Blaze (30 page)

‘Alzheimer's?'

‘No, just mad as a meat-axe. Inbreeding, I suppose.'

Miche followed a silent but courteous maid to her room. It was huge with large floor-to-ceiling windows. Enormous swags of brocade drapes were swept to each side revealing a clipped green maze below. The bed was old-fashioned ornate iron with hand-painted cameos and massive pillows and bolsters. A small desk and chair with Château Soleil stationery was in one corner, a chaise longue on an antique Chinese carpet in the other. The wardrobe was old, ornate and smelled of lavender and camphor. There was a sink in a dresser holding a bowl, mirror and towels. Miche glanced at the collection of paintings and old photographs. Although it was warm outside, the room felt draughty and cool and she noted the rolled eiderdown and antiquated steam heater.

The bathroom was down a hall lined with family portraits and busts on marble pedestals. The ancient faces seemed to watch her as she walked softly along the antique Persian carpets. But her slight sense of unease disappeared in a burst of laughter as she entered the giant bathroom. A huge claw-footed enamel tub stood, throne-like, in the centre of the black and white floor tiles. A small stool that served as a step into the bath was beside a wooden bath mat, and around the walls raced paintings of thoroughbred horses. A large basin, heated brass rails that held towels embroidered with the family crest, and a chest of drawers and a shelf with basic essentials barely filled the mausoleum of a room. A tall window overlooked the stables and cobbled courtyard.

They met for pre-dinner drinks in the sitting room where a very old, very large television set mumbled in a corner. Bookcases lined one wall, a collection of impressionist paintings covered another. The heavy, faded swathes of brocade buried tall windows. Wood panelling and the sense of being behind thick walls gave the cocoon of the crowded room a feeling of invincibility. The ambience was that of being underwater; the pale light from weak bulbs in shrouded lamps, fat cushions, faded thick pile carpet and solid furniture absorbed sound. Crystal decanters were dust-coated dull. Miche sensed generations of lives spent in this room, imagining the ghosts of the past standing to one side, watching. She shivered as she sank into a deep chintz sofa.

Sally sat on the arm of a lounge chair. ‘Isn't this amazing? Wow. My bedroom is bigger than half my house at home. This is unreal.'

‘A bit spooky. What's your home like, Sally?' asked Miche.

‘Gosh. It seems another world away now. Hmm. Ordinary. But nice. Simple. Barby in the back garden, Mum's little plants she loves. Dad's vegie patch. God. Nothing like this.' She flung out an arm. ‘Unreal.'

‘Can you go back to that? To home?'

‘Jeez, Miche. I dunno. Heck. Once you leave home that's it, isn't it? Nothing is ever the same again. But even though I'm okay here, my parents would be so uncomfortable here, I mean even for dinner. You never forget where you came from. One of the models I met came from a really poor family and she's married this rich rock star who also grew up poor. They have everything, but she said they still feel like they're toys in someone else's doll's house. I mean, when does it feel real?'

‘When it becomes utterly boring,' said Donald, entering the room. He turned to Sally. ‘When nothing is fun, or interesting, or a novelty any more. That's it. That's when you've arrived.' He lifted his glass. ‘Enjoy the journey, kid.'

Sally was unfazed. ‘I'm doing that. Maybe I feel okay because I
can
always go home.'

‘Could you really go back to your country town life after this? I don't think so,' said Miche.

‘Hey, who's talking about leaving?' Sophie came breezing in, refreshed and ready for the evening, followed by Pete. ‘We're going to have company for dinner.'

‘Are there other guests staying here? Will we meet the Count?' asked Miche.

‘A couple of the wine people are coming up for dinner. They like to socialise when they can. Doesn't sound like they find time to leave the estate much. Hope they bring a few vintage bottles with them.'

‘You're a fund of news, Soph. You been checking out the kitchen?' asked Donald.

‘Just lining up accessories. We need a few things for the shoot. Have you sorted out your end? Your slave here checked all the gear.'

‘And it's all there,' added Pete.

‘Better be . . . or I look for a new assistant. I hope you gals don't mind travelling by tractor. We have to go across the fields,' said Donald.

‘Another welly boot shoot. Don't ask me to explain,' said Pete as Donald burst out laughing at Miche's questioning face.

