“A payout of this size is never straightforward,” he warned her as they stood outside the burned-out house. “There will be investigations. It could be months before you get the money to start rebuilding.”
Odile Levert was equally gloomy about Madeleine’s prospects of quickly getting her hands on any cash. Odile invited Madeleine to join her for Christmas at her Paris apartment.
“Perhaps you should sell to Randon,” she said. “Not everything. Just the vineyards on the hill.”
“He doesn’t want those. He wants the house and the Clos Des Larmes.”
Odile and Madeleine both looked at the bottle on the table between them. Three days after the fire, Odile had visited Champagne Arsenault to lend Madeleine her support. With Odile at her side, Madeleine dared for the first time to inspect the state of the caves. They were untouched. They’d endured thousands of years. Two world wars. Of course they could protect their precious contents from a house fire. Madeleine’s Clos Des Larmes slept on beneath the ground like Snow White in her glass coffin.
“If we win the Vinifera wager,” said Odile, “that will be a start to getting you back on track.”
“Do you think we have a chance?”
Odile opened the bottle. The wisp of vapor that escaped was like a genie that could grant just one wish.
“I think so.”
“I will rebuild Arsenault, Odile. I will.”
Odile nodded. “I know.”
Later, while Madeleine dozed on the sofa, Odile returned Mathieu Randon’s call.
“Season’s greetings,” he said. “I hope you are enjoying your Christmas holidays. How is my little investment?”
CHAPTER 56
Kelly celebrated Christmas at Froggy Bottom with Guy and Hilarian. On Christmas Day, they opened a bottle of Kelly’s first vintage: Froggy Bottom’s Blanc de Noirs, Cuvée Kelly.
“I think you should do this,” said Guy, handing her the bottle.
Kelly removed the cork with a pop.
“At least we know it’s fizzy,” said Hilarian, as he mopped some spray from his tie.
Kelly filled three glasses and sat down. Together with Hilarian and Guy, she took a moment for quiet contemplation of the wine in her glass. It looked perfect. Everything she had hoped for. She watched the tiny bubbles busily rising to the surface in neat regular strings. The color was just as it should be: like glossy wet straw. The faint scent of fresh baked bread drifted to Kelly’s nose. A hint of apple too.
“Merry Christmas,” she chinked her glass against Hilarian’s and took her first mouthful. Guy and Hilarian watched as Kelly closed her eyes and let the flavors explode in her mouth.
“Like apple crumble,” she said. “It’s heaven on earth.”
The men agreed. Guy was giddy with relief as he described the complex flavors that came to him. Hilarian was quietly pleased. He felt like a father witnessing his child’s triumph in a school game.
“What do you think?” Kelly asked him. “Are we going to win your bet?”
“I’d put money on it,” said Hilarian.
But first there was the hurdle of Dougal’s legitimate children and the paternity suit. As soon as he’d told Kelly what was going on, Hilarian had swung into action. He’d called an old family friend who knew the perfect lawyer to fight in Kelly’s corner. Though the lawyer wasn’t able to dismiss the Mollisons’ case for removing Kelly from Froggy Bottom out of hand, he was able to stall for time. He discouraged Kelly from taking a DNA test until the last possible moment, explaining that there may not be a need to take it at all. He demanded all sorts of paperwork, which would take the Mollisons and their lawyers months to assemble, giving them precious time.
As Kelly sipped her very own wine over the Christmas table, Hilarian looked at her fondly. But lately he knew he had been looking at her differently, searching for something in her smile. Over the past four years, he had told Kelly many times that she reminded him of Dougal but now he had to admit that he couldn’t really see it. There were no features in Kelly’s face that were obviously Mollison attributes. Her eyes were hazel where Dougal’s had been blue. Her lips were much more generous. Her nose, thank goodness, was nowhere near as big as those of her supposed half siblings. In objective terms, Kelly was lucky not to have any of the Mollison features, but now Hilarian worried what that might mean.
