A Good Year Page #2

since you learned

of the long-lost uncle's

departure from this world,

and all you can think of is money.

The very same uncle you're

talking about, Charles, is

the man who taught me every man

needs a f***-you million.

Okay, when are you gonna

furnish me with the particulars,

because an estate agent

needs something

he can sink his teeth into.

Well, uh, it's been a while

since I've been there,

but from memory,

at least half a dozen

bedrooms, a pool, tennis...

court, a decent-sized kitchen...

- Thanks.

- 11 hectares, a vineyard.

Bloody hell, Max, it sounds

like an estate to me, a chteau.

What's a chteau go for these days?

Well, we're obviously in the

"F-You" department, aren't we?

- Maybe several.

- Really?

God bless Henry.

I won't count my commission.

I wouldn't expect you to, Charles.

That's why I'm fond of you.

Well, in that case, Max...

here's to you.

Gemma.

Parlez-vous anglais?

- Yeah?

- Kenny,

I want the current

ten-year yield,

I want an update on the figures

for nonfarm payrolls,

and I want you to get

your scrawny little backside

out of my chair.

Thank you.

How'd he know that?

Lance Armstrong!

Maxie! Hi. How are you?

Gemma, come on, love,

admit it:
This is

because I didn't shag you

at the Christmas party,

- isn't it?

- Listen, I swear on my life,

Max, they didn't have

any other cars.

So, where are we, Max?

Oh, for bollocky's sake!

Right, I've gone

to the end of that road...

- Look, they're both the D-3.

- (GPS repeats "Go!" in French)

I've got Menerbes on my left,

or I've got Cavaillon on my right,

and they're both on the D-3.

- Go! Go!

- Oh... shut up!

Okay, okay, hang on a minute.

I'll help you. Hang on.

I've got a...

I've got a GPS here

- Go! Go!

- With a stutter and a...

quite frankly,

a shitty, froggy attitude!

Okay, listen, you turn left

and that'll take you straight

onto the N-7, and if you

really put your foot on it,

you might even get

to your appointment on time.

- Bollocks! Bugger!

Mission control.

All right, love,

please reschedule

my meeting with the notaire

for first thing tomorrow morning.

Okay.

What about the keys, Max?

- Oh, there used to be a stone, you know.

- Uh-huh.

Uh, by the front door. Ask her to put that...

put the keys under the stone,

and I'll, um,

I'll pick them up from there.

Okay, copy that. Copy that.

Huh.

Hello?

Henry?

UNCLE HENRY'S VOICE:

Come on, you're slower than your Aunt Midge!

- That's it, Maximillian.

- (Max grunting)

- It's not funny.

What are you, a man or a mouse?

Fine, then, I'm a mouse. Squeak, squeak!

Hopeless, you're hopeless.

Oh, stop it!

Match point.

Ace!

Game! Set!

- Match!

- You cannot be serious!

- Hey.

- You have to rub it in?

- Hey...

The point is, Max, why

you aren't celebrating?

Because I lost!

Well, a man

should acknowledge

his losses just as gracefully

as he celebrates his victories.

Come on, give us a jig.

Give your old uncle a jig.

- Oh, yeah, I lost.

- Arms and up and down.

Yeah, great, yeah, I lost! I lost!

- Uncle Henry won!

- Yes.

- Three cheers!

- Dance, don't shimmy like an Italian.

Well done, Uncle Henry.

This is stupid.

You'll come to see

that a man learns

nothing from winning.

The act of losing, however,

can elicit great wisdom.

Not least of which is, uh,

how much more enjoyable it is to win.

It's inevitable to lose now and again.

The trick is not

to make a habit of it.

Drink?

Chicken sh*t.

- Excuse me?

On the roses.

Oh, fertilizer.

Oh, Tati.

Hello.

Duflot?

Oui.

- Max.

- My God.

Haven't you... matured.

Ah, c'est vrai,

the floods of'78,

- Right.

- Mistral of'86,

- fanleaf disease in '93.

- Fanleaf disease.

- In each vintage I've

corked away another

year of my youth.

But I still have my wife, Ludivine.

- Ludivine.

- Yeah.

And my dog...

ah, voila, Tati.

I expect you're hungry, no?

Please, come tonight.

My wife is roasting a lamb- mmm!

To tell the truth,

I haven't had much

of an appetite

since I learned of Henry.

Oh, the very last years,

his sight was failing.

But I tended to things

for him, you know?

We became very close.

Almost like...

father and son.

Well, I am most appreciative

that someone was here for him.

Well, my wife will

come in the morning

with croissants, okay?

Huh? She will resume her duties.

- Allez! Bon!

- If you insist.

Hmm.

"Welcome."

Ah.

Don't mind if I do.

Here's to you, Henry.

Devoting your life to the vines...

and bottling the truth.

Hmm...

That was honest.

Jesus, ought to have

a poison sticker on it.

Ah... coffee, coffee.

What's in here?

And that?

Piss off.

Hmm.

Morning, Henry.

Milk.

Hmm.

Maxie!

Madame Duflot!

Maxie! Maxie! Maxie!

- Oh...

- Morning.

Morning, Gemma.

Are you enjoying yourself, Max?

Oh, yes, as bereavements go, you know.

This will cheer you up.

You've been busted.

Morning Financial Times headline:

"Lorden Brothers trade

under investigation."

You don't have to worry

about any of that.

The FSA today launched

an official inquiry

into recent Lorden Brothers

trade activity.

Yes, well, I double-checked

it all through Legal.

I covered our asses, okay?

It's just bollocks to placate

the lucid back.

Oh, he doesn't think so.

- Nigel?

- Sir Nigel.

He wants a meeting with you today,

Well, it must be

about something else.

Um, what time is my meeting

with the notaire?

A little over an hour from now.

My time or yours?

Oh, sh*t.

Oh, Gemma!

Yes?

How's the house, Max?

Is it gorgeous?

Well, to tell you

the truth, Charlie,

it's a little bit shabby.

We don't say shabby, Max.

We say filled with the patina

of a bygone era.

- How's the wine?

- Right.

Uh, bouquet of a wet dog.

Hits the palate

like a razor blade

with a finish that hints of awful.

So the house is falling apart

and the vineyard

makes undrinkable wine?

Excellent.

One thing you are going

to need is an oenologue.

All right, what's that?

It's a sort of licensed wine expert.

They take soil samples- bits of

the vine, that sort of thing-

tests them- there must

be a couple near you.

And also, I would need

a couple of sexy snaps

to get the punters clamoring,

and I have an e-mail address for

you to send them to, which is...

Hold on a second.

I'll just put you on speaker.

Okay, shoot.

Provencelistings@

abroadproperties. Inc.

Sh*t.

- Hello?

- Attention!

- Hello?

- Sh*t.

- Max?

- All right, go on.

Auzet.

Hello.

Max Skinner.

The vigneron makes the wine

and the estate owner

maintains the property.

Mr. Skinner?

Yes, hmm, right, well, delightful.

This is how your uncle

and Monsieur Duflot

worked for over 20 years.

Naturally, Monsieur Duflot

will be anxious

as to your intentions.

I think I can speed this up.

I have no intention

of becoming a winemaker.

So let Monsieur Duflot

make the wine

and you enjoy the estate

on the weekends.

I'm not sure you understand me.

My life is in London.

I don't do weekends.

I intend to sell La Siroque

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