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.