The door was opened by the butler who stood back as the Count entered. A silence fell on the room. The gentleman was tall, slightly stooped and thin, yet gave the appearance of strength – perhaps because of the overly developed shoulders and chest. His face was pinched, his bald head, of a peculiar conical shape, fringed in sparse ginger hair tied in a small ponytail. His gaunt features reflected the same lost chin and sallow cheeks of his ancestors dotted about the chateau walls. He was dressed in a type of riding habit, part British eccentric, part Lawrence of Arabia, part Hollywood interpretation of European gentry. He carried off the bizarre ensemble with élan, the riding crop and leather boots looking entirely correct.

‘Bonsoir, mesdames. Messieurs. Je suis Comte Jules Fabian. Soyez les bienvenus!'

‘
Merci
,
merci
. We are so glad to meet you and thank you for allowing us to use the chateau again as a location,' said Donald rising to shake his hand.

The Count, who could have been fifty or seventy, looked around, his eyes glittering. ‘Location? You mean cinema? You are making a cinema here?'

‘Non, non. Only photographs. Pour un magazine, la couture.'

‘Ah.' He lifted a glass and sank into a chair looking disappointed. ‘So
Poirot et moi
. . . we will not be a part of your . . .
photographique extravaganza
?'

Donald gave an expansive gesture. ‘Of course, we would be charmed to have you pose for us. With Poirot.'

Miche blinked and gave Donald a cross look. Sophie put her hand to her mouth and Sally smiled as she asked, ‘Who's Poirot?'

The Count broke into a vague sort of smile. ‘At dinner, you'll meet him at dinner. Oh, oh, oh,' he snorted in glee. ‘Poirot loves parties.'

‘Does this guy have all his oars in the water?' Sally hissed at Donald.

‘You mean is he playing with a full deck?' whispered Donald, then grinned. ‘Depends what you call normal.'

A bell rang from the courtyard. The Count settled himself. ‘Ah, our vignerons approach. What delights do they bring to taste?' The butler hurried to open the door at one side of the conservatory.

Two men, one young, one old, came in holding bottles and smiling. It seemed to Miche they brought healthy sunshine and earthy smells. A living energy bounced into the fusty drawing room. The older man had a weathered face, lurking smile, greying hair beneath a quickly removed cloth cap and a smoothed moustache. He placed a bottle on the sideboard and nodded at the butler.

The second man was younger, cheerful, sandy-haired and muscular with a self-confident smile. He added the bottles he was carrying to those already on the sideboard.

The older man went straight to greet the Count while the younger man ran a hand through his hair and glanced at the guests. ‘Hi, I'm Jeremy Foster. Nice to see you all.' The Australian accent surprised everyone.

‘You're Australian?' Sally seemed incredulous. ‘I can't believe the Aussies I've found over here.' She pointed at Donald, ‘He's one, I'm from Queensland.'

She ran around the introductions.

Jeremy quickly introduced the older man. ‘Monsieur Soulvier. My boss. And, yes, I'm an Aussie. Over here for six months. Studying winemaking from a French perspective.' He gave Sally an amused conspiratorial glance, but she didn't notice. Miche did, and wondered what it meant.

Monsieur Soulvier beamed at them. ‘Jeremy is what we call one of your flying winemakers.' He shook hands with each of them, then sat beside the Count chattering in rapid French and pointing at the bottles with handwritten labels.

Donald shook Jeremy's hand. ‘G'day. How long you been over here, where're you from?'

‘Hunter Valley. I work for a vineyard there. I'm originally from Melbourne.' He lowered his voice. ‘I'm over here seeing how the so-called experts do things.'

‘So-called experts? Aren't the French the best winemakers?'

‘They think so. I happen to think the young guns in Australia are often better. Australia is becoming a major producer of the best wines in the world this new century.'

The Count's ears pricked up. ‘Best wines? Here, try this Château-Grillet blanc.'

While the butler, the Count and Monsieur Soulvier fussed with the bottles and glasses at the sideboard, Jeremy turned to Sally. ‘You must be the model.' His gaze moved to Miche. ‘And you too?'

‘Not me, I'm working for a magazine.'

‘We all are, sweetie,' interrupted Sophie, moving closer to the handsome young winemaker.

