Vicki's Work of Heart

by Rosie Dean

  ‘And Christophe?’

  The vision of him in his tuxedo had flashed before me. ‘He seems nice. But we haven’t really had time to talk and now he’s gone out for the evening.’

  ‘I hate to say it, chérie, I don’t have time to talk either. Jean-Claude is here, we’re watching 2001 A Space Odyssey, have you seen it?’

  ‘Yes, I fell asleep after ten minutes and woke up when all the alarm clocks went off.’

  ‘Oh Vicki, you’re so funny. You must watch it some time, it’s fascinating.’

  ‘No, honestly. I’d rather watch paint dry.’ And often did.

  ‘Bye, honey. Love you.’

  Just occasionally, I wondered how on earth Isabelle and I had become so close. Sixteen years ago, our friendship had an unusual beginning. Bristol had been twinned with Bordeaux for years, and my dad used to be very active in the city’s twinning association. So, despite my hesitation to venture into another country alone – especially since I’d just had dental braces fitted – I’d been set up for an exchange. I’d arrived at Bordeaux airport, the youngest of fifteen Bristolean students, trembling in my short, lavender tartan kilt, lavender sweater, black tights and chunky black shoes – the height of fashion in the late nineties or so I thought – and waited with anxiety churning in my stomach. When the group leader began calling out names to partner us up, out of the crowd stepped a tall girl with short dark hair. She was wearing a bottle-green sweater over jeans and trainers but looked unutterably chic to my young eye. Isabelle Masson grinned in my direction and I was overjoyed to see her teeth were adorned with a comprehensive set of dental braces identical to mine. I hadn’t smiled properly since I’d had the horrible things fitted but I beamed back at her with relief.

  She’d made me a card, showing a hand-drawn, vaguely recognisable image of Bristol Suspension Bridge with the letters – V I C K I – hanging beneath. Inside the card was another bridge, that I later learned was Pont Pierre in Bordeaux, with the letters – I S A B E L L E – hanging beneath.

  ‘We are the same,’ she said in her best English.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, delighted to think this girl would align herself with me. ‘Oui.’

  Our friendship confirmed, she hugged me and took hold of my hand before leading me to her parents. As I’d never had a brother or sister – and coming from an English society where hugging was reserved for close family – the intimacy of this made me feel weirdly alien and yet totally accepted.

  As if in anticipation of her future career, Isabelle already showed a knack for getting alongside others and gaining their confidence.

  She was confident too, for a teenager. She had three brothers and read everything she could lay her hands on. I, on the other hand, was still finding my social feet, was an only child and read magazines – occasionally. While she would astonish me with her burgeoning philosophies of life, I would impress her with my drawing ability and early skills in the kitchen. My Somerset Apple Cake still remains a favourite with her family.

  So, despite the miles which separated our homes, we became ‘Sisters Under the Sun’.

  *

  As Christophe walked up the hill with his dogs, he used the time to think about the newcomer in their household. ‘What do you think, boys?’ he asked them. ‘Did I do the right thing, huh? Do you like having company around the house?’ Hercules looked back at him, tongue flopping out of his mouth in a lazy, doggy smile. ‘I did it for you, you know.’ Although, he could see there were some benefits for him too.

  He thought how vehemently Vicki had argued with him over the purchase of food. He smiled to himself as he remembered how her cheeks had flushed pink and her round eyes seemed to grow larger as she made her point. The girl certainly had spirit. Perhaps it was her artistic temperament coming out. The truth was, she probably didn’t eat more than a mouse. She was tiny – that sweatshirt swamped her. Beautiful eyes though – were they blue or violet?

  As the sun broke through a gap in the trees and warmed his face, for the first time in a long time, he felt his spirits lift.

  CHAPTER 5

  It didn’t take long to unpack all my art materials and set up the studio. My greatest indecision was over where to place the easel in a room which lacked the preferred north light of a true artist’s studio. All the same, I wasn’t going to complain. I finally settled on the centre of the room, so I had light from either side, and it also gave me the ability to look out of all the windows.

