Chapter 13
Frederic’s Paris office was in the Opera quarter.
He had left his years as a sommelier behind and now worked with the family’s vineyard in Bordeaux.
From his office in Paris, he represented his family’s business, plus the businesses of several other winemakers, selling their wines to restaurants, bars, and stores.
He and Bente had last seen each other three years ago, following the scandals over the unpaid bill and Bente’s alleged cheating on Henrik, and after all the stories were written about her.
She had needed the temporary distraction that Frederic offered.
They had met for dinner, then followed their usual route visiting various wine bars before going back to his apartment, where she spent the night.
On that point he was totally reliable—one night together was all he expected, nothing more.
This had suited Bente very well, though there was no denying that the burning attraction they experienced never seemed to fade.
Frederic met them in reception. His once-wavy, medium-blond hair was now cut short in a typical man-over-forty-five style.
He was one of the vainest men she knew, and she was surprised that he had gone for something so practical.
He looked at her with that familiar glint in his eye.
They exchanged air-kisses, and when the smell of him enveloped her, her stomach flipped.
He greeted Elnaz in the same way, then shook Didrik’s hand.
“This is fantastic,” Bente said as they walked along the corridor with its dove-gray rugs. Dark woods had been used to stylish effect, with occasional details in Bordeaux red: a nod to the business’s representation of winemakers.
Frederic nodded. “Thank you. I share the office with some other smallish winemakers from all over France.”
He showed them in. Wine bottles were lined up on shelves around the walls. The room was Spartan in its decor, with neat rows of folders and only a few essentials on the desk—a notepad, an ink pen, and the computer.
As they sat down, Bente could see that Frederic was looking Didrik up and down. He was the one who had broken her heart all those years ago, not the other way around, yet here he was, behaving as if Didrik were some kind of threat.
Why did that bother her? Once upon a time she would have taken it as a compliment. Instead of going for a practical haircut, maybe her way of changing and growing up was simply acquiring the ability to see right through Frederic.
A young woman with a wide mouth and a cute upturned nose arrived with coffee.
“This is Emma, my assistant.” He gave her an appreciative look. A little too appreciative. Emma glanced over her shoulder on the way out as if to make sure that Frederic was watching her, which of course he was.
He was sleeping with her. It was obvious.
Bente found this irritating, and it bothered her that she cared. What had she been hoping for? Possibly a little fling for old times’ sake, no more. So what did it matter if he was fucking his assistant? She made an effort to pull herself together, tried to focus on the real reason they were here.
“So you arrived in Paris yesterday evening?” she asked, meeting Frederic’s gaze.
“Yes, I booked a ticket as soon as you said you were coming over.” He was now looking at her as if she was the most important person in the whole world.
Nonsense. He hadn’t answered her email for several days. And yet, though the inattentiveness was his, she felt inferior, just like she had back when she had been his pupil during her sommelier training. How she had looked up to him back then!
“You know Bordeaux well, and we have a bottle we’d like to know more about.”
“I followed up on the information you sent.” Frederic began tapping on the computer.
“Is it okay if I film this?” Elnaz picked up the camera.
“Of course.” Frederic nodded happily and ran his fingers through his short hair.
“I wanted to see if I could find any vineyards that used brass plaques back then. Brass was very difficult to get ahold of during the Second World War, but a handful of vineyards worked with it before the war began.” He turned the laptop so they could see the list.
“Thanks—can you send that to me?” Bente asked.
“No problem. There are a couple of details I need to double-check, but then I’ll email it to you. Do you have the bottle with you, by the way?”
Bente took the box out of her bag and passed it to Frederic. He held it as if it were his firstborn child, gazing at it with that level of reverence. This was the Frederic she knew—passionate about wine, dedicated to both his work and his family.
He guessed at various villages, based only on the seal and the glass the bottle was made of.
“Do you know of any vineyards in Bordeaux that were involved with the resistance movement?” Didrik asked.
“Several worked with the movement—there’s plenty of information available in books and articles,” Frederic said with insincere politeness. He was always civil, but clearly disliked the competition Didrik gave him simply by being present.
“I understand.”
“When was the bottle shipped?” Frederic asked Bente.
“In 1945, just after the liberation of France but before the end of the war.”
