way Greg delivered that last line made Christina blush quite deeply. Perhaps it was the way he had looked right into her eyes as he said it. She felt as though a spark had flown straight from his eyes into hers and traveled all the way to her stomach. She was suddenly quite deliciously nervous.

  “Well,” said Christina in an attempt to cover up how flustered he’d made her. “Perhaps you should get your people to talk to my people.”

  Greg grinned. “Get your people to talk to my people” was something they’d said to each other in jest back in New York all those years ago, when they most definitely didn’t have “people” to talk for them.

  “I’m really excited about this,” said Greg.

  “Are you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Most of all because it means I’ll get to spend more time with you.”

  But not that night. Greg had booked himself into a hotel in Yountville and at eleven o’clock he left.

  “I’m bushed,” he said. “You have no idea how exhausting it is pretending you know what you’re talking about for three days straight.”

  “You could come for lunch tomorrow,” Christina suggested, surprising herself with her directness.

  “Wish I could. Got to get back to LA,” he said.

  “I understand.”

  Christina walked Greg to the door. As they said goodbye he wrapped his arms around her tightly.

  “It’s so good to see you,” he said.

  Christina went to kiss him on the cheek, but, like Ginsburg, somehow missed as Greg turned. She didn’t kiss Greg on the mouth; however, she caught him on the side of the neck. Stubbly and delicious. And erotic. Greg loosened his hold and kissed her chastely on the end of the nose in response.

  Alone again in her kitchen, Christina balled a fist against her forehead as she relived the kiss and her subsequent embarrassment. She felt sure she wouldn’t be hearing from him again in a hurry.

  CHAPTER 40

  Since he was the head of the channel, Greg didn’t have to jump through the usual hoops when it came to setting up a new show. He announced his idea at the following Monday’s catch-up meeting and by Friday, Christina and Marisa were in Greg’s office, discussing the terms under which Christina would open her beautiful home for the amusement of the American public and hopefully—eventually—the rest of the world. The idea had definitely grown on Christina during the course of the week. Ronald Ginsburg said he would be delighted to be the show’s wine expert and Greg quickly pulled together a dream list of top chefs he hoped would be willing to participate—it was a veritable galaxy of Michelin stars!

  Just a couple of days later, Greg flew up to Napa to have dinner with Christina and the first chef on his list: Roddy Smith, an Englishman who had left the shadow of Gordon Ramsay to set up a restaurant in Napa Valley that made Thomas Keller’s French Laundry look like KFC. The restaurant was so ridiculously hot it had instituted a rather old-fashioned booking policy. You couldn’t call to book, you had to write. You had to dine when the restaurant had a space for you, not when you wanted to arrive. And everyone who applied for a table was treated the same. It didn’t matter whether you were a supermodel or you worked in a supermarket. There was nothing you could do to get yourself pushed to the top of the waiting list. That didn’t stop people trying, though. Just that week, someone had enclosed ten crisp new hundred-dollar bills with his application.

  But of course, hoping one day for a TV series of his own, Roddy Smith managed to find a little table near the kitchen door for Greg and Christina at very short notice indeed.

  Dinner was wonderful. Though when Christina scanned the menu she wondered whether there really would be anything she could eat. The combinations didn’t sound all that appetizing. Like Heston Blumenthal, Roddy Smith approached cooking like chemistry. His workplace looked more like the laboratory of a mad scientist than a kitchen.

  Still, Christina was surprised to discover that she quite enjoyed frozen mashed potatoes. And arrangements were made for Roddy to visit Christina’s house later in the week to take a look at her own kitchen and decide what equipment he needed in order to bring his unique culinary experience to the masses via her show.

  “This show really is happening, isn’t it?” Christina said to Greg when Roddy disappeared back into the kitchen to attend to a flambé gone wild.

  “It’s really happening,” said Greg.

