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movie, that “everything is
context,” he realized that everything wasn’t. Some part of anything was context,
some other part was substance. “It was a spectacular vintage for the entire
appellation, and the blend of grapes at that particular vineyard was not
typical; there was more of this and less of that than was usual. Isabelle
d’Orange actually used fourteen different grape varieties, the extra grape being
an obscure one, the Matou de Gethsemane. That’s one of the reasons they were
having trouble with . . . Regardless, it’s not germane to
this discussion.”
    â€œBut you will bring some good wines the
next time?” asked Veronica.
    â€œI promise.”

    Outside,
the glare punched. The stone of Jerry’s vast sloping drive was the
texture and colour of Rolaids. In the sun it was infernal. Elliot felt his
pockets for sunglasses. The daytime highs in Southern California were
approaching record levels; it was Al Gorey. Elliot dreaded calling Walt and
getting a report out of the vineyard — no doubt another day over a hundred
degrees and the newly formed grapes would be beginning to show signs of heat
stress. The oldest Zinfandel vines seemed even to like it and the Mourvèdre
could handle it, but every other grape variety he grew would be shutting down,
the fruit cooking before it could mature phenolically.
    He looked back at the house. It was a
rectilinear thing, planes of tooth enamel and shimmering glass — Richard Meier
school. There was a smog warning, and the sky, white as the centre of a spark in
every direction, seemed to suspend something dusty and grey as cigarette ash.
The palms in the rear garden that rose beyond the structure looked to Elliot as
if they were about to ignite, like that tree line at the beginning of Apocalypse Now .“This is
the end.”
    Worse, it was the middle.
    Eva emerged from the house, her blue
hair and bituminous sweater on the white stone in the midday sun some kind of
experiment in the limits of ultraviolet tolerance in New Yorkers.
    â€œThat was interesting,” Eva said, not
bothering to sound convincing. “It’s weird terrain, aesthetically. I mean, are
there greater rewards for the viewer or listener or drinker if the work is more
difficult?”
    Elliot made like he wasn’t sure whether
it was he to whom Eva was talking, as though she was mistaking him for someone
else standing nearby who might understand, or care, what she was saying.
“‘Aesthetically?’ I’m a screenwriter , you
know . . .  here ,” he jabbed
his finger down toward the scorching concrete drive, “in Los Angeles.”
    â€œYou’re being flip, right? It’s hard to
tell in California,” said Eva.
    â€œSorry. I don’t hear many interesting
questions. If you’d asked me if the lead could be younger and more sympathetic
or if the ending could be more uplifting, I might have better understood how to
dodge the question.”
    Eva smiled for the first since they’d
met. And she was right, it was weird and interesting stuff. He was being a
prick. Elliot was about to say so, but Robin was upon them.
    She came out the house like a shot and
staggered, tipping forward on account of her heels, gravity sending her
careering toward the street. By the time she reached Eva she had to put a hand
out to arrest her momentum.
    â€œElliot,” she said, “you live in
Beverly Hills . . . didn’t you say?”
    â€œNo. I didn’t. I’m in the Los Feliz
Hills, by Griffith Park. Beverly Hills,” he sighed, “can be on the way.”
    â€œAwesome. You can drive me home, it’s
not far, 1085 Summit.”
    Given what little they had consumed —
and that over a couple of hours — it seemed incredible that Robin could be
impaired, but as she came unmoored from Eva her course to Elliot was as
irregular as a torn kite. Elliot looked back