Vintage (4 page)

T
hat afternoon’s appointment was at a film studio on the outskirts of Paris where they were shooting the new cinema commercial for Maison Randon’s finest grand cru vintage champagne: Éclat.

From the outside, the sound studio looked like a hangar on any industrial lot, but inside, it had been transformed into a slice of another world. Randon was greeted at the door by the advertising agency representative, Solange. She was a pretty girl, he noted. She looked intelligent too.

“Monsieur Randon. You’ve arrived at the perfect time. Everyone is just coming back after their afternoon break,” Solange explained. “Mr. Tarrant and Ms. Morgan are in makeup. They’ll be back on set any moment. Can I get you a coffee?”

Randon shook his head. He had little doubt that the catering on this job would leave everything to be wished for. Instead he accepted a glass of water—Aqua Blue, Domaine Randon’s very own bottled brand “filtered by
the Alps”—and took a seat beside the director’s chair. The director for this little segment was Frank Wylie, a young Angeleno. Following three Oscar nominations for his first movie, Wylie’s stock was on the rise. Even Randon had been impressed by his debut, a surreal extravaganza in the style of Baz Luhrmann’s
Moulin Rouge.
And thus Wylie was the obvious choice to bring an injection of high glamour to Domaine Randon’s Éclat.

“Mr. Wylie has asked not to be disturbed by visitors until the shoot is over,” said Solange.

“Fine,” said Randon. He was gratified to see that Wylie was taking this commission seriously.

The soundstage had been dressed to resemble Parisian rooftops. Randon allowed himself a little smile as the electricians fired up the lights and a glittering Eiffel Tower appeared on the backdrop.

“It looks a bit ropey from here,” said Solange. “But if you’d like to look through the monitor, you’ll get a better sense of how realistic it will look post-production.”

Just then, while Randon watched via the monitor, a vision of a woman stepped out onto one of the make-believe rooftops. Her long blond hair hung straight and shiny almost to her waist. Her perfect apricot-pink skin was positively luminous beneath the studio lights. She moved with the grace of a dancer as she walked to the center of the stage.

Christina Morgan, the supermodel. She needed no introduction.

Solange explained the rest. “Christina is wearing a dress by Estrella … ”

Estrella was the most recent of four new fashion houses to be absorbed into Randon’s empire. Randon recognized the cut straightaway. The bodice fit like a second skin. The skirt was a waterfall of expensive black lace.
Meanwhile, Christina’s earlobes, neck and wrists glittered with half a million Euros’ worth of diamonds.

“And jewelry by Martin et Fils, of course.”

Randon watched closely as the stunt manager unzipped the back of Christina’s dress and checked the harness hidden beneath it. The stunt manager attached a couple of wires to the harness and zipped Christina back up. She turned and thanked him.

On the other side of the stage, while a makeup artist powdered his all-American action-hero jaw, Bill Tarrant was also being fitted up to fly. It was quite a coup having persuaded an actor with Tarrant’s box office clout to appear in a commercial. He was the housewife’s choice, commanding fees per movie that rivaled Cruise’s and Clooney’s.

Tarrant was wearing a suit by Trianon, the men’s outfitter that Randon had shaped into a major contender for Gucci and Armani’s role as the male star’s tailor of choice for those red-carpet moments and
Vanity Fair
covers.

“Who made his shoes?” Randon asked.

“Patrick Cox for Trianon,” Solange confirmed. Randon nodded at her attention to detail.

Fully harnessed, the two main players in Frank Wylie’s scene smiled at each other across the gap between their two fake rooftops. Bill took out his chewing gum and handed it to an overeager production assistant. Then he gave Frank Wylie the thumbs-up. They were ready.

“In the ad itself we’ll look down into the gap between the two houses to see the metaphorical gulf between them,” Solange murmured into Randon’s ear. “The power of computer imagery. We’ve already shot the moment when the bottle is opened. We used a hand model, since Bill still has quite a nasty scar on his right hand.”

