Vicki's Work of Heart

by Rosie Dean

  As I walked back across the courtyard, I could hear the unmistakable sound of a girl crying. It was coming from the surgery. A client grieving over the demise of a much-loved pet, perhaps? I paused. No, that was definitely Louise’s voice I could hear between the sobs. Curious. Had it been her voice I’d overheard on the phone, last night? But why would she be crying on the phone to Christophe? No, surely it had been the ex calling? This idea nudged another thought into my mind – was Christophe the kind of guy who might use my stay to manipulate the women in his life?

  I nodded to myself. Sure, he could be.

  That pulled me up short. If my suspicions were right, it did put my sabbatical on a rather shaky footing.

  I made myself a sandwich of goat’s cheese and tomato, and tramped slowly back up to my studio, where I stared disconsolately at my sketches. So much for my new life. And it was hard to imagine a ticker-tape welcome on my return to Bristol, as I sloped down Victoria Street, shoulders drooping and an empty portfolio at my side.

  I stared at the wall for ages, fighting my doubts with positive affirmations – that tell-tale prickle in the back of my nose threatening tears. Had I been kidding myself I could get over the storm of Marc’s departure so easily?

  Downstairs, the dogs began barking.

  ‘Allo!’ a man’s voice called.

  I wiped my face with my hands and sniffed, before running down the first flight of stairs. ‘Hello!’ I called back, sniffing again.

  At the bottom of the second flight, I saw a large, sandy-haired man with a thick moustache looking up at me. ‘Ahh!’ he exclaimed. ‘Vicki?’

  ‘Oui.’ I descended the stairs.

  ‘I’m François,’ he said, holding out his hand to me. ‘Christophe tells me you want canvases.’

  I opened my mouth in surprise. ‘Yes. I do. Pleased to meet you.’ I shook his hand.

  He beamed at me. I could see he was a good deal older than Christophe, probably in his early fifties. His eyes were quite sexy in a dissipated way; creased as they were from laughter, and bloodshot, I suspected, from booze but his handshake was warm and strong. I felt like I was in the presence of a true lover of life – I could practically feel his energy recharging mine. ‘I think you have been crying, Vicki.’ he declared, in English; his frankness shocking yet welcome.

  I brushed a strand of hair from my face. ‘Just feeling a bit homesick, I suppose. Silly isn’t it?’

  ‘Nonsense. We are nothing without emotion. Come.’ he embraced me firmly, kissing me on both cheeks, the tang of Gauloises cigarettes assailing my nostrils. ‘I have brought a canvas for you but it may not be the right size. If you like, I can take you to my supplier and you can choose exactly what you want.’

  And we’re off, I thought. I will get over Marc’s departure. ‘Absolutely. If you’re happy to take me to your supplier, that would be great. Thank you.’

  François, God love him, encouraged me to speak French during our journey. His enthusiasm for my efforts – not to mention his patience – had to be applauded. I watched him as he squinted through the smoke from his cigarette, while he concentrated on what I was trying to say. Whenever I grasped blindly for a missing word, he’d plug the gap.

  The art shop was like an Aladdin’s cave. It took all of my self control not to buy yet more paints and brushes – gleaming new brushes were always so tempting and utterly sensuous, especially when I stroked those silky, sable strands across my cheek.

  As François closed the van doors on my materials, he said, ‘Why don’t we take all this back to my studio and stretch those canvases for you?’

  ‘That would be fantastic. Christophe tells me you paint horses. I’d really love to see your work.’

  ‘Well, I hope you like them. Not everybody does.’

  As we set off, I asked, ‘Have you painted Christophe’s horses?’

  ‘Many times. His father gave me my first commission. I was straight out of art school and full of enthusiasm – and angst. Hah! I like to think I’ve improved a little since then.’

  ‘So you’ve known Christophe a long time?’ I asked, masterminding a conversational path that led directly to the source of the recent drama.

  ‘Since he was a baby. Always bright. Always thoughtful. And I think, often lonely.’

  My head snapped up. ‘Really?’

  François nodded, tossing his cigarette filter out of the window. ‘His parents were busy with their own lives. His father was a fine man – quiet but strong. Sadly, I don’t think he was very affectionate. And yet his mother, ah…’ he paused. ‘What a beautiful woman.’ A smile settled on his face and I could tell there was something going on behind his eyes, which I could only guess at.

  And…?

  After a moment, I asked, ‘So, they sent their only child away to school?’

  François shrugged. ‘His mother likes to travel. Having a baby doesn’t automatically make you a good parent, you know.’

  I leaned my head back on the seat and pictured a little seven year-old boy, packed off to a school in another country because his parents had better things to do than look after him. I would never do that to a child of mine. An image drifted across my inner vision of a beautiful boy, with dark eyes and a heartbreaking smile. Drawing a deep breath, I found it hard to imagine Christophe being lonely these days.

  François steered his van through an avenue of poplar trees to a house and outbuildings that scrambled up the gentle gradient of a hill. ‘A drink before we work,’ he announced.

