Read Online The Vintage Caper by Peter Mayle - Free Book Online Page A

quickly and decisively, negotiated the airport traffic. Her hands on the wheel were as BCBG as the rest of her—polished but unvarnished nails cut short, a small gold signet ring on the little finger, so old that the family crest had worn smooth, and a vintage Cartier tank watch with a black crocodile strap.
    “I made a reservation for you at the Splendide,” Sophie said. “It’s in the old part of town, near the Maison du Vin. I hope that’s good for you. Difficult for me to know, because I live here. I never stay in Bordeaux hotels.”
    “Have you been here long?”
    “I was born in Pauillac, about fifty kilometers from Bordeaux. So— une fille du coin , a local girl.”
    “And your English? Don’t tell me that comes from Pauillac.”
    “Years ago, I spent some time in London. In those days, one had to speak English; nobody spoke French. Today London is almost like une ville française . More than three hundred thousand French people live there. They say it’s easier for business.” Sophie leaned forward over the wheel. “Now, no more questions. I have to concentrate.”
    Sophie threaded her way through a web of one-way streets and pulled up outside the hotel, an eighteenth-century building with a pompous façade and an air of self-satisfied respectability.
    “Voilà,” she said. “I need to go back to the office, but we can meet for dinner if you like.”
    Sam nodded and smiled. “I would like.”
    Waiting for her in the hotel lounge—or, as the official description in the hotel brochure put it, the salon bourgeois “cosy” —Sam felt both relieved and encouraged by his first exposure to Sophie Costes. It was entirely unworthy and chauvinistic of him, he knew, but he was much happier working with good-looking women. And he was encouraged by the fact that Sophie was a born and bred Bordelaise. From everything he had read about Bordeaux society, it was a maze of family connections and disconnections, feuds and alliances that had been developed over a couple of centuries. An insider as a guide was going to be invaluable.
    The click of high heels across the floor announced Sophie’s arrival. She had changed for dinner. A little black dress, naturellement . Two strands of pearls. A heavy black cashmere shawl. An interesting hint of scent. Sam straightened his tie.
    “I’m glad I wore a suit,” he said.
    Sophie laughed. “What do men normally wear to go out to dinner in Los Angeles?”
    “Oh, five-hundred-dollar jeans, snakeskin cowboy boots, Armani T-shirts, silk jackets, Louis Vuitton baseball caps—you know, rough country clothes. But no pearls. Real men don’t do pearls.”
    Sophie looked as though this last piece of information confirmed a previous impression. “I think you are not a serious man.”
    “I try not to be,” Sam admitted, “but I can get very serious about dinner. Where are we going? Should I get a cab?”
    “We can walk. It’s just around the corner—a little place, but the food is good and so is the wine list.” Sophie turned to look up at Sam as they went down the street. “You do drink wine, don’t you?”
    “And how. What were you expecting me to drink? Diet Coke? Iced tea?”
    Sophie waved the question away. “One never knows with Americans.”
    Sam liked the restaurant at first sight. It was snug, not much bigger than his living room at the Chateau Marmont, with a tiny bar at one end, mirrors and framed black-and-white portrait photographs along the walls, unfussy furniture, and thick, white tablecloths. A dark-haired, smiling woman came forward to greet them, and was introduced to Sam as Delphine, the chef’s wife. Judging by the exchange of kisses between the two women it seemed that Sophie was a regular client. Delphine showed them to a corner table, suggested a glass of champagne while they studied the menu, and bustled back to the kitchen.
    “This is exactly my kind of place,” said Sam as he looked around. “Great choice.” He nodded toward the wall