by Rosie Dean
‘So, what’s she running away from?’
‘Huh?’
‘The police must be on her tail for you to be so keen to sort this out. She’s not in trouble is she?’
‘Don’t be silly. I don’t have friends like that. She’s an artist – a brilliant artist. She’s given up her job to take a sabbatical and paint. She feels it’s her last chance to succeed at something she dearly wants to do. I told her I could find her somewhere, easily. Unfortunately, she’s out of work and soon she’ll be homeless. If I don’t sort something out, and fast, I will have blown her dream right out of the water.’ Isabelle was giving him her most beseeching expression.
‘So, it’s you I’m getting out of a fix as much as your friend.’
‘God, yes. I practically talked her into it. If I fail her now I’ll feel guilty for ever.’
Christophe knew when he was being played. ‘I doubt it,’ he smiled. ‘But I daresay you’ll make me feel guilty for ever, if I refuse.’
Isabelle moved closer. ‘You’re a philanthropic man, Christophe. I’m just asking you to be charitable to another human being, instead of all those horses you lavish your funds and attention on.’
‘Hmmm…What if she’s a pain in the neck?’
‘Vicki? Never. She’s bright and funny and a very good cook. I know you have plenty of room in your house, you need hardly see her, except at meal times. Please say, yes.’
Christophe could see some small advantage in the arrangement. ‘Is she pretty?’
Isabelle’s eyebrows twitched. ‘Very. But don’t you mess with her, Christophe, or I’ll come down and chew your balls off.’
He laughed. That was exactly the reaction he’d expected.
‘So, what do you say?’
‘I’ll only mess with her if she wants to be messed with, how’s that?’
Isabelle’s mouth knotted into a pout. ‘Don’t mess with her. This is my dearest friend, we’re talking about. And one day, she will be godmother to my children. I don’t want to choose who I can invite to their christening, just because you behaved with un-gentlemanly conduct.’
Christophe grinned. ‘Isabelle, I’m always a gentleman.’
‘Just say, yes. Please. You’re my last hope.’
CHAPTER 3
I checked my watch against the impressive clock tower of Limoges station. Quarter past five. No sign of Christophe Dubois. Brilliant. I could do Waiting For Men. I’d had practice.
Heaving a large bag onto my shoulder, and grabbing the suitcase trolley handle, I wandered back inside the station, where I began scanning every male face for evidence he might be looking for me – trying desperately not to appear as if I were up for trade. Not a single soul was holding a sign for Vicki Marchant. I took out my phone and re-read the email. It was there in black and white. He would pick me up outside the Bénédictins railway station at five o’clock. I turned, swapped my bag from one shoulder to the other and dragged the suitcase back outside.
Despite being September, it was so humid my tee-shirt was clinging intimately to my nothing-to-brag-about curves. I shrugged off my jacket, draped it over the suitcase, and began wafting air inside my shirt. Across from the station, I could see a beautiful garden with a cool, shimmering fountain – so inviting – and it certainly beat the aspect facing tourists on arrival at Bristol Templemeads.
I counted cars, I checked my watch, I chewed my lip.
Ten minutes later, as rain began to fall, I leaned against one of the huge, stone pillars and pulled out my phone, again. I rang his home number. After two rings, the answer-phone cut in. He had the kind of mellow, French accent that could bring a coach-load of diehard, female celibates to their hairy knees and convert them in a heartbeat. Apparently I’d met him, once, when I was thirteen. I had a hazy recollection of a generic French school boy in a parade of new people I’d met on my first visit to France.
As I peered out at the passing traffic, rain bounced off the ground, forcing me to retreat into the shelter of the entrance. Minutes ticked by. It was horribly familiar. Especially that sinking feeling, creeping through my stomach as I recalled the last time I’d sheltered from the rain, and waited. Where was Father Patrick now, with his bottle of Jameson’s?