  Next to one of them, I hung a small, double-sided frame; on one side was a picture of my parents and, when I turned it over, there was a list of affirmations I’d written, which had been my mantras for the last few weeks. I stood with my arms stretched out and recited them:

  ‘I am an artist.

  ‘I am painting because I want to – I am a contented artist.

  ‘I am painting for a living – I am a successful artist.

  ‘I am painting for an exhibition.

  ‘There is an audience for my work and the Universe is bringing us together.

  ‘I am an artist.’

  I bowed reverentially to the affirmations. ‘And screw anybody who gets in my way.’

  Yes. This was my time.

  Throughout my college career, I’d imagined I would, some day, have an exhibition. Not, you understand, because I was a flashy cow (although some friends may beg to differ) but because I liked to capture the mood of a time, a place and the people within it – just as Impressionists like Lautrec, Manet and Renoir had done. I realise a camera does exactly that, but something about the colours and energy in their work added a mood – a feeling to the image. When I see something which seizes my heart and imagination, I want to capture everything about it; not just the scenery but how I feel about it at the time. So, I guess, I just wanted to share that excitement with everyone else.

  I’d already googled art shops in Limoges but I had hoped there might be a small art supplier more locally. I’d only been able to carry sketch-pads so I decided to head out on a reccy of the town. But not before dropping into the surgery to invite The Lovely Louise over for her lunch break. And she was lovely; barely into her twenties, fresh-faced and with a smile for everyone. She had brown hair tied back in a pony-tail, barely-there make-up with a nude tone lip-gloss and wearing a non-too-flattering beige and cream nurse’s overall. She was like a sepia toned Anne of Green Gables.

  She welcomed me like she’d been looking forward to this day all her life. I doubted this could be due to Izzy’s PR so I could only suppose it was Louise’s default setting. She accepted my invitation like a shot and I trotted off cheerfully to discover the delights of the little town.

  The morning sun was hitting the pavement at an angle, casting oblique shadows across the road. ‘Quelle beau jour,’ I said out loud as the sun warmed my back. What a beautiful day. The smell of fresh bread floated out from the boulangerie, hooked me by the nostrils and drew me in to buy a baguette, still warm from the oven. Shops were dotted around the town, interspersed with quiet little houses, their window boxes still showing summer colour from red and pink geraniums. How did the French achieve it? I wondered. Wherever you went in France, there were geraniums spilling out of window boxes and traffic roundabouts ablaze with colour. Pride, God love ’em, they had pride.

  After covering every square inch of the town, my hunch proved right – no shop selling art materials. The locals were cheerful enough, nodding in friendly greeting as I passed. I picked up some fresh fish from the poisonnier – fishmonger to you and me – and stocked up on fruit and vegetables before heading back.

  Today was like a rebirth. I’d promised myself a year in France, which meant another three hundred and sixty-four days to go.

  I went back into the house with a broad grin on my face, and set about preparing a lunch of prawn salad. As I cut the bread, there was a tap at the kitchen door and I looked up to see Louise peering through the window. I beckoned her in.

  To say conversation was stilted would be like saying the Ma
tterhorn is big. Not surprising considering my rusty French and Louise’s near lack of English. Mind you, once I got into my stride, the muscles in my brain seemed to loosen up and work harder for me so I found myself firing off question after question. Looking back, I’m amazed she didn’t run up a white flag and sprint out of the door. Instead she bore it all with remarkable good grace, a lot of smiles and the occasional frown. I did, however, learn Christophe only spent part of his time at the surgery, since he did the bulk of the equine and large animal work, while his partner, Philippe, kept to the domestic animal work.

  ‘Did you go to the racing dinner, last night?’ I asked.

  ‘No, that is very much Christophe’s thing. He loves horses.’ There was so much emphasis in this statement, I couldn’t work out whether she was a bit pissed off with his obsession or merely stressing the point. As I nodded she continued, ‘I don’t know why he doesn’t just make a bed in the stables.’ Then she giggled, ‘Maybe he already has!’

  She was even more pretty when she giggled. I wondered if Christophe’s admiration for her went beyond the professional.

