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dead. He panicked. He thought he’d had a stroke. It took a moment to register that it was just that he’d been sleeping so heavily, thanks to the booze, that he’d hardly moved during the night. Relieved to feel the pins and needles that heralded the return of blood to his arm, he rolled over onto his left side and closed his eyes again. And then he remembered.
    “Arse,” he said to himself.
    He had a lunch date. Ronald Ginsburg and Odile Levert would be waiting for him downstairs in the hotel bar at that very moment.
    He could have used another hour in bed. Maybe he should stand them up, he thought. It wasn’t such a big deal, though he knew that to the cognoscenti, it was quite a gathering. Arguably the three most important wine critics in the world at the same table. Breaking bread and disagreeing about the booze. As usual.
    Hilarian dragged himself to the bathroom and surveyed the damage from the night before. His memories of the
Vinifera
awards were vague to say the least. His head pounded. A lattice of bright red vessels patterned his ordinarily yellow eyes.
    “I’m never drinking again,” said Hilarian, as he always did. “Starting tomorrow.”
    When Hilarian finally got to the hotel bar, half an hour late, Odile and Ronald were already at the table. Ronald didn’t look as though he’d slept much. He never did. He was seventy years old. He could have started a luggage concession with the bags under his eyes and there was always a dribble of something expensive on the front of his Brooks Brothers’ shirt. Odile was entirely different. The Parisian was dressed from head to toe in cream. Probably Chanel. Always immaculate. Hilarian reflected that he had never seen her spill so much as a drop of wine in their long acquaintance. He’d never seen her drunk either. Not even slightly tipsy.
    “Stallion’s Leap worthy of a gold medal? Ronald, you must have a head cold,” Odile was saying.
    “Darling,” Ronald retorted. “Are you absolutely sure it’s not your time of the month? A woman’s cycle affects her judgment of everything.”
    Hilarian saw Odile stiffen. He had arrived just in time. There was nothing guaranteed to put Odile Levert in a rage more quickly than Ronald Ginsburg’s theory that women simply were not biologically suited to evaluating wine.
    “At last! ‘Ilarian!” “When Odile said his name, Hilarian almost liked it. Odile was colder than a witch’s tit, but her accent was pure aural sex. She kissed him on both cheeks.
    Ronald tipped an imaginary hat. “Ah, the Noble Rotter.”
    Hilarian rolled his eyes, but in fact he rather liked his nickname, which reflected not only his supposed incorrigibility but also the fact that he was an hon and an expert on botrytis (the real “noble rot” so important to the production of sweet wine). “The Noble Rotter” was the name of his regular column in one of the Sundays.
    “And who was the lucky lady last night?” Ronald asked pruriently. “I saw you go upstairs with that girl with the … ” He mimed a pair of substantial breasts. Odile tutted.
    “A gentleman never tells,” said Hilarian.
    “But you’re no gentleman,” purred Odile.
    “Good point,” said Hilarian. They didn’t have to know that he’d simply helped the extraordinarily drunken subeditor from
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to her room and kissed her good night at the door. “Who’s choosing the wine?” Hilarian changed the subject. He picked up the list and started to scan it. These three always took more trouble over choosing the wine than they did the food. “And whose expense account are we on today?” he added.
    “I’ll pick this up,” said Ronald. Ronald had
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’s most important column. It was said that winemakers the world over tweaked their wine to Ronald’s taste in search of his approval. His annual guides shifted millions of copies.
    “In that case … ” Hilarian suggested Chassagne Montrachet at three hundred pounds a bottle. Would have been rude not