Of course, I had to examine the possibility I’d rushed into this and as I did so, all my gung-ho enthusiasm was evaporating faster than white spirit on a sunny day. A weedy art graduate, who wore an Oxfam Shop tweed suit, now sat in my art room at Darwin High. Plus, I’d let my flat to a lovely young couple with earnest faces, who were planning their own wedding.
My darling Isabelle had, after several false starts, found me a part-time job with accommodation…but only at the eleventh hour. I knew my friend’s methods. Working at the sharp end of PR had given her the persuasive leanings of Torquemada. I suspected Christophe had been browbeaten into submission, and now had cold feet.
I tried the second phone number – his mobile. There was a barrage of rapid-fire, indecipherable French, which I assumed told me his phone was out of range, and left me mouthing like a guppy. It was becoming apparent my seven years of school French hadn’t exactly set me up for life across the Channel. Luckily for me, Izzy had spent a gap year living with my family and working in Bristol, before going to Uni, so her English was almost faultless. I, on the other hand, had only made three exchange trips to stay with her family, and the occasional long weekend in Paris. Not surprisingly, we always spoke in English.
At quarter to six, I rang Isabelle. ‘I’ve been waiting for Christophe to pick me up for nearly an hour. Do you know if he’s changed his mind?’
‘No. Why would he? I’ve told him about your excellent cooking skills.’ Like I said – she’s in PR. ‘He’s really looking forward to you staying with him. Have you called him?’
‘Yes – just messages. Are you absolutely sure he was keen to do this? People say some rash things when they’re at a party, especially if you had his arm twisted behind his back and your knee in his groin.’
‘Don’t be silly. I was on a mission to find you somewhere to stay, and he volunteered. Truly.’
‘My cooking isn’t excellent, Izzy. Not by French standards.’
‘Bah! Christophe is no cook.’
‘You said he lives alone, right?’
‘Yes. But his veterinary surgery is next door, so there are other people about.’
Just then, my phone beeped.
‘Isabelle, I have another call, hang on.’
I fumbled with my phone and lost both.
‘Shit!’ I glared at the little screen and waited a moment before checking my messages.
‘Vicki, this is Christophe Dubois.’ Like I got messages from French men all the time. ‘I apologise for not meeting you. I have had an emergency. I suggest you take a taxi and I will be back later. You will…’ The message cut out. Relief flooded through me. I grabbed my bags and headed for the taxi rank.
As I settled into the back of a cab, the rain came down like metal rods, beating off the roads and hammering on the car roof. The sky flashed intermittently before great, rolling belts of thunder shuddered around us. I had to keep wiping condensation away from the window to see out. Soon, we were leaving the bright lights of Limoges. Architecture spanning thousands of years gave way to rolling green countryside and grey stone cottages. They all merged and blurred beyond the rivulets of rain, like a painting by Monet in his final years.
My eyes dropped out of focus as I allowed myself to wonder about what I might achieve in the coming year. Never since I was at college had I had the opportunity to be creative without heavy responsibilities crowding in. I was giving myself a treat – the treat of a lifetime, really. And I knew, with absolute certainty, the year would fly by. In twelve months I’d be making this journey in the other direction. Only then would I know whether I’d mined the most out of this year. I allowed myself a quick peek into the future – a stack of completed canvases; an exhibition in Bristol…why limit myself to Bristol? How about London? Paris
? Who knew how popular my work might become? Then, like the memory of a sensational dream dissolves on waking, the vision faded. Who said my work would be popular at all? What conceit.
I shifted in my damp coat. There was a lot of ground, not to mention canvas, to cover before anyone could even hope to judge my work. I wasn’t certain it mattered whether it was good or not. No. I was here for me. This would be my phoenix year – time to rediscover the essential Vicki.
Oh. I would also be cooking every day for my landlord.
What did I know about Christophe? Isabelle described him as, ‘Tall with dark hair. Not my type,’ which was encouraging, since Isabelle always went for moody, academic types who sat brooding over books – even in company. Maybe he was an absolute dish and his looks had bypassed Isabelle. She’d called him a confirmed bachelor – with just one little blip last year when, to everyone’s surprise, he’d moved a girlfriend in, but that was over.