  ‘Perhaps that’s why he isn’t married,’ I suggested, boldly yet cunningly manoeuvring the conversation towards his love-life which, I realised, was starting to form an unhealthy preoccupation for me.

  At this, Louise’s lovely smile slipped – just momentarily but enough for the finely tuned eye of a high school teacher to spot. She threw up her hands. ‘Oh, that’s men, isn’t it?’ she said, beaming again.

  Hmmm…had I plucked a tender nerve? I gave her my you-can-say-that-again look accompanied by a pair of hand flaps. I believe it is universally acknowledged that in a conversation between two strangers, a pair of men will gravitate to football and cars, while women enjoy a minute or two on the failings of men. So, in this moment of mutual disclosure, I said, ‘Don’t talk to me about men! I’m fed up with men. Right now, I prefer to stay single.’

  ‘Why?’

  If I’d had a better grasp of the French language, I could have done justice to the phrase ‘right-royally shafted’. Instead I just shrugged. ‘I was going to get married but it didn’t happen.’

  This drew a look of concern from Louise. ‘So sad. But I’m sure it was for the best.’

  ‘Yes. The end of a relationship is very painful but really proves just how wrong it was,’ I said, sounding wiser than I felt. Louise nodded. ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ I asked her, still hell-bent on satisfying my fascination with Christophe’s status.

  She smiled shyly and shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘My friend, Isabelle, who arranged for me to stay here, tells me that Christophe nearly got married last year.’

  Louise frowned and shook her head. ‘I don’t know if he intended to get married.’

  ‘What happened?’ See how bold I was feeling?

  Louise fidgeted with her coffee mug and shrugged. ‘It’s complicated. You should probably ask Christophe. I don’t like to say.’

  All credit to her, she wasn’t indiscreet…more’s the pity. ‘Oh, it’s not important,’ I said, waving my hand dismissively. ‘Just curious. It seemed like a coincidence, that’s all. Two of us broken-hearted and moving on.’

  ‘It’s not that simple for him, she’s still around.’ With that, she pulled one of those flat smiles of defeat you see on the faces of a losing team and I was convinced, right there and then, that she had the hots for him. Before I could ask, she stood up and said, ‘Thank you for the lunch, it was lovely. See you again.’

  I waved her off at the door – watching her cross the ten metres or so back to the surgery. So the ‘ex’ was still around, eh? Was I perhaps about to witness a classic love triangle? I’m talking Louise, Christophe and the ex, of course, not moi. I felt a lofty sensation of maturity. I was so glad I’d stepped out of the mating game – at least for now. I drummed my fingers on the table as I considered it, before slamming them down firmly and making the dogs jump. ‘What’s it to me?’ I stood up. ‘In any case, I’m sure all will be revealed in due course.’

  I cleared the lunch away and spoke to the dogs. ‘How do you two fancy a breath of fresh air?’ Hercules tilted his head to one side and I rubbed his ears. ‘I’ll get my camera and then we can go walkies.’ The dogs might not have understood English but they definitely recognized my intention. They were milling around the hall until I came down and attached their leads, when their tails beat furiously with excitement.

  The dogs knew the route, turning outside the kitchen door and heading off through the courtyard to a gate. I took in a deep lungful of fresh French air, smiled to myself and headed on up through the field. Ahead of me were rolling hills. To the far left was a densely wooded area. To the right was the town. I walked slowly, picking up stray pheasant feathers as I went. The dogs were far better trained than my mother’s delinquent Red Setters. We stopped at a wooden stile where I looked back at the little town. Gentle autumn sunlight was giving a warm glow to the red and grey rooftops. I lifted up my camera to capture it.

  Gazing down at Christophe’s house below but particularly at the window of my studio, I smiled. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt quite so content. ‘Victoria Emily Marchant,’ I said out loud. ‘Down there, is your future.’ Boz sat up and looked at me, his right ear cocked. ‘Boz. I’m going to be an artist.’ Boz stood up. ‘Correction. I am an artist. I’m going to paint some fabulous pictures and you are going to be so proud of me.’

  I’d be pretty proud of myself, too. But right now, I had a meal to prepare so I stood up and headed back down the hill.