‘So what are you taking pictures of, then?'

‘Essentially Sally . . . but of course Château Soleil is the other star – to complement Sally,' added Donald, giving the Count a small nod.

‘I can make your photographs very, very special,' said the Count.

Sophie and Pete exchanged a look.

‘Poirot?' asked Donald with a slightly world weary air.

‘
Certainement
. He is still a star. Since our last little accident he has special shoes. Dancing shoes.' The Count chuckled to himself.

‘Er, what about his friends from the circus? What happened to them?' asked Sophie.

‘They are here, dear child. We saved them. They live here.' The Count turned his attention to the wine tasting that the butler had set out with a range of glasses, dry biscuits, water and spittoon. The Count and Monsieur Soulvier began an intense conversation in French over the merits of each wine – its qualities, its year and its potential.

Miche nudged Donald. ‘Circus? Dancing Poirot? What's all that about?'

Jeremy heard her. ‘I've seen them round the place, a weird bunch.'

Donald put his finger to his lips. ‘Don't tell her. It'll spoil the surprise.'

‘I don't like surprises. I'd like to be prepared for whatever is planned,' declared Miche.

‘You must be a Virgo. Nothing is planned here. That's half the fascination of the place. But believe me, something is always going on.' Jeremy rolled his eyes.

‘What did he mean, about the circus. And what or who is Poirot?'

‘You ask a lot of questions.'

‘I'm a reporter.'

‘Ah.'

‘I don't want to influence you then. What are you writing about anyway?'

‘Sally. She's the hottest look-to-be, the model of the minute.'

‘That's often as long as it lasts, I hear. You're American. Did you come out just to do this story? Who do you write for?'

‘Actually, I'm on my way to Australia. I'm writing for
Blaze
. Do you know it?'

‘Well, I've seen a copy or two.' Jeremy shifted in the chair. ‘I don't seem to find the time for reading.'

‘So what do you do?'

‘Know anything about winemaking?'

‘Zilch. I drink wine, but I don't have any knowledge about it.'

‘When you have time, come over to the vineyard and I'll show you round. That is, if you're interested.'

Learning the intricacies of winemaking had never been high on Miche's list of life priorities. But looking at Jeremy, she felt a faint tingle of the special attraction to another human being that starts with a warm smile, an interest in whatever they are saying and the knowledge that a chemical reaction, something beyond her control, was beginning to stir. She'd experienced this before and it had either fizzled like a spent rocket, or run its course and been a painful or valuable experience. Here we go again. Maybe. ‘Sure,' she said. ‘Whenever we have a break or finish our own shenanigans. This photography business is a bit of a strange dance. I'm just trailing along,' she confided.

Jeremy gave a shrug. ‘Models, fashion, whatever. Not my scene.'

They were all called to the taste testing with Monsieur Soulvier conducting. After several rounds of swirling glasses, admiring the colour, sniffing the bouquet, finally tasting, swilling in the mouth and spitting, the younger ones were glad when dinner was announced.

Miche paused to take in the dining hall. ‘Is this the set for King Arthur or what?' She gazed up at the silk banners hanging around the walls below the minstrels' gallery. It was suspended above the huge open vestibule that led through wide doors to a flight of broad stone steps into a terraced garden.

The group was led to a massive antique table that seated twenty. Heavy iron candelabra hung at both ends of the hall. A supplementary glow came from subdued electric lighting installed in the fifties. Fat beeswax burned in multi-tiered silver candelabra along the table.

Jeremy sat between Sally and Miche. The Count had Sophie on his right and Donald on his left. Pete was between Sophie and Monsieur Soulvier. The remaining length of the dining table stretched into the gloomy nether reaches of the huge room. The food was served by the butler and two silent waiters. The cook, Madame Verve, was discussed but not seen.

Miche had been to a number of formal dinners in Washington and New York, but this eclipsed anything she'd seen. What fascinated her was the omnipresent pervasiveness of the past, a mixture of musty grandeur mingling with a modern awareness of time and attitude.

The Count talked of the latest movies, of rock stars, whom he seemed to have met, and openly described a pornographic network, operating from this region, that was hot on the Net, and again, giggled at references to his party-loving Poirot.