The wine merchant

Later that afternoon, I turn up for my appointment at the wine merchants. I’ve decided to play it safe. Not too much cleavage, not too much leg. Just a nice classic suit.

The address is in a fashionable area of the Marais district. The décor suggests money, and class. I’m impressed, but try not to show it.

The dealer’s name is Julien. He’s about forty, tanned, with a crop of fair curly hair. His eyes are steely blue. He wears an expensive pale Armani suit, with a deep blue open necked shirt. He smiles politely and shakes my hand warmly.

Mademoiselle Krantz. Enchante.
Sandrine, please.
Your surname, It’s not very French, but you sound local?
I was born in Paris, but my late father was from New York.
An interesting background. But right now, we don’t have much time. Let’s talk business.

We sit at a sofa in front of a low glass table. There are two glasses of wine. Julien pours from a bottle of pink wine on the table. I can’t see the label but I’m guessing it’s one of Etiennes.

And how may I be of assistance, Sandrine.
I tell him that I represent ET, that he’s a cousin of mine, so it’s a family business. We’re trying to expand our business, so we’ve sent him a sample of our wines. We chat about the wine trade in general, how the economic climate is affecting it, the usual small talk. He’s friendly, but businesslike.

He sniffs the glass.
And your vineyards, they’re in the south?
In Vaucluse, I say. Close to Avignon.
It’s very pink, he says. Of course, Rose wines are not so frowned upon these days.
How big is the estate?
Several thousand hectares, monsieur.
I must admit I didn’t know of your cousin’s name. But this wine, is okay. And you are so enthusiastic. And charming.

He stands up. Sadly that’s all I’ve time for. Another appointment in five minutes.
I get up, and we shake hands.
Are you going to buy some of our wine? I ask.
Perhaps. Look, can we make a deal, Sandrine. If I agree to buy some of your family’s wines, will you have dinner with me tonight?
I’m feeling like absolute shite. I think my period’s coming on. But there’s something about him.
That would be my pleasure, I say, smiling.
Au contraire, mademoiselle, I think the pleasure will be all mine.


By the time evening comes around I feel slightly better. At least I clinched the deal, so Etienne will be satisfied. My rendezvous with Julien at the restaurant, is planned for 9pm, so I make sure I’m fifteen minutes late. That seems about right, don’t you agree?

Tonight I’ve been more adventurous. Bright scarlet dress, plenty of cleavage, hemline above the knee. Strongest perfume I could find. Julien is impressed.
Ravishing, is his verdict.
You could sell wine to the arabs, he jokes.

We are escorted to a candlelit table, great view of the city. He orders an extravagant bottle of champagne. The menu is sumptuous, beyond mere mortals.

You know, this feels special, tonight. It feels like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
You’ve been watching too many films, I say.
He looks bewildered, then the penny drops. He laughs.
I see what you mean, Casablanca. Very romantic also. Of all the joints in all the world, she had to crawl into mine.

His smile is friendly, but there’s something dangerous, something sinister there. I feel a tingle of excitement.
We clink glasses, drink to success. And Etienne wines. He laughs, but his laugh seems cruel, reckless.

When the hors d’ovres have been finished, Julien wipes his mouth and takes a sip from his champagne. He looks me in the eye, until I can’t bear it any longer. I pick up my own glass and sniff the alcohol.

Tell me, Sandrine, where do you see yourself in say five years from now?
I don’t really think about the future, Julien.
But you should, a beautiful and intelligent young lady like you. Could go a long way. You could be very rich.
I’m already rich, monsieur. Well, comfortable. By the standards of ordinary people. I had an inheritance, you see.
So why are you selling wine for your cousin?
I know, it seems ridiculous. But when my parents died…. Let’s just say I owe Etienne a lot.
Sounds like he has some hold over you. That’s not healthy.
I’ve been trying to think of a way round that. But my conscience won’t let me.
Sandrine, you must be more selfish. I sense that you enjoy the good things in life. Good food, good wine, good company. And you have good taste. Frankly, you’re wasted in this line of work.

