Vintage (6 page)

“What for?” asked Kelly.

“What do you mean, what for? Your father’s died.”

“So? I’m not going to get upset about somebody I never even knew.”

“Get yourself home now or you’ll find your bags on the doorstep when you do, you stupid little cow.”

The reason for that outburst of love from Kelly’s mother was that the Elson family had a visitor. When Kelly finally got home, it was to find a tall, worried-looking man in a suit sitting on the very edge of the sofa, as though he were afraid it might swallow him up if he leaned too far back. Actually, that wasn’t such a ridiculous concern. The sofa was old and had several dodgy patches where the springs had given up. It was the furnishing equivalent of quicksand.

“Kelly, this is Mr. Harper,” said Marina in her “best” voice as she led her daughter into the “lounge.” Marina never did remember that really posh people had “sitting rooms.”

“Hello,” said Kelly, ignoring the man’s outstretched hand.

“Mr. Harper is from the firm of solicitors who look after your father’s estate.”

“Great. Are you going to tell me who my father is, then?” Kelly asked belligerently. She remained standing, arms folded across her chest.

“Of course,” Tim Harper obliged. “Your father was Graeme Dougal Mollison.”

“Dougal what?”

“Graeme Dougal Mollison,” Harper repeated. “Though nobody ever called him Graeme. Went by Dougal to his friends.”

Kelly wrinkled her nose. It meant nothing to her.

“You remember where we lived when you were very little, pet?” Marina elaborated. “Out in Norfolk? In that cottage near the big house with the horses?”

“Where you worked as a housekeeper? Yeah,” said Kelly, “just about.”

“And you remember the man the big house belonged to? Who used to come and visit us sometimes?”

“The one who used to bring me sweets and pinch my cheeks? That old creep?”

“Well … ”

“Oh my God.” The penny dropped. “You’re telling me
that
man was my father?”

Marina nodded. She looked a little ashamed.

“He was about a hundred years old, Mum!”

“Only in his eighties, he would have been then,” Marina corrected her. “And he looked young for his age. He had a young outlook too.”

“Oh God.” Kelly sank down onto a chair. “You had sex with him. An eighty-year-old man! You were only twenty. That’s disgusting.”

“He had a nice personality.”

“Don’t tell me it was love.”

“Kelly … ”

“Well, why do I care?” Kelly shrugged. “Some old bloke is dead. He never cared about me.”

“On the contrary,” Mr. Harper interrupted. “Dougal, your father, was very concerned with your welfare. He sent your mother five hundred pounds a month.”

“What?”

“That’s right. Every month for the first eighteen years of your life.”

“But I never saw any of it!” Kelly protested.

“I spent every penny on you, love,” said Marina. “I promise. Raising a child is so expensive,” she added, addressing the remark to Mr. Harper as though he might sympathize.

“Bollocks. You spent it all on booze and fags!” said Kelly.

“I didn’t,” Marina said to Mr. Harper.

“You let me go to school in secondhand clothes, you bitch. You told me I had to pay rent as soon as I turned sixteen—”

“Kelly!” Marina pleaded. “We can talk about this later.” She reached for her daughter’s hand.

“Don’t touch me,” Kelly hissed. “You’re worse than a prostitute.”

“I can explain,” Marina insisted.

“Don’t bother. I don’t want to know any more,” said Kelly. “I’m going out.”

She turned toward the door.

“Ms. Elson,” said Mr. Harper, standing up. “Don’t go yet.”

“Fuck off.” Kelly raised her hand, palm out in the “talk to the hand” gesture and carried on her way.

Mr. Harper caught her by the arm. “Please wait. There’s something else you need to know.”

“What more can I possibly need to know? My mum’s a slag and my dad was some crummy old pervert.”

“This is important. I’ve traveled all the way up from Sussex to let you know that you’ve inherited Froggy Bottom.”

“What’s that?” Kelly scoffed. “Now you’re going to tell me I’ve got some kind of genetic disorder as well?”

“No, Ms. Elson,” said Mr. Harper patiently. “Froggy Bottom is a
vineyard.
”

I
’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Madeleine Arsenault nodded serenely at the platitudes of her father’s mourners. She’d been surprised
at the number of people who thronged the tiny village church in Le Vezy for Constant Arsenault’s funeral. But of course she quickly realized that it wasn’t love for her father that made the local vignerons dress up and turn out. It was curiosity. And self-interest. When they asked her “How are you coping?” they didn’t mean “How are you coping with the loss of your beloved father?” but “How are you coping with Champagne Arsenault?”

Vultures. The lot of them. It was clear they assumed that now that Constant Arsenault was dead, the maison would be up for grabs. After all, Madeleine was a woman. She had no father, no brother, no husband. She couldn’t cope with running a champagne house alone (they conveniently forgot about Veuve Clicquot and Madame Bollinger). The best thing for her would be to put the whole place up for sale, take the cash and go back to London, where she had spent the last ten years.

Well, they were right about one thing. Financially, it would be better to sell Champagne Arsenault. Madeleine knew that her father hadn’t had the killer instinct of some of the local businessmen, but until recently she’d had no idea just how far into the red the maison had gone. Champagne Arsenault’s debts were enormous. Simply vast. Madeleine was certain that worrying about those debts had been a factor in her father’s demise, but she was perplexed. It was quite something to achieve such huge losses in the champagne business. It would have required an almost suicidal determination.

“My dear child … let me hold you.”

Madeleine extricated herself from the too-close embrace of Monsieur Mulfort and headed for the one friendly face in the room. Axel Delaflote.

