The Vintage Caper

…” She stopped. Sam was already shaking his head.
    “He’d want to know the name of the magazine, and his people would probably want to call the magazine editor to make sure it wasn’t going to be a hatchet job. In any case, interviewing Reboul is just a smoke screen, the means to an end. It’s really the cellar we want to see. The wines.”
    Sophie’s experience of deceit and bluff was limited to the occasional socially delicate dinner party in Bordeaux, but she found she was enjoying the challenge of inventing a credible piece of fiction. “I know,” she said. “You are a rich American who wants to make a wonderful cellar—in a hurry, of course, like all rich Americans—and I am your consultant. We come to Reboul for inspiration, because we have heard he has one of the best cellars in France.”
    Sam was frowning. “But what’s in it for him? Why should he help two strangers?”
    “Because he likes to be flattered.” Sophie shrugged. “All men do—successful men most of all.”
    “Sure. But it’s not enough of a reason, not for someone who loves publicity. And we know he loves publicity. He doesn’t seem the kind of guy who does good deeds in secret.”
    Sam was about to pour the wine when he paused, the bottle halfway between the ice bucket and Sophie’s glass. “What was that you said just now? About Reboul having one of the best cellars in France?”
    Sophie nodded. “So?”
    “You say ‘best cellar’ to me and I think of a book. You know, a best seller. Now, suppose we were putting together a book. A big, glossy, expensive book. A book that’s all about the best cellars in France—no, make that the best cellars in the world—and we wanted to include Reboul’s cellar.” Sam was so taken up with his thoughts that he was oblivious to the dripping bottle in his hand and the patient waiter at his shoulder. “And why? Because it has everything: a great collection of wines, an extraordinary setting for a cellar, a fascinating and successful owner, everything. All of which, of course—and particularly the owner—would be photographed for the book by one of the world’s top photographers. So Reboul would get his flattery, but it would be public flattery. And we’d have a reason to spend as long as we wanted in his cellar. Long enough to make notes. Long enough to take reference photographs.” Sam sat back and gave up the bottle to the hovering waiter who had been waiting to fill their glasses. “What do you think?”
    “Promising,” said Sophie. “Actually, very good. But I have a big question. Who are we? I mean, which publishing company do we work for? Surely Reboul would want to know.”
    Sam found himself slipping into French ways, and gave Sophie a vigorous wag of his index finger. “We’re not publishers. We’re independent book packagers. We have an idea for a book. Let’s say we call it The World’s Best Cellars . Next, we commission people to write the text and take the photographs. We make up a dummy, and then we sell publishing rights to the highest bidder among the big international publishers. Bertelsmann, Hachette, Taschen, Phaidon—companies like that.”
    “How do you know all these things?”
    Sam thought back to his one and only brush with the publishing business. “A couple of years ago, I happened to be on a job in Frankfurt during the book fair. It’s a zoo, but it’s a big deal—publishers from all over the world go there to buy and sell. I got to know a few of the publishing people who took over the hotel bar every night. Boy, can those guys drink. They talked. I listened. I learned a lot. It was pretty interesting.”
    As Sophie and Sam made their slow and enjoyable way through sea bass with fennel, some fresh goat cheese with tapénade , and a rosemary sorbet, they bounced the idea back and forth, testing it for problems and adding a few embellishments. By the time coffee arrived, they felt they had a story that would stand up. In the morning, Sophie would get Reboul’s office number from Philippe and, with luck, make an appointment. Sam would buy a camera and polish up their presentation.
    “And I’ve just thought of the perfect way to end the evening,” he said as he signed the check. “A moonlit snoop.”
    Sophie gave him a sideways look. “What is snoop?”
    Sam tapped his nose and winked. “A clandestine reconnaissance. I thought it might be interesting to stroll up the road and take a look at our neighbor’s house. Want to