Vintage (33 page)

‘About Alain Lamotte…’

‘I didn’t ask you about Alain.’

‘I had a terrible a shock. It’s about Jamie… I was just using poor Alain.’

‘A pain-killer.’ Halliday put the cards back on the buffet and picked up the photograph of Maureen. ‘I know all about that.’

Halliday Baines was not the only one to have seen Clare coming out of the offices of Assurance Mondiale at two o’clock in the morning. Harry Balard had been cruising the streets in search of one of the rent boys who hung out in the Place Ste Croix, when he had caught sight of Clare embracing Alain Lamotte beneath the streetlight on the pavement, and jammed on the brakes of his Porsche.

Harry was not one to keep anything to himself. Certainly not such a succulent morsel of gossip. He had passed on the tid-bit to Marie-Paule, while at the same time storing it in his head to be put to good use at some future date.

Since the information sounded highly unlikely – everyone in Bordeaux knew that Clare de Cluzac was engaged to be married – Marie-Paule wondered if Harry, who lately had been acting decidedly strangely, could possibly have invented the story.

It was several weeks now since, in the early hours of the morning, she had heard the patter of pebbles against the tightly shut volets of the marital bedroom. No matter what the temperature, Claude was opposed to fresh air. Putting the sound down to hailstones – accounts of the freak storm at Château de Cluzac were still circulating in the Médoc – Marie-Paule had taken no notice. When the noise persisted, she had heaved herself off the bed – it was far too hot for covers – released the catch and pushed open the purple-painted shutters, which matched the purple couvre-lit. Had she not witnessed the sight with her very own eyes, she would not have believed it. Her beloved Harry, his hair dishevelled, his forehead
encrusted with what looked very much like dried blood, was standing woefully beneath a chestnut tree on the deserted pavement, without a stitch on below his waist, his hands modestly shielding his sexe.

Taking care not to wake Balard, Marie-Paule put on her peignoir and let Harry into the apartment.

Gathering him into her arms, she cooed at him as she had when he was six years old.

‘Mon petit chou!’

Pushing his mother aside roughly, and without a word of apology for waking her, Harry had gone straight to his room, where Marie-Paule, who followed him, found the door shut in her face.

Since there had been no explanation from Harry, either at the time or since, Marie-Paule wondered if he was perfectly well. She did not dare discuss the matter with Balard, who was more bad-tempered than usual, and Christiane’s head was permanently in the clouds as she day-dreamed of Halliday Baines. The only person she confided in was Biancarelli who, although she had hidden it from Harry’s mother, had been highly amused.

Marie-Paule’s other piece of gossip, concerning Clare and Alain Lamotte, had amused Biancarelli considerably less. If the story was true, however, and considering her discussion with Clare before the looking-glass in her showroom she would be very much surprised, it was Clare’s problem. Biancarelli had her own.

The return of the Baron to the Médoc had put the boutique owner into a flat spin. She had not wanted to fall in love with her benefactor, she had not asked for it; but ever since he had gone back to Florida she had been acting like a lovesick girl. She was unable to eat, unable to sleep, and had lost interest in her clients, whose requirements had previously been paramount. Shooting herself in the foot – business was bad and rents were
going up – she had given even Claude Balard and her other petits amis their marching orders.

The fact that Charles-Louis had returned to Bordeaux with Rosa Delaware, rather than Laura Spray, was neither here nor there. Biancarelli saw neither of them as a competitor for the Baron’s heart. Alone of all the women who came and went in his life, she knew that he did not have one. All that she asked was to be able, unequivocally, to love him. Her Corsican heart was big enough for two.

Making no excuse to Rosa Delaware, the Baron had been to see Biancarelli; she knew all about the divorce and Viola’s blackmail (a woman after her own heart). Distraught at the thought of losing her lover permanently to his orange groves – she did not see the uptight Laura Spray as a rival – on the last occasion she had seen him, Biancarelli had grappled him to her side.

Slipping on a gown when the business of the afternoon was over, she had shyly approached the Baron, put her arms round him, and pressed his mouth to her own. If he was surprised, he did not show it. Releasing himself from her grasp, he sat down on the Louis-XV-style fauteuil in her boudoir to put on his monogrammed socks.