  I was standing in the kitchen, channelling Delia, and sucking cream from my fingers, when Christophe came home. I wiped my hand on my jeans and reached for the cheese-grater and lemon, ready to scatter zest over the mousse I’d created.

  I heard him muttering to the dogs in his soft, baritone voice. I stepped back to peer out into the hall. Hercules and Boz were squirming round him as he crouched between them, all heads nuzzling and tails swishing – well, maybe just the two tails. He looked up at me. ‘Bon soir, Vicki,’ he said with a smile for me too. ‘Good evening. How was your day?’

  ‘Great, thank you.’

  ‘Have you begun your masterpiece?’ he asked, standing up.

  ‘Not yet. Just getting into the zone,’ I said, indicating my zeal with a flick of the cheese-grater.

  ‘Wonderful.’ He came into the kitchen and glanced over at the lemon and passion fruit mousse. He raised his eyebrows in what I took to be appreciation. ‘You look as if you have been busy here, too. Do I have time to go into the surgery to see Philippe?’ he asked.

  ‘Absolutely. You can have dinner whenever you like.’

  ‘Thank you. I will be about fifteen minutes.’ He smiled again and headed out into the courtyard.

  ‘Cool,’ I said, raising the cheese-grater in acknowledgement before setting to with the lemon.

  I stopped grating for a moment. Should I set the table in the dining room or here in the kitchen? Maybe, on the nights he smelled of manure, we would take the rustic option. I sniffed the air. Cologne – so it was the dining room, then, which was a lovely room. It had a beautiful, old, circular table and heavy drapes at the window, which looked out towards the woodland. There was a large painting of a château on one wall and, on another, pencil drawings of two young boys. I looked around the room. Another dilemma…how many places should I set? Was it right to assume he would want me to eat with him? I was, after all, the cook and not a guest. Erring on the side of caution, I set only one place, directly opposite the window so he could enjoy the view in peace.

  Back in the kitchen, as I readjusted the little plates of ingredients lined up by the hob, he came in, talking very quickly into his phone. I could only catch the odd word, which didn’t add up to much of a story but, judging by the look on his face and his gruff tone, someone or something was seriously pissing him off. He glanced at the empty kitchen table, so I gestured to the dining room. He nodded and crossed the hall,
sighing heavily into the phone.

  I thought it best to wait until his conversation was over before taking him his bowl of soup. I listened till it all went quiet. I counted to ten, lifted the bowl and walked through to the dining room. He was standing by the window, scowling at the view. His conversation wasn’t over; he was listening intently to the caller. I placed the soup carefully on the table and left him to it, closing the door quietly behind me.

  Moments later, as I sat at the kitchen table with my own soup and a copy of French Cosmopolitan, the door opened and Christophe swept in. He stopped at the table and looked down at me, shaking his head. He picked up my bowl and held out his hand. ‘Please. Give me your spoon.’ I stared up at him. He flexed his hand again for the spoon. ‘You think we are going to eat alone, huh? Like master and servant? Didn’t you hear, the Revolution put an end to all that?’ I felt my cheeks flush, and then he added, ‘Unless, of course, you would prefer to eat alone?’

  ‘No. I just didn’t like to impose.’

  ‘Not at all. Come, I want to hear what you have done today.’ He pulled a quick but weary smile.

  I’d lay bets it was possibly one of the last things he wanted to hear, but I moved anyway. He held my bowl and stood back to let me pass, so we did this silly ‘you-go, no-you-go’ routine because I felt awkward that somehow the roles had reversed. He won and I went ahead. He placed my bowl on the table beside his. ‘So,’ he began. ‘What have you been doing?’

  I filled him in on my walk around the town and the apparent lack of an art supplier.

  ‘You need to go into Limoges. My good friend, François, is an artist. He will be able to help you.’

  ‘Yay! Another artist? What does he paint?’

  ‘Mostly horses. His wife, Marie, is an interior designer. I will call them after dinner.’

  ‘Great. Thank you.’

  I glanced, then, at his untouched soup willing him to taste it.

  ‘And this is?’ he asked.