He was no longer sure that Kelly was his friend’s daughter. That was the bottom line. And that was why it was so important that Kelly got to represent Froggy Bottom at the Vinifera awards before the DNA test took place. Hilarian wanted Kelly to have something that could never be taken away from her. He wanted her to have the sense of achievement that would come from knowing that, whatever happened, she had made an award-winning wine.
“Give me some more of that,” said Hilarian, holding out his glass. “This is world-beating stuff, I tell you.”
In California, Christina and Greg’s Christmas was greatly overshadowed by Bill’s attempt to wring more money out of the divorce. Todd had not managed to persuade Bill’s lawyer that his demands were groundless. Bill’s lawyer had suggested a “compromise” settlement to the tune of several million dollars. Todd had declined to settle on Christina’s behalf, hoping that his continued indignation would eventually encourage Bill’s lawyer to give up. Bill’s lawyer was not giving up. They were going to court. It was a disaster for the television series.
“There’s a possibility that you may have to stop filming on location at the villa until this is sorted out,” Todd explained.
Greg did his best to cheer Christina but it was difficult. The media had picked up on the lawsuit of course and every day The Villa’s press officer turned up with another envelope full of cuttings that Christina didn’t want to see. At first, many of the journalists who wrote about the case claimed to be horrified that Bill could make such ridiculous demands on his ex-wife, but, as usual, it wasn’t long before other pundits stepped out in Bill’s favor. A large part of the general public’s interest in Christina was due to her former marriage to Bill Tarrant. There was no doubt that being married to him had enabled her to move in circles she might not otherwise have had access to. Of course he should be able to benefit from her success.
“I can’t stand it,” said Christina, as she read yet another nasty article written by a bitter ex-husband who’d had to give too much away in his own divorce. “It’s like getting divorced all over again.”
Greg held her close. “But it’s different now. You’re not on your own. Whatever happens,” he said, “I’m by your side. You’ve got us.”
On Christmas Day he pulled out his trump card.
“I know that you’re kind of preoccupied with the lawsuit and all but there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. I had meant to ask you in Paris but I got called to Frankfurt. Damn shame because the terrace of that suite at the Plaza Arc de Triomphe would have been the perfect place.”
“Greg, will you just ask me?”
He got down on one knee and pulled a box out of his jacket pocket.
“Christina, will you marry me?”
She could only say “Yes.”
CHAPTER 57
It was the first day back at work for most people after the Christmas and New Year’s holidays. Sitting in the best hotel room the insurance would fork out for her while her case was still under investigation (which was far from being nice), Madeleine’s hand hovered over the telephone. The clock on the bedside table seemed to be marking the passing minutes even more slowly than usual. At two minutes past eleven she picked up the phone. It would be two minutes past ten in London. Surely he must be in his office by now.
Even as she dialed his number, the screen on her mobile flickered to life. He was calling her.
“I just heard about the fire,” said Piers Mackesy. “Why on earth didn’t you call me?”
“It’s time to sell my father’s collection,” Madeleine told him.
Less than a week later, Mackesy drove over from London to help Mad
eleine inspect her father’s private collection for damage.
Before he took over the running of his father’s wine import company, Mackesy had traveled all over the world advising the fabulously wealthy on what they should have in their collections and how it should be kept. He still advised Ludbrooks, the auction house, on some of the wine they presented at auction. The way a wine had been kept was of great importance when it came to its value at resale.
On his second trip into the Champagne Arsenault crayères, Mackesy was much more subdued than he had been before. Purely professional.
The best of the maison’s wine was kept two levels deep. Like Odile, Mackesy was satisfied that the Clos Des Larmes would have suffered no damage due to the fire. Likewise, Constant Arsenault’s collection.
“This should keep for another ten years,” he said, pulling out a bottle of Petrus.
“I don’t want to keep it,” said Madeleine. “I want to sell it. Now. I’d like you to tell me how much you think Papa’s wine is worth.”
Mackesy exhaled.