‘La prochaine fois qu’on se verra, je serai marié…’

Next time he would be married. Biancarelli’s face fell. Installing herself on his lap, she pulled his face to her magnificent breast.

‘Ne t’inquiétes pas, Bianca…’

She was always Bianca after they had made love.

‘…I’ll be back.’

‘What would you do if I were no longer here?’

Charles-Louis looked at her blankly. The thought of his long-term mistress being no longer around was as farcical as the idea of returning to Château de Cluzac to discover that it had vanished into a hole in the ground.

‘You’ll be here.’ Tipping Biancarelli unceremoniously off his lap, the Baron reached for his trousers, as she lit a cigarette. He was right, of course. Like the Trojan women, she would be around, awaiting his pleasure.

‘Je t’aime.’ I love you. There was nothing to lose.

Putting on his tie, the Baron laughed his
deep-throated
laugh. It was like a dagger in Biancarelli’s heart. Picking up his jacket and caressing his mistress’ dimpled derrière, in much the same way as he patted the rump of his horse, Baron de Cluzac, whom she had served for so many years as concubine and confessor, without a backward glance, took his customary leave.

Having passed on the latest gossip about Clare and Alain Lamotte, Marie-Paule Balard, who had ostensibly come to choose another evening gown, this time for the Ban de Vendange to celebrate the gathering of the harvest, decided to confide in her further.

‘Shall I tell you a secret?’

Heavy of heart, Biancarelli automatically selected an only moderately moche size forty-eight, and held it out for her approval to the wife of the negociant.

‘I pray for rain, at harvest time.’ Marie-Paule crossed herself. ‘On Clare de Cluzac’s grapes!’

Clare de Cluzac was in her Bureau d’Acceuil. She was putting the finishing touches to the arrangements for a banquet, booked by a group of psychiatrists who were touring the Médoc, which was to take place in the newly renovated Orangerie.

Together with Jean Boyer, she had already chosen the wine (the cases were in situ), and she was working out with Petronella what might be required by way of liqueurs to follow the dinner, which was being catered for by two of Bordeaux’s most reliable traiteurs.

Hearing a car draw up, the slam of a door, and determined footsteps approaching the Bureau d’Acceuil, she looked up to see a gaunt and dishevelled Alain Lamotte – whose repeated telephone calls she had, like Jamie’s, refused to answer – standing in the doorway with a beribboned bouquet of red roses.

Dismissing Petronella, Clare held out her hand.

Ignoring the gesture, Alain leaned across the desk to kiss her. Clare averted her face.

‘I’ve been telephoning you.’ Handing her the flowers, Alain hung his jacket proprietorially on the back of the chair.

‘Oui.’

‘I can’t sleep…’

‘I had a call from Cathay Pacific. They want three thousand dozen quarter-bottles of Petite Clare…’

‘I didn’t come here to talk about Petite Clare. When will I see you?’

‘You’re seeing me. Look, I’m really busy Alain…’

‘Busy!’

‘I have to finalise the arrangements for tonight. My first conference dinner – what if it all goes wrong? – and then there are the pickers to be sorted out with Monsieur Boniface…’

‘Why didn’t you answer my calls?’

‘I was too ashamed.’

‘Ashamed?’

‘If you really want to know, I’ve a confession to make. I was just using you, Alain. I’m not proud of it. I hate myself. I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m really sorry.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s about Jamie. It’s hard to explain. I should never have come to your office. I don’t want to break up your marriage. You don’t want to break up your marriage. Can’t we just forget about what happened?’

‘Forget about it!’ A vein stood out on Alain’s forehead. ‘Je suis fou de toi. How can I forget about it?’

‘I was upset. I had too much to drink. I’d like us to be friends…’

Flushing to the roots of his hair as the message finally got home, Alain snatched his jacket from the chair and made for the door.

‘Alain!’

A few moments later, standing awkwardly in the office, holding the roses, not sure what to do with them, she heard the car door slam.