And your point is? I asked myself. You haven’t come to France to meet some dishy homme.
No. This was my time. I reminded myself that Marc’s departure had happened for a reason. I had to believe that, otherwise all his misdemeanours would be too painful to bear. No, his leaving had freed me up to pursue the life I was meant to follow. Until now, I had shelved my own artistic ambitions for the security of a teaching job, and saving for our future. Isabelle had known that too.
I was jostled from my thoughts as the taxi pulled to a halt outside a large, stone, detached house set back from the road. The uncommunicative driver lifted my bags from the boot and placed them on the pavement. He grunted the cost of the fare. I peered at him, ‘Repetez, s’il vous plait,’ I said, so he had to repeat it. I still didn’t get it. He said it louder and held up his fingers to indicate thirty-seven euros. I gave him forty and he grunted again before climbing back into his car and driving off.
The rain was lighter now – if you can imagine standing under a watering can as opposed to a power-shower. There were huge puddles in the road and a small lake on the driveway. I slung one bag over my arm and dragged the case towards the house. A deep bark, followed immediately by a higher yapping, answered my knock at the door. I waited and listened as the barking came closer and was interrupted now and again by exaggerated snuffling noises along the bottom of the door. Through the frosted glass at the top I could make out the shaggy head of some kind of hound. So I jabbered doggie-chat through the wooden panels until I reached their boredom threshold and they quietened down.
Still I waited. No point in knocking again – who needed a doorbell with security like that?
I looked for signs of human life. The brass plate by the door declared Christophe Dubois’ credentials. Below it, was an arrow directing clients round to the side of the house. I followed it to the surgery door, which was locked and the interior in darkness. Extending from the house was a stone wall with a gate, also locked. Rain clouds were still dumping their contents on me and I had nowhere to shelter.
‘Merci, Christophe,’ I grumbled. ‘Merci chuffing beaucoup.’
Returning to the front of the house, I sat on my suitcase and looked up and down the road for any signs of life. If this were England, there would at least be a pub or a corner shop where I could seek refuge. Here, all I could see was a small bakery and an antique shop. Neither was open. I looked up at the darkening sky and waited for a flash of lightning to strike.
Should I call him again? Would that make me sound like an old nag? On the other hand, what kind of person agreed to collect someone from the station then left them to wait in a strange place, in the pouring rain? I pressed myself against the wall to avoid the full pelt of water from above. My hair was dripping, and droplets trickled down the side of my nose. Every joint in my body was stiffening with cold.
This was beyond miserable. A familiar ache clutched at the back of my throat as my ten-denier bravado began to ladder. I swallowed. Best not to think about that now. I was a big girl – well – a grown-up. It could be worse. I could be here all night.
Shit! I could be here all night.
I called him again and groaned at the beep of his messaging service. I spoke very slowly, in my best French and with a forced smile. ‘Hello, Christophe. I have arrived at your house. I am waiting outside. It is raining. Please will you call and let me know when you will be arriving? Thank you.’ I returned to staring broodily at the buildings across the street, where little shutters hung at odd angles.
A pair of headlights came into view. I watched as they drew closer and pulled onto the drive. The man at the wheel, who I assumed to be Christophe, was holding a mobile phone to his ear. He looked about as grumpy as I felt, which was a good start. As he pushed open the door, I noticed he was also about as soggy. His trousers were tucked into muddy boots and his damp hair had been pushed back off his face. Admittedly, quite a handsome face; good jaw-line, dark hair, dark eyes and a five o’clock shadow, which all made him look vaguely sinister. He nodded. ‘You didn’t find the key, then?’ His voice was as deep as I remembered – though perhaps a little less silky.
‘No. Why would I?’
He walked over to a plant pot by the front door. Stooping down, he moved it to reveal a key safe, punched in four numbers and retrieved the key. How was I supposed to know there was a key there? I wasn’t a mind-reader. Then I remembered. His phone message had been cut short. I looked up at him – quite a long way up actually, he was easily a foot taller than me, I could feel vertigo taking a grip. ‘I got your message but not all of it. I think the signal must have been weak.’