He looked up and down the racks, as though counting. “You could get a couple of hundred for one of these, so multiplying by the number here … There’s a good few thousand. But by the time you’ve paid the auction house … and it’s a lot of hassle. Wouldn’t you rather keep it? Drink it yourself?”
“The insurance may not pay out for months. I can’t wait that long. I need all the money I can get. Besides, some of it is worth more than a few hundred a bottle. I want you to look at these again.”
Madeleine crouched down and carefully pulled out one of the bottles of Mouton ‘45. Piers shook his head.
“You said that you were ninety-nine percent certain this is a fake,” said Madeleine. “Which means that there’s still a one percent chance it isn’t. I need a second opinion.”
She handed Mackesy the bottle. He moved so that he was standing directly underneath one of the dim, bare lightbulbs that lit the tunnel. He got out his glasses once more and held the bottle close to his face.
“I’m sorry,” he said, taking his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t vouch for this wine, Madeleine. I can’t authenticate its provenance. Looking at it again right now, I’m afraid I do have to revise my opinion to say that I’m ninety-nine point nine percent certain this bottle is worthless.”
“But … ” Madeleine couldn’t help herself. Her eyes began to glisten.
Mackesy’s mouth twitched. He hated to see a woman cry. Particularly if he was responsible. However obliquely.
“I’m sorry,” said Madeleine, accepting his handkerchief to dab at her eyes. “It’s just that I was rather relying on the money.”
“Well, there’s some other good stuff down there. We should be able to realize about twenty thousand pounds.”
“That won’t even replace the windows,” Madeleine sighed. “Oh God.”
She slumped against the cold chalk wall of the cave. Mackesy had the urge to put his arm around her but resisted. He handed her the bottle instead.
“I’m very sorry,” he said.
“It’s OK,” said Madeleine, wiping her eyes rather more vigorously. “It was a long shot. Thank you for coming over here. Thank you for looking at this.” She put the bottle on the ground, handling it rather less reverently than she had done. Then she leaned over toward Mackesy and kissed him on the cheek. It was the first time she had kissed him since that night in Paris.
Driving his Aston Martin DB4 back to the Eurotunnel later that evening, Piers Mackesy could still feel the touch of Madeleine Arsenault’s lips on his face. The light fresh fragrance of her scent filled his lungs when he took out the handkerchief she had borrowed. Sitting at a set of traffic lights, he drifted off into a reverie about the beautiful Frenchwoman, picturing her wet blue eyes as she took in the bad news about her father’s cellar. It was too sad.
Mackesy pulled his car over into a lay-by and flipped open his Motorola.
Madeleine was sitting in her badly decorated hotel room when she got Piers’s call.
“Had to call you before I go into the tunnel,” he said.
They exchanged pleasantries, though Madeleine didn’t feel much like chatting to anyone. The thought of God knows how much longer in this shitty hotel was not terribly uplifting.
“Madeleine,” he said at last. “I wanted to tell you that I’ve been thinking about those bottles.”
“And … ”
“I think I may have been too hasty in my verdict. Having given it some serious thought, I’m ninety-nine point nine percent certain that the wine you showed me today is a genuine 1945 Mouton.”
Madeleine blinked in surprise.
“Really?”
Piers took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said firmly. “Yes, it is.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“Just a feeling,” he said.
“So you think I can sell it?”
“Yes. And I would be more than willing to put my name to any letter of authenticity you require. I’m sure that Harry Brown will agree with me and be delighted to put your father’s entire collection in his next fine wine auction at Ludbrooks.”
“You’re serious?”
“I’m going to call him the moment I get off the phone to you. I’m sure he’ll bite your hand off for the chance to have it in his catalog. The Chinese and the Russians have been paying crazy prices for Mouton. So, if you’re certain you’re ready to part with a whole case of it, then we’ll get you enough money to rebuild Champagne Arsenault. Are you certain?”
“Am I ever! Thank you, Piers. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you! If you were here with me right now I would smother you in kisses.”
“Can I collect next time I see you?” he asked.