It had been an eventful week. Hurting Alain, the last thing she wanted to do, had been its culmination. With the divorce proceedings completed, and his cars loaded on to transporters, Charles-Louis, and Rosa Delaware, had departed. Still furious with Clare, the Baron, who addressed his daughter only when strictly necessary, had not invited her to his forthcoming wedding. He had not even said goodbye.

After the transporters, a succession of horse-boxes supervised by Viola had left Château de Cluzac for the Fitzpatrick Equine Centre. Viola had returned to Ireland, leaving Clare alone to handle the imminent harvest.

She was standing with her clipboard in the Orangerie, making a last-minute check of the tables and thinking about Alain, whose stunned face was still haunting her, when Petronella, who had instructions not to disturb her, bleeped her to say that she was wanted urgently in the office.

With her mind buzzing with plates and glasses, and wondering what she had forgotten and whether she had ordered enough food, she crossed the courtyard, followed by Rougemont, and went angrily into the Bureau d’Acceuil to give Petronella a piece of her mind. In her office she found Jamie, his arms folded, wearing his dark suit and hospital tie, leaning grimly against the
filing-cabinet
.

‘Jamie!’

‘Clare. What the hell is going on?’

‘I might ask you that.’

‘Shall I bring some coffee?’ Petronella, programmed to entertain clients, put her head round the door.

‘No. Thank you. Just hold the calls.’

Putting her clipboard on the desk, Clare sat down behind it. This was a new Jamie. His eyes were cold. She had never seen him so angry.

‘I left an extremely important meeting to come here. You haven’t answered my faxes. I must have called you a dozen times. Perhaps you’d be good enough to tell me what you’re playing at.’

‘You’ve been fucking Miranda…’

‘I’ve been what!’ Pulling the visitor’s chair towards him and turning it around, Jamie straddled it and sat facing her. He waited for her to go on.

‘I came to Waterperry. Miranda’s bag was on the coat stand. The cottage stank of cigars…’

‘Miranda has been staying with me.’

‘You’ve never really got over her…’

‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’

‘Now that Barnaby’s dead, I suppose…’

‘Hang on a minute. Miranda OD’d on temazepam. She nearly died. When she came out of hospital there was no one to keep an eye on her…’

‘Did I, or did I not, see her tights on our bed?’

‘Highly likely.’

‘Well then?’

‘I gave Miranda the bed. I’ve been sleeping on the sofa. You don’t really think…?’

‘You mean you and Miranda haven’t…?’

‘Miranda’s sick. She’s devastated. She’s taken Barnaby’s death extremely badly…’

‘You mean you would have if she wasn’t?’

‘If she wasn’t what?’

‘Sick.’

‘What I mean is that she needs looking after. She’s a human being, Clare. She’s my friend.’

‘How can I be sure?’

‘If you have to ask, you can’t.’

‘God. I’ve been so bloody miserable.’

‘Wouldn’t it have been easier…’

‘You can’t imagine what I’ve gone through.’

‘…to have told me you came to the cottage…’

‘I’ve been a total idiot!’

‘…to have given me a chance to explain?’

‘I just jumped to conclusions.’

‘It would have been so simple…’

‘My formative years were spent at Château de Cluzac, Jamie, where – as Viola so neatly put it – my father “bonked everything that moved”. Where are you going?’ There was panic in her voice.

‘I’m going to the airport.’

‘You can’t.’

‘Any reason why not?’

‘You’ve missed the last flight. There’s no plane until tomorrow morning. Jamie, I’m really sorry…’ She seemed to have spent her day apologising. ‘I wish I could put back the clock.’

‘I’ve been out of my mind with worry.’

‘I don’t know how I could have been so stupid.’

‘It’s your bloody grapes.’

‘What have grapes to do with it?’

‘Grapes and barrels. That’s all you think about these days. We’re out of touch. I need to think for a bit. I’ll take Rougemont for a walk.’

Clare looked anxiously at her watch. The conference bus was due in less than an hour. She had to get changed.

‘There’s one thing I want you to understand, Clare.’ Jamie turned at the door. ‘I am not your father.’