I’m feeling very hot. I excuse myself to go to the lavatory. I’m feeling nauseous.
When I return, Julien goes on the attack again.
So, tell me, who’s looking after your investments. Sandrine?
I blush.
Etienne, of course. I have property in Paris, and in Bordeaux. Some of it’s rented out. I don’t really need anywhere to live, I’m always on the road. I’m probably worth millions of euros, I don’t really know.
He laughs again, but his laughter seems to mock me.
Beautiful, intelligent, and rich. You have it all.

Tears are running down my face. I dab at them with my serviette. I’m sorry monsieur.
What is it Sandrine? If I’ve offended you, I’m so sorry.
No, it’s not your fault. Everything you say is true. I’ve been a fool. It’s a long story, a sad story. I’m not sure you want to hear it.
He takes my hand.
Sandrine, I want to help you. And I’d love to hear your story.
Maybe now is not the time though. I’m feeling a little jaded. It’s been a long day.

He takes my hand in his, preventing me from getting up.
I’ve got a business proposition that just might interest you.
I seriously doubt it.
Look, how much is Etienne paying you?
I take a sip from my glass. I can hardly tell him the truth, that Etienne doesn’t pay me anything. He’d just laugh at me.
That’s between Etienne and me, I say.
Come on, what’s the going rate for a wine trader?
Here goes.
If you must know, Etienne and I have an arrangement. He lets me stay rent free in his London flat in lieu of payment.
That sounds quite generous. Except that you’re not in London all the time.
But he foots the bill. All my expenses are paid.
Normal procedure, I’m sure. Entertaining clients, that sort of thing.
The flat is in central London. The rent would be about ten thousand. A week.
I get the picture. What if I said id match that.

My eyebrows might have raised at this point.
You want to pay me ten grand a week? To do what?
I lean my head on my palm and stare at him, amused.
I’ll think of something, he says. My business needs people like you – young, intelligent, and dare I say it, sexy.
There’s only one snag. Even if I agreed to work for you, Etienne would never let me go, I’m too valuable to him. He trusts me implicitly. You can’t buy that sort of loyalty. Family loyalty. It’s in our blood.
Very admirable, Sandrine. but don’t you want to better yourself. The world could be your oyster. Etienne is a small operator. My company sells wine all over the world.

I’m playing with my fork. I can’t deny that his offer is tempting.
You don’t know me, I say. Behind this façade, I’m not who you think I am.
Okay. Don’t make a decision right now. Just promise me you’ll think about it.
It’s a big decision, I say. I might need some time. I need to consult Etienne.
You don’t, he says. Don’t consult anyone.

I sit with my head in my hands, my brain is bursting. Julien is calling the waiter over. He tells him to put the meal on the company tab, and we’re leaving. He escorts me to a taxi, and asks me where I’m staying.
A friends, apartment. It’s in the 17th. Rue truffaut.
He smiles. How very charming. But you deserve better, Sandrine. The top tables, the most elegant clothes, the finest perfume. Although, you smell gorgeous tonight. He stretches an arm round my shoulders. I’m too drunk to shake him off. He whispers in my ear.
I want you, he says, and I always get what I want.
I look up at him, his eyes seem to bore into me. His lips are ready to close in on mine.
What if I told you I was gay, I say.
He laughs. His laughter fills the taxi. His hands run through my hair, fondle my bosom. I feel tired, but intoxicated. He stops.
I don’t think so, he says.

The taxi grinds to a halt. Rue Truffaut, monsieur. Julien looks annoyed, like he wishes the journey would take a little longer.
I’d ask you in for coffee, I say, but my friend will be waiting for me.
Goodnight Sandrine, don’t forget my offer.
I wave goodbye as the cab door closes. It’s raining again, and I suddenly realise I have no coat. For the second time that day, I get soaked as I hobble in six inch heels down Rue Truffaut towards Lucien’s.