“Piers Mackesy,” Madeleine scolded playfully. “You have no integrity!”
Harry Brown, head of fine wine at Ludbrooks, practically wet himself with glee when he took Mackesy’s call. Brown envisaged an entire auction dedicated to Constant Arsenault’s collection. A glossy catalog with a bottle of Mouton ’45 on the cover. He pictured the boys and girls at Sotheby’s and Bonhams turning green. But Mackesy persuaded him otherwise.
“I don’t think we have time for all that,” he told his former colleague. “Madeleine Arsenault is keen to get her hands on the money ASAP You’ve heard about the fire, of course. She wants to start rebuilding. So she needs the cash. I’m afraid if we wait too long, we’ll lose out to one of the other houses. Possibly even Tajan.”
Mackesy paused significantly. He knew that the mere mention of the French auction house would drive Brown insane.
“My suggestion is that you add this case of Mouton on to the end of your next fine wine sale.”
“But that’s in March. The catalog has already gone out … ”
“Call all your big boys and let them know it’s coming up. Six weeks or so is plenty of time for any serious collector. They’re just waiting for something like this.”
“Mackesy, I don’t think we’ll get the best price if we try to rush it.”
“If you don’t rush it,” Mackesy concluded, “someone else will.”
And so Constant Arsenault’s case of twelve bottles of 1945 Mouton found its way into an appendix to the list of fine wines to be sold at Ludbrooks in March.
The crowd that attended the fine wine auctions at Ludbrooks had changed somewhat over recent years. When he first started out in the wine trade, Piers Mackesy knew most of the old buffers who shuffled into the woodpaneled room for the sales. And, truth be told, most of them were more interested in trying to work out how much their cellars were worth than buying anything new.
But one by one, these contemporaries of Mackesy’s father had passed away (their own collections auctioned in the very room where once they had watched proceedings). Now the auction crowd was altogether different. More cosmopolitan, for a start. To Mackesy’s left an elegant woman talked Russian into her mobile phone. In front of him, two men bantered in Mandarin. T
hey all looked so much slicker than the old crowd. No ruddy-faced bon viveurs. In fact, most of them looked as though they never touched a drop. They were collecting wines like small boys collected football cards. Because it was the thing to do. They didn’t care what was inside the bottle. It made Mackesy feel a little less guilty about what he hoped would come to pass.
Harry Brown strode into the room like a man who thinks he is about to make history.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “It is my pleasure to present to you today some of the finest wine I have ever had the pleasure to auction during my long and illustraious career at Ludbrooks.”
“Get on with it, Harry,” Mackesy muttered under his breath.
An hour later, the hammer fell on Madeleine’s case of Mouton ‘45 at five hundred thousand pounds.
“A new record for that wine,” the Russian woman observed.
“Yes,” said Mackesy. “I believe it is.”
“It went to Mathieu Randon,” the woman continued. “I recognize his man. I only hope it’s the real thing.”
Mackesy suddenly felt very hot.
“Would you excuse me,” he said, slipping out of the row during a lull in proceedings. He called Madeleine from the lobby at once. Having driven the wine over, she was staying at Claridge’s. She couldn’t bear to attend the auction herself. Too nervous, she claimed. When Mackesy told her the figure, she whooped. When he told her who had paid it, Madeleine punched the air.
“Yes! I would just love to see his face when he realizes that he’s just helped me resist his kind offer to take Champagne Arsenault off my hands! Piers, I owe you a drink,” she said.
“A very large one,” said Mackesy.
Madeleine’s heart was full of joy as she prepared to meet Piers Mackesy for dinner that evening. She’d chosen Petrus at the Berkeley Hotel. A suitably extravagant venue to celebrate such a wonderful result. Five hundred thousand pounds was more money than she had dared to dream the Mouton ‘45 would raise. Added to that another fifty thousand pounds or so from the rest of her father’s collection. Madeleine was well on the way to having enough money to start to rebuild the house, no matter what the insurance company concluded.
Vintage Page 35