Keeping a weather eye out for Jamie, Clare, wearing a Biancarelli suit and playing the part of chatelaine as if to the manner born (which she was), greeted the psychiatrists as they stepped down from the bus.

Unaccustomed to the heat, the male members of the party struggled to put on their dinner-jackets over the motley assortment of shirts, which, with typical English aplomb, they imagined would pass for dress-shirts. Tidying their hair with their hands, they straightened their made-up bow-ties. The ladies, ambassadors for Jaeger and Liberty in floppy prints which stopped short at the ankle, fanned themselves with their invitations (‘9.00 p.m. Gala Dinner, Château de Cluzac’) and adjusted the leather bags slung from their shoulders.

Welcoming each of her guests personally, Clare allowed them to practise their French, which varied in proficiency from school to fluent, before leading them up to the salon for apéritifs, whereupon she let them off the hook and revealed that she was, to all intents and purposes, English.

While snippets of conversation buzzed around her head, she longed for the evening, to which she had been looking forward, to end, so that she could make her peace with Jamie. Overtaken by a sudden bout of homesickness amid talk of ‘neuroleptic drugs’, ‘functional psychosis’, the amenities (or lack of) in respective hotels (the luck of the draw), and the forthcoming boat trip on the Gironde, she longed suddenly for Nicola and Neal Street where, among the dustbins and the diesel, rain was a welcome diversion, and she need never see another vine.

Silenced by the grandeur of their surroundings, by the family portraits on the staircase, by the bleached courtyard, and the formal gardens reminiscent of Villandry, through which she escorted them, answering their many questions on the way, the party crowded round the seating plan, which she had pinned on to a board in the Orangerie. Stooping to decipher Petronella’s writing, the conference members and their spouses disposed themselves at the round tables, perusing the menus and unfolding their napkins as they decorously waited to be served.

Hoping there was going to be sufficient room for everyone, Clare watched anxiously as the few stragglers table-hopped, chatting to friends from whom they had been separated, before finding their own place names and settling down.

In direct proportion to the rate at which the Château de Cluzac ’87 (followed by the ’79), which Jean Boyer had had sent up from the chais, was appreciatively downed, the noise level proliferated. By the time the special marc made its appearance, the wheels were well oiled and the fact that – owing to serious miscalculations – there was not enough cherry clafoutis to go round was good-naturedly overlooked.

It was after midnight, and Clare’s feet were aching, by the time the psychiatrists followed her into the candlelit chais, where several of the group – regular attenders at the Lay and Wheeler tastings, and members of the Wine Society – who knew a great deal more than she about winemaking, kept her talking long after the allotted time.

She led the way into the first-year cellar, where the women shivered in their flimsy dresses as their heels sank into the beaten earth floor, and the air was scented by the unmistakable aroma of new wood. The ancient,
red-bellied barrels were now abutted by an entire section of pale and pristine casks.

Clare gathered her group around her.

‘The casks are made of oak. Before the war the best oak came from Lithuania. Today we use oak from the forests of Nevers, Vosges and Allier. ‘Each year at Château de Cluzac we aim to renew at least twenty-five per cent of our barrels…’

The purchase of the casks had been entrusted to Halliday. They came from Séguin-Moreau in Cognac, where he had a friend he could trust. Wearing his baseball cap, Halliday had walked into the Bureau d’Acceuil with the invoice, which would be settled with Viola’s divorce money.

‘The deed is done. Two hundred nicely charred barrels. Just the right degree of toastiness. I can rely on Geoff.’ He put the invoice down on the desk, where Clare sat amid a sea of paperwork. ‘You work too hard.’

‘How else do you suggest I get everything done?’

‘You have to give yourself a break sometimes. How does the idea of a picnic by the lake grab you?’

Clare, who had been working non-stop, didn’t need much persuading. Leaving Petronella to man the office and deal with any callers, she had given herself a few hours off.

Stopping in a sleepy village where the dank alimenterie was just about to close for lunch, they bought the last solitary chicken browning on the spit, some bread, some cheese and some fruit. Anxious for them to go, and wishing them a ‘bonne après-midi’, the patronne locked the door behind them.

