1

Wine talks. Everyone knows that. Look around you. Ask the oracle at the street corner; the uninvited guest at the wedding feast; the holy fool. It talks. It ventriloquizes. It has a million voices. It unleashes the tongue, teasing out secrets you never meant to tell, secrets you never even knew. It shouts, rants, whispers. It speaks of great things, splendid plans, tragic loves and terrible betrayals. It screams with laughter. It chuckles softly to itself. It weeps in front of its own reflection. It opens up summers long past and memories best forgotten. Every bottle a whiff of other times, other places; every one, from the commonest Liebfraumilch to the imperious 1945 Veuve Clicquot, a humble miracle. Everyday magic, Joe called it. The transformation of base matter into the stuff of dreams. Layman's alchemy.

Take me, for instance. Fleurie, 1962. Last survivor of a crate of twelve, bottled
and laid down the year Jay was born. `A pert, garrulous wine, cheery and a little
brash, with a pungent taste of blackcurrant,' said the label. Not really a wine
for keeping, but he did. For nostalgia's sake. For a special occasion. A birthday,
perhaps a wedding. But his birthdays passed without celebration; drinking Argentinian
red and watching old Westerns. Five years ago he laid me out on a table set
with silver candlesticks, but nothing came of it. In spite of that he and the
girl stayed together. An army of bottles came with her -- Dom Pérignon,
Stolichnaya vodka, Parfait Amour and Mouton-Cadet, Belgian beers in long-necked
bottles, Noilly Prat vermouth and Fraise des Bois. They talk, too, nonsense
mostly, metallic chatter, like guests mingling at a party. We refused to have
anything to do with them. We were pushed to the back of the cellar, we three
survivors, behind the gleaming ranks of these newcomers, and there we stayed
for five years, forgotten. Château-Chalon '58, Sancerre '71 and myself.
Château-Chalon, vexed at his relegation, pretends deafness and often refuses
to speak at all. `A mellow wine of great dignity and stature,' he quotes in
his rare moments of expansiveness. He likes to remind us of his seniority, of
the longevity of yellow Jura wines. He makes much of this, as he does of his
honeyed bouquet and unique pedigree. The Sancerre has long since turned vinegary
and speaks even less, occasionally sighing thinly over her vanished youth.

And then, six weeks before this story begins, the others came. The strangers. The Specials. The interlopers who began it all, though they too seemed forgotten behind the bright new bottles. Six of them, each with its own small handwritten label and sealed in candle wax. Each bottle had a cord of a different colour knotted around its neck: raspberry red, elderflower green, blackberry blue, rosehip yellow, damson black. The last bottle, tied with a brown cord, was no wine even I had ever heard of. `Specials, 1975,' said the label, the writing faded to the colour of old tea. But inside was a hive of secrets. There was no escaping them; their whisperings, their catcalls, their laughter. We pretended indifference to their antics. These amateurs. Not a whiff of grape in any of them. They were inferiors, and we begrudged them their place among us. And yet there was an appealing impudence to these six freebooters, a hectic clash of flavours and images to send more sober vintages reeling. It was, of course, beneath our dignity to speak to them. But oh I longed to. Perhaps it was that plebeian undertaste of blackcurrant which linked us.

From the cellar you could hear everything that went on in the house. We marked
events with the comings and goings of our more favoured colleagues: twelve beers
Friday night and laughter in the hallway; the night before a single bottle of
Californian red, so young you could almost smell the tannin; the previous week
-- his birthday, as it happened -- a half-bottle of Moët, a demoiselle,
that loneliest, most revealing of sizes, and the distant, nostalgic sound of
gunfire and horses' hooves from upstairs. Jay Mackintosh was thirty-seven. Unremarkable
but for his eyes, which were pinot noir indigo, he had the awkward, slightly
dazed look of a man who has lost his way. Five years ago Kerry had found this
appealing. By now she had lost her taste for it. There was something deeply
annoying about his passivity and the core of stubbornness beneath. Precisely
fourteen years ago Jay wrote a novel called Three Summers with Jackapple Joe.
You'll know it, of course. It won the Prix Goncourt in France, translated into
twenty languages. Three crates of vintage Veuve Clicquot celebrated its publication
-- the '76, drunk too young to do it justice, but then Jay was always like that,
rushing at life as if it might never run dry, as if what was bottled inside
him would last for ever, success following success in a celebration without
end.