Randon had heard about the accident Bill Tarrant suffered on the set of his latest film—a science-fiction epic in
which Bill bravely saved the world from an enormous blancmange (as it said in one of the kinder reviews).

“We’ve also done the pack shot,” Solange continued. “That’s the shot at the very end of the ad. The close-up on the bottle itself.”

“I know what a pack shot is,” said Randon.

“Of course.” Solange was chastised. “I forget—”

“Silence everybody!” called the director’s assistant. “Places.”

The clapper loader dashed out in front of the camera with his clapper board, neatly annotated with the job, director and take number.

“And action!”

The ad’s story was fairly simple. Morgan and Tarrant were guests at two separate New Year’s Eve parties. Footage shot earlier in the day showed them as wallflowers at their respective gatherings, looking bored as hell while the other guests swirled around them, laughing, dancing and generally having a gay old time. Next, the hero and heroine were both seen climbing the stairs to the rooftops. Tarrant’s character actually had to squeeze out through a tiny attic window. Both of them were carrying champagne glasses. Tarrant also had a bottle of Éclat.

Catching sight of each other across the fake divide, which would look like a giddying five-story drop once the CGI department had finished, Morgan and Tarrant raised their glasses to toast each other. And then, by the power of movie magic, the beautiful pair were lifted into the air by the bubbles in their champagne, through a sudden flurry of glittering snowflakes, to meet each other halfway across the rooftops and indulge in a magical mid-air dance to a lesser-known piece by Wagner (Wylie’s choice). It wasn’t exactly cheery music but somehow it worked, adding to the atmosphere of slightly edgy decadence.

On cue, both Tarrant and Morgan floated up into studio sky, looking suitably surprised and delighted by their sudden ability to fly. They met in mid-air, clinking their glasses before falling into a passionate embrace. They whirled around and around until the stunt master got nervous about the harnesses tangling and tapped the director on the arm.

“Cut!” shouted Wylie.

The camera stopped rolling.

Tarrant and Morgan broke apart and dangled in midair like a pair of masterless puppets.

“I think that’s the one,” said Wylie, conferring with his lighting cameraman.

“Great,” shouted Bill. “Now can someone get me down? This freakin’ harness is cutting into my balls.”

Freed from her own uncomfortable harness, Christina Morgan joined her co-star and Mathieu Randon by the monitors.

“Matt Randon!” Bill clapped the Frenchman on the back. “Good to see ya, old man.”

Randon winced.

“Bill, you have no idea of your own strength,” Christina told him, assuming Randon was smarting from the smack. “Monsieur Randon. Hello.” Christina extended her perfectly manicured hand. Randon lifted it to his lips and kissed it.

“So European,” Christina laughed, as she affected a swoon. “Bill, you should try it.”

“In the United States?” said Bill. “Forget it, sweetheart. If I went around kissing hands, I’d get punched. What did you think of the ad, Matt?”

“I liked it very much,” said Randon. “The chemistry between you is very obvious.”

“So it should be,” said Christina. “We’ve only been married eleven months!”

She planted a kiss on her husband’s cheek. She hoped it looked full of affection and warmth.

“It’s like we’re still on honeymoon,” she said. “Isn’t it, darling?”

“Do you know when the ad will begin showing?” asked Bill.

“The ad company rep has assured me that we have slots booked to coincide with the release of your new movie around Thanksgiving.”

Bill nodded.

“That’s good news,” Christina concurred.

“I’m glad you think so. Now we should all go out to dinner and celebrate a very successful shoot,” Randon suggested. “I understand Frank has chosen a restaurant.”

“I’m up for that,” said Bill.

“I’ll join you boys but not for too long,” said Christina. “I’m flying back to Los Angeles first thing. And unfortunately, I really mean first thing.”

“I hope you’re being well compensated for missing a night out in Paris,” said Randon.

“Not this time,” said Christina. “I’m heading back to shoot an infomercial for a non-profit. Battered women.”

“Always doing charity work. She never turns down a request,” her husband added.