Driving due west until they reached the Lac d’HourtinCarcans, with the midday sun overhead, Halliday suddenly turned the jeep off the road and, while
Clare hung on for dear life, he brought it to a halt by the side of the lake.

Jumping out of the jeep, Halliday took a bottle of wine from the back seat, wrapped it in his handkerchief and, hanging on to the branches of an overhanging tree, lowered it into the dank water to cool.

‘Cabernet Sauvignon! From Chile. My dad used to take me to the creek when I was little.’ Straightening up, he flopped down on the grass beside Clare. ‘He taught me to swim. It’s the time to learn things. I tried to teach Billy. Swimming, running, tennis. About the solar system, what goes on on the sea bed. All the things a kid should know.’

‘He’s lucky to have such a good father.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing!’

Wanting to steer him away from the painful subject of Billy, Clare started to unwrap the picnic, which was already being investigated by the ants.

‘Hungry?’

‘The thought of that poulet is burning a hole in my mouth.’

By the time they had eaten, they were not only invaded by ants, but covered with bites and surrounded by inquisitive flies. Brushing them away from his forehead, Halliday poured the last of the wine.

‘Why is it that picnic spots always look better from a distance? Did you know there were vines in Chile as long ago as 1548?’

‘Can’t say I’d really thought about it.’

‘The climate’s near perfect for grape growing. Thanks to General Pinochet, Chile was left for dead as far as wine producing was concerned. Hundreds of thousands of hectares of vines were given over to kiwi fruit. Now they’ve replanted four thousand hectares – mostly with Cabernet – and sixty million US dollars have been
invested in the industry. To make Bordeaux-style wine is the target of all Chilean winemakers. I wish you could see my vineyard, Clare…’

While Halliday was talking – it was difficult to keep him off the subject of wine, or of Chile, for long – Clare rescued the scattered food papers from the ants and stuffed them into the plastic bags. Noticing that it had suddenly become silent, except for the buzzing of the wildlife in the long grass, she glanced up.

Halliday had removed his clothes. His long hair lay loose on his naked shoulders. His slight body, with its demarcation where his swimmers had been, had the deceptive smoothness of a girl’s.

‘Coming for a dip?’

Hesitating for only a moment, Clare slipped out of her clothes and followed him, gasping, into the icy water where they swam swiftly side by side.

‘Not bad for a sheila!’ Halliday admired her steady crawl.

Dowsing the cocky Australian with water, Clare veered away from him and dived suddenly beneath the reeds.

‘Clare! Clare? Where are you?’ There was panic in his voice. ‘You OK, Clare?’

Silently she slid past his legs and emerged laughing, as she scrambled up the bank.

‘You had me worried there.’ Following her, Halliday bent his head sideways to shake the water from his ears.

Clare dried herself on her handkerchief aware that he was appraising her. She watched him become aroused.

‘You’re very beautiful.’

‘You think so…?’ Her voice was unsteady. She quickly put on her clothes.

‘Jamie’s a lucky guy.’

Hearing the bitterness return to his voice as he pulled on his trousers and belted them firmly round his taut waist, Clare flopped down in the long grass.

‘Why don’t you show me a card trick?’

‘What makes you think I’ve got any cards?’

Clare produced a pack from her pocket.

‘They fell out of your pants.’

Grinning, he came to lie beside her.

‘What’ll it be? Ups and Downs? The Twin-Card Trick?’

‘Anything to make me laugh.’

To keep her thoughts from Jamie and Miranda.

‘OK.’ He fixed his cobalt-blue eyes, with their clear whites, on her. ‘I’m going to read your mind. Ready?’

‘Ready.’

Shuffling the cards, as if they were an extension of his arms, he handed the pack to Clare.

‘Cut.’

She split the pack in two.

‘Now look at the card on top of one of the packs, any one you like, and memorise it.’

Noting the three of spades, Clare replaced the card and returned both packs to Halliday. Placing one on top of the other, he shuffled them once again.

‘OK. Here comes the mind reading.’

He spread the cards over the grass so that every one was visible.

‘Now, hold my wrist. Right here.’

Clare put her fingers round the strong slim wrist.