In those days there was no wine cellar. We stood on the mantelpiece above his
typewriter, for luck, he said. When he'd completed the book he opened the last
of my companions of '62 and drank it very slowly, turning the glass round and
round in his hands when he'd finished. Then he came over to the mantelpiece.
For a moment he stood there. Then he grinned and walked, rather unsteadily,
back to his chair.

`Next time, sweetheart,' he promised. `We'll leave it till next time.' You see, he talks to me, as one day I will talk to him. I'm his oldest friend. We understand each other. Our destinies are intertwined.

Of course there was no next time. Television interviews, newspaper articles and reviews succeeded each other into silence. Hollywood made a film adaptation with Corey Feldman, set in the American Midwest. Nine years passed. Jay wrote part of a manuscript entitled Stout Cortez and sold eight short stories to Playboy magazine, which were later reprinted as a collection by Penguin Books. The literary world waited for Jay Mackintosh's new novel, eagerly at first, then restless, curious, then finally, fatally, indifferent.

Of course he still wrote. Seven novels to date, with titles like The G-sus
Gene or Psy-Wrens of Mars or A Date with d'Eath, all written under the pseudonym
of Jonathan Winesap, nice earners which kept him in reasonable comfort for those
fourteen years. He bought a computer, a Toshiba laptop, which he balanced on
his knees like the TV dinners he made for himself on the nights -- increasingly
frequent now -- that Kerry worked late. He wrote reviews, articles, short stories
and newspaper columns. He lectured at writers' groups, held creative-writing
seminars at the university. There were so many things to occupy him, he used
to say, that he had scarcely any time to do any work of his own -- laughing
without conviction at himself, the writer who never writes. Kerry looked at
him, narrow-lipped, when he said this. Meet Kerry O'Neill -- born Katherine
Marsden -- twenty-eight, cropped blond hair and startling green eyes, which
Jay never suspected were coloured contact lenses. A journalist made good in
television by way of Forum! a late-night talk show, where popular authors and
B-list celebrities discussed contemporary social problems against a background
of avant-garde jazz. Five years ago she might have smiled at his words. But
then, five years ago there was no Forum!, Kerry was writing a travel column
for the Independent and working on a book entitled Chocolate -- a Feminist Outlook.
The world was filled with possibilities. The book came out two years later,
on a wave of media interest. Kerry was photogenic, marketable and mainstream.
As a result she appeared on a number of lightweight chat shows. She was photographed
for Marie Claire, Tatler and Me!, but was quick to reassure herself that it
hadn't gone to her head. She had a house in Chelsea, a pied-à-terre in
New York and was considering liposuction on her thighs. She had grown up. Moved
on.

But, for Jay, nothing had moved on. Five years ago he had seemed the embodiment of the temperamental artist, drinking half a bottle of Smirnoff a day, a doomed, damaged figure of romance. He had brought out her maternal instincts. She was going to redeem him, inspire him and, in return, he would write a wonderful book, a book which would illuminate lives and which would all be due to her.

But none of that happened. Trashy sci-fi was what paid the rent; cheap paperbacks with lurid covers. The maturity, the puckish wisdom of that first work, had never been duplicated, or even attempted. And for all his brooding silences Jay had no temperament to speak of. He had never given in to an impulse. He never really showed anger, never lost control. His conversation was neither brilliantly intelligent nor intriguingly surly. Even his drinking -- his one remaining excess -- seemed ridiculous now, like a man who insists upon wearing the outmoded fashions of his youth. He spent his time playing computer games, listening to old singles and watching old movies on video, locked in his adolescence like a record in a groove. Maybe she was mistaken, thought Kerry. He didn't want to grow up. He didn't want to be saved.

The empty bottles told a different story. He drank, Jay told himself, for the same reason he wrote second-rate science fiction. Not to forget, but to remember, to open up the past and find himself there again, like the stone in a bitter fruit. He opened each bottle, began each story with the secret conviction that here was the magic draught that would restore him. But magic, like wine, needs the right conditions in order to work. Joe could have told him that. Otherwise the chemistry doesn't happen. The bouquet is spoiled.

I suppose I expected it to begin with me. There would have been poetry in that. We are linked, after all, he and I. But this story begins with a different vintage. I don't really mind that. Better to be his last than his first. I'm not even the star of this story, but I was there before the Specials came, and I'll be there when they've all been drunk. I can afford to wait. Besides, aged Fleurie is an acquired taste, not to be rushed, and I'm not sure his palate would have been ready.