A Good Year Page #7

and I have a very,

very short temper.

I'm also extremely jealous

and slow to forgive,

just so you know.

Well, this promises to be

- a lovely evening.

- Mm.

I wouldn't go to Rome.

It is quite overcrowded.

I mean, there's more

tourists than pigeons.

I've got to go somewhere,

maybe Venice. Ow.

Yeah, but it's sinking.

You know, one false move,

fall in the canal- sorry.

Run down by a gondolier.

Whereas London has got it all,

including your own

personal tour guide: moi.

Charlie.

Concentrate.

Sorry.

Alone at last.

You've been candid with me, so I

should be candid with you.

I'm famously callous,

even to the point

of being insensitive.

And I have an absolute

inability to trust anyone.

The only person I ever loved

was my Uncle Henry, and...

I didn't contact him for

the last ten years of his life.

He often expressed great sadness,

as though he thought

you had been lost.

You knew him?

As a woman living here,

it was impossible not to know him.

Right.

Um, he didn't, by any chance,

ever get out the Edmundo records

- And do the, um...

Rumba?

No.

Thank you.

But of course I tried.

Well, you would, 'cause he

was absolutely lovable.

Yes.

I can't for the life

of me think of why

I stopped coming down here.

I love this place.

It's intoxicating.

Scorpions! Agh!

Ow!

- Scorpions!

- Mm.

There are scorpions in my bedroom!

I must go to work.

Isn't that usually the man's line?

Do you know the reason

why I spent the night with you?

It is because once you have done

what you came here to do,

you will not return.

For us, there can be no future.

There is safety in that.

Well...

...there's absolutely nothing

stopping us from setting up

your caf in Notting Hill.

- London definitely needs

a decent bistro.

Mm.

How typical... to assume

that I live in Provence

because I have no choice.

Fanny, this place just

doesn't suit my life.

No, Max.

It is your life

that doesn't suit this place.

Au revoir.

What happened to the diving board?

Hmm.

We did quite well, didn't we?

Yeah, I don't think we did

too badly, considering

the oenologue's report.

You know, Charlie...

...I think I'm in love.

I don't blame you, mate.

She's a goddess,

even if she is your cousin.

Not Christie, you silly sod.

My, um...

my obligatory cultural activity is a girl.

- Oh.

- A woman.

Fanny Chenal.

Ooh, la la.

I've been thinking,

perhaps I shouldn't sell.

Max, I think

at the moment,

your whole body is covered

in the eau de French girl,

and when you have

had a cold shower,

things will look

a little bit different.

I could keep it as

a pied-a-terre, a weekender,

holiday house, you know.

Can I remind you what happened

when your boss and mentor,

a man you loved, took his

first holiday in 15 years.

I stole his job.

Exact.

Max Skinner doesn't do weekends.

Max Skinner doesn't take holidays.

Max Skinner...

...makes money.

So do what you do best, Max.

Hmm?

If you're going to sell it,

you got to sign it.

Shh.

Why is he singing to them,

Uncle Henry?

Well, you see, Max,

the terroir needs more

than southern rain.

It needs harmony.

It needs balance.

My whole life,

people laughed at me

for singing to the vines.

I explained that, someday,

the vines would sing back.

Here, they finally have.

You don't know what you are doing.

What are you talking about?

Here...

Le Coin Perdu.

It's not possible.

The oenologue said you couldn't

even grow squash or potatoes...

No, no, no, no, no.

The oenologue was paid to say that.

We thought that if you believed

La Siroque had no value,

you would leave things

as they were,

so the status quo.

Why didn't you tell me this before?

Why didn't you trust me?

Max, would you trust you?

These vines, they are illegal.

Your uncle always intended

to leave the estate to you,

but he worried about

what you had become.

"My nephew is selfish,"

he used to say.

"How can I give this

place to a man

who can't even appreciate

the simple pleasures of life?"

So it was never written.

Plus, fate took him

before he could decide what to do.

I've already sold it.

Then you have done

the very thing

your uncle feared you would do.

You have sold his spirit

to the highest bidder, Max,

and betrayed the only man

who ever cared for you.

Here, Max.

Here was Henry's f***-you money!

This one.

Ah, well chosen.

It's not quite there yet.

Once you find

something good, Max,

you have to take care of it.

You have to let it grow.

Christie.

What are you doing?

You can't just leave.

Sure, I can.

Well, what about last night?

I nursed you through

second-degree burns.

You were sweet.

And I seriously damaged

the ends of my fingers.

Frostbitten?

Like your heart.

Bye, Charlie.

Bye, Christie.

Where you headed?

Not exactly sure.

I brought you something.

Your book.

You didn't finish it.

Christie?

You do have his nose.

Au revoir.

Au revoir, coz.

Dear Max,

I know it's been many years

since we last spoke,

but I find myself

in a bit of a jam,

and I'm afraid I need your help.

The thing is, Max, old boy, I'm dying.

I know this because, uh,

Dr. Karr, my physician,

has stopped talking

about my health

and begun discussing the weather.

Convinced that death,

like all tradesmen,

would be unable

to find my front door,

and having always

believed wills

to be written invitations

to the Reaper,

I find myself impelled

to impress upon your kindness.

I have a daughter, ;

her name is Christie Roberts.

Sadly, we have never met.

Her mother's name was Allison.

She was a tour guide

at a tiny vineyard

in Northern California.

Max, I should like you

to find her,

and to this end,

I should like to leave her

what is rightfully hers.

I hope this decision

doesn't hurt your feelings,

and as successful as you are,

you don't need it.

I hope you understand,

because, for me,

even in its present state,

La Siroque is a place of magic,

and it is my heartfelt wish

that Christie should share

in that magic.

I like to think ofher here.

After all, she and La Siroque

are all I leave behind.

Your loving uncle...

Your loving uncle,

Henry Skinner.

Henry Skinner.

Il est un petit, um, wrinkle.

What do you mean? What...

What sort of wrinkle?

Uh...

Ah, Genghis, back from the dead.

Just a lovely tie.

Do tell your mother

I admire her taste.

Welcome back, boss.

Oh... I bet.

You wanker!

Kenneth. Nice haircut.

You set me up.

Oh, dear boy,

you haven't been fired

in my absence, have you?

A short order.

Did my nuts in

in less than an hour.

You didn't?

That's unfortunate, dear boy.

Lost us six million quid.

Couldn't have anything to do

with me, Kenny. I was suspended.

You bastard!

Morning, lab rats.

- Morning, boss.

- Morning, Max.

Morning, Max.

Bonjour, Jasminda.

a va?

Bonjour?

You look different.

Give me everything

I need to read to catch up

and an espresso.

Max?

Hmm?

Sir Nigel's waiting for you.

Make it a double.

Auf Wiederherren.

Van Gogh.

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