Page 71 of Corkscrew You
Ava and Camille have met – what – all of twice?
“Camille and I got on pretty well,” she tells me now, four years down the freaking track. “Haven’t heard from her lately, though. Guess that would be weird.”
I take a deep breath. “Can you do me a favour, sis? Can younevertell me if she gets back in touch?”
All Ava does is laugh. I fantasize about giving her a dead arm.
“See you and Shelby on Wednesday,” she says. “Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”
As she ends the call, I have a strong urge to go lie down in a field somewhere and stare at the sky.
Unluckily, there’s no rest for the … whatever it is I am. My to-do list has turned into a mile-long scroll, but I know what my priority is: securing a full sheet of orders for our soon-to-be-bottled vintage.
When I was working for Anton in Bordeaux, the first thing I did before planning any changes was a whole lot of market research. I was on the phone all day, every day, for two weeks, phoning everyone in the wine industry who would talk to me: customers on our mailing list, restaurants, retailers, wine reviewers, sales reps, contacts in international markets. I talked to all our vineyard workers. I even went down to the village and spoke to the old guys playingboules, and the women shopping at the market.
Sure, I got a lot of contradictory opinions, but I also got enough intel to know which way the wind was blowing with wine sales.
And intel is what I need now. Whyaren’tour loyal customers putting in repeat orders, like they have year after year? I have a copy of our mailing list – not online, of course; I had to dig it out of the bottom of the filing cabinet. I pick up my phone and dial the first number on the list.
Four hours later and I’ve contacted around sixty percent. Enough to get a feel for the data. Plus, I’m starting to get hoarse.
The urge to find a field to lie in is even stronger. I had an inkling about what I’d find out, and I’m definitelynothappy to have my suspicions confirmed.
Billy Armstrong was why they kept buying. They rate the wine highly but being part of Billy’s orbit was the main thing that kept them coming back. Shelby told me he contacted them. What she didn’t say was that he phoned them all several times a year. He’d get them revved up about the next vintage, but more importantly, he’d ask them about their lives, families, jobs, hobbies, latest trips overseas, etc. He never forgot what he’d last been told, and he made them feel like he was genuinely interested in them. Which he probably was – you can’t fake that unless you’re a psychopath. And no psychopath would create a daughter like Shelby.
When Billy died, over half of them came to his funeral. Those who could not sent flowers and messages. Simple truth is, they loved him. Now he’s gone, they could keep buying, out of loyalty to his memory, but most of them said that having his wine around would make them too sad. Maybe next year, they said.
A year we can’t afford to wait.
The only bright spot is that they didn’t knock Shelby. Most of them had met her, and liked her, too, but that’s not the point. Doesn’t matter if her wine blows his out of the water. She’s not her father.
So what now? We’re bottling in two weeks, and I’ve got enough money from JP to see us through that and the harvestifwe keep things lean. But he’s not going to keep topping us up. We need to bring in money of our own. Fast.
If I were smart, I’d talk to Javi, the concierge who moonlights as a wine crew coordinator. He impressed me with his industry knowledge and his general can-do attitude. I got the feeling he could meet any of the hotel guests’ requests, no matter how out there. You want a bejewelled elephant complete with mahout delivered at dawn? Consider it done.
Trouble is, the plans I have – the ones I can’t tell Shelby about – also affect Javi. And I’d feel bad if I pumped him for information and ideas, then turned around and put him out of a long-standing contract. He makes a decent commission from us, and I know he has a young family to support. Not to mention the many friends, relations and acquaintances he pulls in to do the work.
Shit, no, I can’t talk to Javi.
However, Icantalk to his boss, Ted. Notsuperthrilled about the prospect, but this is no time to be a competitive dick. Ted has an address book that must rival the Kardashians’ combined. Only I bet Ted’s is hand-tooled, gold-embossed calf leather, and he writes in it with a limited edition Mont Blanc.
I need to set up a meeting, and who best to do it than Ted’s number one employee, Chiara... Pretty sure even Javi wouldn’t waste his time contesting her for that title.
She gave me her cell phone number.
“Nathan Durant,” she says, with more than a hint of triumph.
Goddamn, she knows I want something from her. Is she psychic?
Might as well bite the bullet. “Can you get me a meeting with Ted?”
“Why?”
“I’m planning the heist of a major artwork,” I say. “Can’t tell you more or I’ll have to kill you.”
“No spill, no meeting.”
Jesus. Now, I’m not joking about killing her.