Madeleine had known Axel Delaflote since childhood. Axel’s father had worked as a cellar master for Madeleine’s family at Champagne Arsenault. They had grown up
within a couple streets of each other. Now Axel took both Madeleine’s hands in his own and kissed them.

“Ma pauvre chérie,”
he said.

“Look at all these people,” Madeleine whispered. “None of them cared about my father when he was alive. Paying their respects? They’ve got no respect. They’re only interested in getting hold of his land.”

Axel nodded sympathetically.

“I can’t stand it.” Tears lent a glitter to Madeleine’s eyes.

“You know,” said Axel, “you don’t have to put up with this any longer. Why don’t you just go upstairs and take a rest? I’ll get rid of this lot for you.”

“Would you?” asked Madeleine.

Axel fixed her with his soft brown eyes. “Of course.” He ran his hand over her cheek. “You need someone to take care of you for a change.”

Madeleine squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

They hadn’t always been such good friends, Madeleine and Axel. As children, they were perpetually at war. As one of the heirs to Champagne Arsenault, Madeleine must be a snob, assumed Axel, while young Madeleine subscribed to her brother Georges’ view that Axel Delaflote was a pleb (though she had no idea what “pleb” meant). But pleb or not, Axel and Georges were inseparable, so Madeleine and Axel had plenty of opportunities to engage in battle. Axel launched countless water bombs over the walls of the Arsenault Clos at Madeleine. Madeleine and her friends demolished Axel’s den in the woods. One day Axel actually cut off Madeleine’s plaits with a pair of pruning shears. Madeleine retaliated by exploding a stink bomb in his schoolbag. The smell followed him around for months.

Of course, all that changed when Georges had his accident and Madeleine was sent away to school in England. Suddenly, the easy hate-hate relationship of Madeleine and Axel’s childhood was reduced to the odd nod when they passed in the street during the school holidays.

After school, they found themselves on different continents. Madeleine studied English at Oxford. Axel studied viticulture in Montpellier before he flew to the United States and joined the graduate program at the University of California, Davis. Again they saw each other only at holidays. Easter. Christmas Eve, at Midnight Mass. Sometimes in January on patron saint of Champagne, St. Vincent’s Day. And then Madeleine got her job at the bank and for almost ten years they hadn’t seen each other at all.

Lately, Axel had been spending more time in Champagne. After graduating with top honors from UC Davis, Axel had been recruited by a big American wine producer in the Napa Valley. He’d moved from there to Domaine Randon’s Napa operation. Now he had returned to France, with his boss, to work for DR at the jewel in the conglomerate’s crown: Maison Randon Champagne. Madeleine had heard the news from her father during one of the rare phone conversations that didn’t turn into a fight about when Madeleine would also return to her roots, her people,
her
Champagne … 

Madeleine knew her father liked Axel. As far as Madeleine knew, Axel was the only person from the village who had visited her father while he was ill. Not like the vultures he was shooing out of the house right now.

“I’ll come and see you tomorrow, Madeleine,” Monsieur Mulfort called up the stairs. “Make sure you’re doing all right.”

“Thank you,” Madeleine called back down. “Bastard,” she added under her breath.

A knock at the sitting room door.

“Come in.”

It was Axel.

“They’re all gone,” he said. “For now.”

“At last. Thank you so much,” said Madeleine.

“You need to watch out. I think old Monsieur Mulfort is planning to propose marriage. Quickest way to get his hands on your land.”

“Oh God!” said Madeleine. But the idea brought a smile to her face. Jean Mulfort was at least ten years older than her father had been.

“I told him being a newlywed again would kill him,” said Axel. “But that it would probably be a nice way to go.”

“You sod.” Madeleine threw a small cushion at Axel’s head. “Sit down. Drink?”

Axel nodded. “Yes, please.”

“Papa’s marc?” she suggested, holding up a bottle of the deadly local spirit.

Though he tried to prevent it, Axel couldn’t stop a slight grimace from flitting across his face.

“Wise choice,” said Madeleine as she poured them both a glass of brandy instead.

Axel raised a toast. “To your father.”

“And the mess he’s left me with,” said Madeleine.

Axel gave Madeleine’s hand a squeeze. She smiled gratefully. She hadn’t told him quite everything about the state of the maison’s accounts but it must have been obvious that all was not well. Apart from Madeleine and the undertakers, Axel was the only person who had seen the state of the place as it had been when her father breathed his last.

Madeleine hadn’t known what to do when she let herself into the house and found her father stiff and cold in
his bed. She’d run out into the street and narrowly missed meeting her own demise beneath the wheels of Axel’s car. He’d scooped her up from the road, ascertained the reason for her tears and took over from that moment on.

So, Axel had seen the truth behind the grand gates of Champagne Arsenault. The dirt and the disarray. The dishes piled high in the kitchen sink. The rotten food in the fridge. The filthy sheets on the bed. The tattered pajamas that were her father’s shroud. Her father had died in conditions that would have made the average tramp turn up his nose. And Axel had seen it all. Madeleine shuddered at the thought.

As if he sensed that she needed distraction, Axel broke the silence. “We’ll take a proper look at the vines tomorrow,” he said.

Like the house, with its peeling paint, Madeleine suspected that the Arsenault vineyards had suffered badly from some seasons of neglect. There was no doubting that was true of the Clos. Once her father’s pride and joy, the tiny walled vineyard at the back of the house was choked with weeds. Brambles held the rusted gates shut.