Frederic nodded. “And as we can see from the plaque, the wine was made in 1944. That was a pretty good year, favorable weather conditions, although with quite a lot of rain during the harvest.” He was like a human reference book when it came to wines from that part of the country.
“I have an acquaintance who works at the city archive in Bordeaux; I’ll ask him if he can find anything.
There’s lots of old material that no one’s gone through yet.
He might know more about the cargo or the ship. ”
“Thanks, that’s very kind. And if you need more details about the ship, just let me know. Camille has all the information—she was part of the expedition that found the wine bottle.”
“Ah yes, Camille. Give her my best.” Frederic plastered on a smile.
He and Camille had always butted heads. Camille had thought from the start that he treated Bente badly—failing to communicate with her and frequently keeping her waiting—and she hadn’t been afraid to let him know exactly what she thought.
Frederic wrote something on his notepad, turned to his laptop, then apparently changed his mind. “I’ll get back to you with a contact.”
They stood up, and Frederic held Bente’s gaze as Elnaz and Didrik headed for the door.
“So what are you doing this evening?” He moved toward her, drawing very close, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
Bente felt uncomfortable. Her colleagues were in the same room—what would they think? Her cheeks were burning, and she wanted the floor to swallow her up. She took a step back.
“We’re having dinner and discussing the show.” She added the latter so that he wouldn’t invite himself along.
“I understand. Another time.”
Bente only cleared her throat in response.
“So how do you know Frederic?” Elnaz asked as they left the building. Didrik looked searchingly at her.
“We met when I was studying to be a sommelier. And we . . .” She hesitated, but decided she might as well be honest. “We dated for a while.”
“He seems to know his wine,” Didrik said diplomatically.
“He does, especially when it comes to Bordeaux.”
The hotel was a twenty-minute walk from Frederic’s office.
Bente left the others and went off on her own for a little while.
When she reached a market, she bought fresh flowers to put in the vase on the desk in her hotel room.
She continued on to one of her favorite perfumeries, where she treated herself to a luxury shower gel to complement the perfume she had brought with her.
Then she walked back toward the hotel, stopping in at a small wine shop on the way where she chose a half bottle of Meursault.
She put it in the minibar’s refrigerator as soon as she got back to her room, then put on some soft French jazz, which always put her in a good mood.
When she was living in Paris, she had owned a record player, which she took back to Sweden with her, and she used to seek out vinyl albums in old stores.
Today she had to make do with Spotify on the hotel’s Bluetooth speaker.
She stepped into the shower and used her new gel, which lathered up beautifully and felt wonderfully soft against her skin.
The bathroom floor was warm as she reached for a lovely thick towel.
She put on the silk robe she had brought with her and opened the balcony doors, letting the heavy smells of the city swirl into the room.
After she opened the wine and poured herself a generous glass, she pushed the desk chair out onto the balcony’s narrow stone ledge so that it was balanced on the threshold, then sat down and closed her eyes.
There was a cold wind even though it was April, and Bente reached back for the soft, fleecy cover from the bed and wrapped it around her body.
She wanted to absorb the smells of Paris, hear all its sounds.
The wine was smooth, buttery, and voluptuous in her mouth. It was one of her favorites, the very best wine to drink by itself before dinner while she was getting ready—even better than Champagne.
After a while she put on a thin rust-red dress; it was loose, but clung in all the right places.
Was she taking such care for Frederic’s sake, in case he called?
No, she decided, she was doing this for herself, and for the city.
She was choosing the perfect dress to go out and meet one of the great loves of her life—Paris.
She gathered up her hair in a loose bun on top of her head, then quickly put on her makeup, making her lips red to match her dress.
She was about to grab her purse and leather jacket when her phone buzzed. She smiled when she saw that it was a message from Frederic.
Maybe we could meet after your dinner? We didn’t have enough time today—after all, we haven’t seen each other in years.
Ha! She knew it. The fact that she hadn’t fallen at his feet had triggered him, of course. The tone of his message didn’t impress her—he really did take her for granted.
We have lots of meetings tomorrow, so I’ll be heading back to the hotel after dinner.
Frederic answered immediately.
Just an hour with me, and I promise you’ll sleep better than ever.
A ridiculous response, and yet she found herself considering his suggestion. They had enjoyed many passionate nights together, and maybe there was still something there. She didn’t reply yet, leaving her options open.
Maybe a night with Frederic was exactly what she needed.