“How could I?” Christina exclaimed. “Just a few moments of my time to change so many sorry lives?”

“And of course it keeps her name in the news,” said Bill.

Christina glared at him.

“I’m joking, sweetheart. See what an angel I married?”

“She is definitely a heavenly vision,” said Randon, kissing her hand again.

“Oh, Monsieur Randon,” Christina’s hand fluttered to her heart. “You are such a charmer! Later, boys.”

She left them with a wink and crossed the floor to her dressing room as though she were walking the catwalk. She might as well have been on a catwalk, she thought to herself. She knew everybody would be watching. Well, she’d give them all a show.

“Your tongue is dragging on the floor,” Christina heard Solange tell her young male assistant.

T
hat Thursday morning at the Gloria Hotel was the stuff of every chambermaid’s nightmares. The previous night the hotel restaurant had hosted wine magazine
Vinifera’s
annual awards. The hotel was packed with people who had attended the ceremony (and the grand tasting) and none of them was likely to be checking out before mid-day, which meant that the chambermaids would have just two hours to change three hundred beds before the next lot of guests arrived.

Hilarian Jackson didn’t even wake up until ten to twelve. His right arm felt dead. He panicked. He thought he’d had a stroke. It took a moment to register that it was just that he’d been sleeping so heavily, thanks to the booze, that he’d hardly moved during the night. Relieved to feel the pins and needles that heralded the return of blood to his arm, he rolled over onto his left side and closed his eyes again. And then he remembered.

“Arse,” he said to himself.

He had a lunch date. Ronald Ginsburg and Odile Levert would be waiting for him downstairs in the hotel bar at that very moment.

He could have used another hour in bed. Maybe he should stand them up, he thought. It wasn’t such a big deal, though he knew that to the cognoscenti, it was quite a gathering. Arguably the three most important wine critics in the world at the same table. Breaking bread and disagreeing about the booze. As usual.

Hilarian dragged himself to the bathroom and surveyed the damage from the night before. His memories of the
Vinifera
awards were vague to say the least. His head pounded. A lattice of bright red vessels patterned his ordinarily yellow eyes.

“I’m never drinking again,” said Hilarian, as he always did. “Starting tomorrow.”

When Hilarian finally got to the hotel bar, half an hour late, Odile and Ronald were already at the table. Ronald didn’t look as though he’d slept much. He never did. He was seventy years old. He could have started a luggage concession with the bags under his eyes and there was always a dribble of something expensive on the front of his Brooks Brothers’ shirt. Odile was entirely different. The Parisian was dressed from head to toe in cream. Probably Chanel. Always immaculate. Hilarian reflected that he had never seen her spill so much as a drop of wine in their long acquaintance. He’d never seen her drunk either. Not even slightly tipsy.

“Stallion’s Leap worthy of a gold medal? Ronald, you must have a head cold,” Odile was saying.

“Darling,” Ronald retorted. “Are you absolutely sure it’s not your time of the month? A woman’s cycle affects her judgment of everything.”

Hilarian saw Odile stiffen. He had arrived just in time. There was nothing guaranteed to put Odile Levert in a rage more quickly than Ronald Ginsburg’s theory that women simply were not biologically suited to evaluating wine.

“At last! ‘Ilarian!” “When Odile said his name, Hilarian almost liked it. Odile was colder than a witch’s tit, but her accent was pure aural sex. She kissed him on both cheeks.

Ronald tipped an imaginary hat. “Ah, the Noble Rotter.”

Hilarian rolled his eyes, but in fact he rather liked his nickname, which reflected not only his supposed incorrigibility but also the fact that he was an hon and an expert on botrytis (the real “noble rot” so important to the production of sweet wine). “The Noble Rotter” was the name of his regular column in one of the Sundays.

“And who was the lucky lady last night?” Ronald asked pruriently. “I saw you go upstairs with that girl with the … ” He mimed a pair of substantial breasts. Odile tutted.

“A gentleman never tells,” said Hilarian.