Moving his hand slowly, the index finger extended, Halliday pointed one by one to the cards. Over the three of spades his hand faltered, then stopped.

‘Three of spades!’

‘How did you do it?’

‘Read your mind. I got a message through my pulse.’

‘You expect me to believe that?’

‘Sure.’

‘OK…’ She could hear the crickets in the grass. ‘Tell me what I’m thinking?’

Halliday folded her fingers over his wrist until she could feel his steady pulse, sense the electric charge of his skin. He was silent for a long time.

‘Well?’

Halliday pulled his hand away abruptly.

‘We’d better be making a move.’

‘How many bottles of wine do you get out of each barrel…?’

‘Sorry?’

Coming back to her psychiatrists in the cellar, Clare returned to château mode.

‘The shape, circumference, and even the number of iron bands of the barrique bordelaise is strictly controlled. Each barrel will provide three hundred bottles of point-seven-five litres of wine apiece…’

Jamie was in bed, reading.

‘Thanks for waiting up for me.’

He put his book down.

‘I’ll always wait up for you.’

‘That’s such a nice thing to say.’

‘I love you.’

‘I thought they’d never go home. Jamie…’

‘Come to bed.’

‘When I came back. From Waterperry. When I thought that you and Miranda…’

‘It’s finished. I must have walked for fifteen miles. Rougemont was exhausted. I’ve got it out of my system.’

Clare removed her jacket. She wore nothing
underneath
. ‘I didn’t come straight home, Jamie. I drove into Bordeaux…’

‘Tais toi!’

She loved it when he spoke French.

‘I was so angry…!’

‘It was a misunderstanding. Does it matter?’

She wanted to explain to Jamie how she had felt, but he was not into feelings. She got into bed.

‘No.’

‘How long until the harvest?’

Sunlight was filtering through the curtains. Recapturing their old closeness, they had had very little sleep.

‘It’s usually the last week in September. Most growers settle for an average level of alcohol and pick while the weather’s in their favour. The gamblers wait just that little bit longer to get the last drops of surmaturité out of the grapes…’

‘There are so many things I wanted to talk to you about. For starters, I didn’t get the job at the Middlesex.’

‘Oh, Jamie!’

‘It’s OK. I wasn’t that keen on living in London. There might be a consultant job coming up in Oxford.’

‘What else?’

‘What else what?’

‘Did you want to talk to me about?’

‘I went to see Grandmaman.’

‘I’m worried about Grandmaman. Did she say anything to you?’

‘She didn’t have to. She’s as thin as a stick. I tried to get her to go back to her GP.’

‘What did she say?’

‘“Leave life to take care of itself, young man, and don’t interfere!”’

‘She said that?’

‘Well, actually it was Tolstoy. According to Grandmaman, the body will fight its own battles a great deal better if you don’t paralyse it with remedies. My guess is that if she doesn’t go into hospital PDQ she’ll be dead before Christmas. From what she let slip I think she could have cancer of the colon.’

‘I think she wants to die. I think she’s looking forward to it. Grandmaman has always believed that people should think things out for themselves, take charge of their own lives. She likes to have everything under control. If it was me I’d be scared witless. I’m terrified of dying.’

‘“If you don’t know how to die, don’t worry; Nature will tell you what to do on the spot, fully and adequately. She will do this job perfectly for you, don’t bother your head about it.”’

‘Tolstoy, I suppose.’

‘Montaigne. He didn’t share Socrates’ sense of the immortality of the soul. Your grandmother has simply chosen her own way to “get out of it”.’

‘Montaigne?’

‘Thomas Browne.’

‘Do you have to go home today?’

‘I’ll be back in a couple of weeks for the marathon.’

Clare looked at Jamie’s watch; waterproof, shockproof, accurate to a millionth of a second. Never late for anything, he wore the chronometer even in bed. The coarse black hairs on his thick wrist curled themselves round the brown leather strap. Unbidden images flashed into her mind.

‘We’ve only got another hour…’ She dismissed the unwanted thoughts from her head.

‘Fifty minutes actually…’ Jamie took her in his arms.

‘Don’t tell me. Freud!’