He nodded. ‘I just listened to yours. You are not very happy, huh?’ He looked down, his dark eyes fixing on mine. Boy! He didn’t flinch from staring, did he? My pulse wobbled unnervingly. He spoke again. ‘I see you are as wet as I am, non?’
‘I’m not sure I’ve ever been wetter – fully clothed, that is.’ As he cast his eyes down the length of my sodden figure, I could feel my mouth curl in embarrassment at such a stupid comment. Behind the door, the dogs had redoubled their barking. As he leaned over to unlock it, I smelt a faint hint of some cologne beyond the damp fabric of his clothes, which was battling with the undeniable pong of horse manure. Nice. He called something to his dogs, before he swung the door open. A large, sandy coloured wolfhound and a smaller dog of unclassified pedigree, rushed out. They were torn between greeting him and investigating me. Christophe introduced them, as he ruffled the large sandy head, ‘This is Hercules, and the little guy is Boz.’
I stooped to scratch the smaller dog’s ears. ‘Hello, Boz. You’re a cutie.’
Christophe lifted my bags into the large hallway and placed them by the stairs while I paid attention to the dogs. When he clicked his tongue, they bounced back to him, circling expectantly. He crouched down and scratched their ears lovingly. I might have appreciated this touching little tableau, if I hadn’t been wringing wet and sinking fast into pneumonia.
I cleared my throat and said quietly, ‘Sorry to be such a nuisance, but I’m dripping on your floor.’
He looked at me for longer than I thought necessary, and something in his face suggested I might not be quite as welcome as I’d hoped. ‘Of course.’ Standing up, he commanded ‘Allez!’ at which, the two pets skulked into a large basket, their paws hanging over the edge, alert for the next opportunity for attention.
‘I see you are not a woman to be kept waiting.’
The cheek of him. ‘Sorry. I just want to get out of these wet clothes. Don’t you?’
I saw an eyebrow lift and the corners of his mouth twitch. I silently congratulated myself on plunging into a double-entendre with a wet Frenchman. Avoiding eye contact, I reached for one of my bags at exactly the same time as he did so our heads met like balls on a snooker table but without the satisfying ‘click’. I recoiled.
He peered at me in concern, his hand touching my arm, ‘I’m sorry, are you okay?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
His mouth lifted in a half smile and I saw the beginni
ngs of fine lines radiating from his eyes. Nice eyes. ‘Good,’ he said, before lifting my bags and heading up the stairs. I followed him up and across the landing to a large room at the back of the house which was kitted out with heavy wooden furniture. He placed my bags on the floor and walked over to a door in the far corner. ‘Your bathroom.’
I nodded. Despite having doubled my body weight with rainwater, I still couldn’t wait to marinate in a hot bath.
‘I hope you will be comfortable. If you need anything, just ask.’
The curtains and matching bedspread, in apple blossom print, reminded me of an old B&B I’d stayed in with Marc, at Ilfracombe, during a rare hot week when we were on a tight budget and fancied some sand, sea and sex. ‘Thank you. It’s lovely.’
‘Now, you need to get out of those wet clothes and dry off so I will leave you.’ He moved over to the door. ‘Unfortunately, I have an evening appointment, so you will have to settle in on your own.’
Not only had he failed to meet me, he was now abandoning me for the evening. My resentment seeped out through a very blunt, ‘Oh.’
He ran a hand through his damp hair, forcing a stray lock back from his forehead. ‘I had hoped to spend a little time with you, but one of my horses had an accident.’
‘Oh.’ I said again. This time, a breeze of guilt drifted across my heart. ‘Is it going to be okay?’
‘Yes. Unfortunately, he won’t race again but I can still breed from him.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Now, I’m afraid I really have to get ready.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Vicki Marchant.’ He pronounced my surname with a soft ‘ch’ like the French word for walking.
I smiled and shook his hand, which was so much warmer than mine. ‘Pleased to meet you, too. Thank you for letting me stay.’