  He offered Christina his arm as they walked from the restaurant to the valet. She linked her arm through his happily and let it stay there as they waited for the valet to retrieve Greg’s Porsche. It took a little while, as it always did when you had a car like a Porsche 911 GT3, Greg observed. “I think the valets have put more miles on that car than I have.”

  The car arrived. The valet hopped out. Greg crossed to the passenger door to open Christina’s himself before the valet could get there.

  It was a romantic gesture. But Christina told herself it was just that Greg had impeccable manners. Despite the chemistry Christina thought she’d felt last time Greg visited, nothing had happened between them that night. Likewise when she visited the offices of his company in LA—a meeting followed by dinner à deux. Christina decided that she’d misread the signals in Greg’s eyes. She had to conclude that he wasn’t interested in her romantically. He was all business.

  And yet, there was the expression on his face as they waited at a stop sign. He looked across at her and smiled. Warmly, uncertainly, as if searching for her approval.

  When they reached Christina’s driveway, they got out of the car and stood in front of the house. Greg started to bid her good night.

  “Do you have to drive back to San Francisco tonight?” she asked him.

  “I had all my meetings moved from tomorrow morning till the afternoon.”

  Christina felt a small bubble of hope rise in her chest.

  “Where are you staying?” she asked.

  “My assistant booked me a room at the Villagio in Yountville.”

  “You know, you don’t have to stay in a hotel when you come up here. My guest room is always at your disposal,” said Christina.

  “I thought perhaps you’d seen enough of me.”

  “Not quite,” said Christina.

  They both smiled at the delicate double entendre.

  “Well, it’s a pretty long drive from here to Yountville in the dark,” Greg demurred.

  “I’ll show you upstairs,” said Christina.

  Christina led the way. She pushed open the door to the first-floor guest suite. Perhaps subconsciously expecting Greg to stay, she’d had the maid fix the room up just that morning. The linen was always clean of course. A pile of fresh towels was folded on top of the blanket box at the end of the bed. But that morning, Christina also had the maid put a vase of flowers on the lamp table and a bottle of mineral water on the nightstand.

  “I think you’ll find everything you need in here,” she told Greg.

  “Not quite,” he said, echoing her earlier sentiment.

  He took both her hands in his and pulled her against his chest. Christina closed her eyes as Greg’s face drew nearer. Her lips softened and parted beneath his gentle kiss.
>
  Without saying a word, Christina led Greg toward the bed. He lay her down upon it, somehow pushing the fancy pillows out of the way and onto the floor without pausing in his kiss for even a second. Soon they were stripping each other’s clothes off. Christina ran her hands over Greg’s smooth muscled chest, perfected by hours in the gym. He dipped his head and circled each of her roseate nipples with his tongue.

  “You are so perfect,” he said.

  As a model, it was a phrase she was quite used to hearing, but coming from Greg it sounded different, more special than ever before. Christina had the strange sensation that she was actually blossoming beneath Greg’s touch. Each kiss he laid upon her skin made her glow a little brighter, become more beautiful still.

  Naked at last, Christina pressed her body hard against Greg’s. Her hands moved frantically over his body, as though trying to make a sensory map of him. She kissed his face, his neck, his shoulders. She softly bit his earlobe, making him laugh out loud at the unexpected pleasure. She felt his penis grow hard against her. She wrapped her legs around him so that there was nowhere for him to go but inside.

  “Greg!” she called out his name as he made his first thrust into her. He buried his face in her neck as he too relished the moment. Then he lifted himself above her, so that their eyes locked as he moved again and again. The intimacy of their gaze increased the power of the sensation a thousand times.

  The following morning seemed more beautiful than ever at Villa Bacchante. Christina wrapped herself in a fluffy white dressing gown and wandered out onto the terrace with her coffee. The terracotta tiles beneath her feet were already warm. She raised her face to the sun.

  Greg joined her, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. Christina placed a hand in the center of his broad, tan chest and a kiss on his smile.