Chez Lucien

Woke up early again. Another strange dream. As usual have to write it all down before I forget it. Later on I’ll send a report to Gerhard – my shrink.

The dream? This time I’m being pursued through a city at night. Sirens everywhere, police dogs. I’ m dressed totally in black, and with my long dark hair I blend into the darkness. The chase is relentless, and I’m getting out of breath. Just as the dogs gain on me I scream out. This jars me out of sleep.

The digital numbers on the alarm clock read 0400. I won’t get back to sleep now, but it doesn’t matter. Sleep doesn’t interest me. I put on a robe and get out of bed. Soon it’ll be dawn. I pick up my cigarettes and head for the balcony. In the kitchen I stop to put some coffee on. Strong, black coffee.

Soon I’m outside, leaning over the balcony, smoking a gauloise. Not that there’s much to see from here, just the street. Rue Truffaut. Lucien is still asleep, in the other bedroom. Although we’ve become occasional lovers, we don’t sleep together. My dreams would disturb him. Our love making is more spontaneous, wilder.

Lucien’s apartment is on the 2nd floor of a fin de siecle Art Deco building. The second floor is where the wealthiest residents lived, so Lucien tells me. This floor has the highest ceilings, the largest rooms. Two arched French windows open onto the balcony, opening wide to let the sun in and closing tight to block out the light at night. With windows facing in all four directions, the apartment is often bathed in light.

Back in the kitchen I glance through the window. From here you can see the top of the Eiffel Tower peeping above the rooftops and chimneys of Paris. I take the coffee into the living room.

Light floods the spacious living area, casting a warm glow on the original parquet floors. The entire apartment has been delicately furnished, the walls hung with 19th century prints. Lucien has impeccable taste.

I pick up a newspaper that’s been left lying around. It’s a few days old. I glance at the headlines. Berlusconi has put his foot in it again…..some farmers are protesting at Sarkozy’s plan to run a railway through Cezanne country…..both PSG and Marseille failed to win in Europe.

On the stereo lies the sleeve of the LP Lucien played to me last night. Chet Baker Sings. We sat listening to the cool jazz for an hour, whilst eating a romantic dinner. Then we made love on the sofa, fully clothed, like it was the end of the world. I didn’t want to spoil the moment, so I abandoned my plan to tell Lucien. That I might be leaving.

Today I feel refreshed. When I’ve finished the second coffee and fed up with old news, I throw on a pair of shorts and a faded t shirt, tie my hair in a ponytail. Then I’m outside, pounding the pavement. This morning I turn left into Rue des Dames, then head for Place Clichy, en route for the Cimetiere de Montmartre. I rest here for a few minutes, sheltering from the drizzle which has become heavier. On the run home my hair becomes plastered to my face, and my nipples are visible through the wet fabric of my clinging t shirt. I get some smiles, some looks, even some whistles.

Back at the apartment, all is quiet. I walk into the kitchen and Lucien surprises me, pinning me against the wall. He runs his hands over my bosom, then down into my pants. I pull my shirt over my head and he licks my wet skin. His erection is impatient, his desire urgent. We do it there, in the doorway, the rain now teeming outside the window.

I shower and dry my hair. I’m sitting checking the messages on my phone when Lucien wanders in again. There’s one from Etienne, looks like he’s having marital problems again. Frankie is a feisty girl. Another one from Jules, the guy I met at the fashion week party. He thinks I’m cool and we should get together. I recall he knew Sandrine, so I might say yes.

I’m relaxing, looking forward to an uneventful stress-free day, when I get this call. It’s from the secretary of an important wine merchant in the Marais. The managing director has a free appointment this afternoon, if it's convenient. Did I sigh? No, of course not, I accepted, otherwise Etienne would never forgive me.

So here I am, looking like death warmed up. I’ve just run ten kilometres, had sex twice in the last seven hours, only four hours sleep, and I’m still hungover. This had better be worth it.