  We sat on the terrace, drinking Pouilly Fumé and munching olives. François rattled off stories of his time at art school and disasters he’d had with a foray into sculpture, ‘Metal is not my friend,’ he said. ‘It’s not forgiving like paint.’

  The house overlooked a lake, which now shimmered as the late afternoon sun played on a surface rippled by the breeze. I had one small glass of wine, while François downed two large glasses and filled himself a third before guiding me to his studio. I wondered if he’d be able to see straight enough to stretch the canvases and, more importantly, to drive me home.

  His paintings, however, were superb. I stood back and marvelled at the huge images. They were vivid and full of his energy. Their vibrancy reminded me of the work of Gauguin, although François had a style of his own. In one, I could sense the horses straining to be off; in another I could almost feel the heat, and touch the sweat dripping off their flanks. If my paintings could have half of this power, I’d be deliriously happy.

  In his vast barn of a studio we worked together, one holding the canvas while the other stapled it to the stretcher bars and finally, we were applying gesso with big, fat brushes. As we finished the last canvas, my phone rang. It was Christophe.

  ‘Salut.’ I chimed. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Bien, merci.’ He sounded like he was in the car. ‘Did François come to see you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m with him now. We’ve just been preparing my canvases.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In his studio. His paintings are absolutely brilliant.’

  ‘You like them, huh?’ He continued. ‘I will come and meet you. I expect François has had a couple of bottles of wine by now.’

  ‘Nearly.’ I smiled with relief. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I will see you shortly.’

  Twenty minutes later, Christophe was sauntering into the studio. He was tall, lean, undoubtedly sober and an Adonis alongside the haggard François. They greeted each other with hearty embraces and continental man-kisses. After a brief exchange of words, Christophe turned to me. ‘François says you have had a good day together.’

  ‘Yes, he’s been really helpful and quite an inspiration.’

  François offered Christophe a glass of wine.

  He shook his head. ‘Thanks but I’ve had a long day, we should be going.’

  Not to mention – long night – I thought. Judging by the dark crescents under his eyes, he probably hadn’t slept at all.

  François continued, �
��Vicki can speak French very well. We had quite a conversation, didn’t we?’

  I responded in slow but determined French, only getting one word wrong. Christophe corrected me so gently, I felt as if my attempts at French were perfectly okay. He smiled. ‘Soon, you will be speaking like a native.’

  ‘Well that, at least, would be one of my ambitions achieved.’

  ‘And how many more are there?’

  I scratched my head. Well, there was holding an art exhibition, somewhat difficult to declare in front of a talent like François; and then there was not allowing myself to be jilted again, which I certainly wouldn’t own up to; and I supposed there was still the vague hope that, one day, I might meet a man – the right man – who wouldn’t leave me at the altar. And there was no way I was making that confession, either. ‘Certainly more than one.’ Was all I would say.

  Christophe raised an eyebrow and nodded. ‘Do you want to put your canvases in the car?’

  ‘I can’t. They’re still wet.’

  François volunteered to deliver them the following day. ‘It will be a pleasure and in time, I look forward to seeing your work.’

  ‘Well don’t expect too much. It’s been ages since I put paint to canvas. But I’ve really found your work inspiring. It’s wonderful.’

  François took my hand, bowed and kissed it. ‘Vicki, it has been an honour.’

  We drove home in silence, me contemplating the roller-coaster of moods I had experienced in the last forty-eight hours and Christophe, no doubt, reflecting on his torrid night at the hands (or possibly feet) of some hysterical woman. As we drew up alongside the house, without looking at me, he said very softly, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Thank you for your quiet. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Oh,’ I responded, feeling like I’d just received an unexpected award. ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘I am dealing with a difficult situation at the moment.’ He shrugged. ‘No matter.’ He turned and opened his car door.

  I watched him head to the house. ‘Well,’ I murmured to myself, ‘What’s all that about?’

  As we stood in the hallway being greeted by a frenzy of delight from Hercules and Boz, I asked, ‘Are you hungry? I was going to make lasagne but I could do something quicker, if you prefer? A frittata, perhaps?’

  He stood up, still caressing the larger dog’s head and barely smiled. ‘A frittata will be fine. Thank you.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll just pop up and get changed.’ I guessed I was looking pretty shabby after stretching all those canvases. I stopped on the stairs. ‘Could you feed the dogs?’

  ‘But of course.’

  The bathroom mirror revealed a couple of dirty smears on my face and strands of hair had escaped from various parts of my clasp. I washed quickly and changed into a long, cotton skirt and a scoop-necked tee-shirt in raspberry pink. The sun had drawn every last freckle out on my face and the tip of my nose matched my tee-shirt. I’d always been a great believer in coordinated accessories.

  So, frittata on the menu tonight. Nice and simple. Simplicity was good. From what Christophe had said, I was guessing simplicity was something he was hoping for just now, too. But what, I wondered, was the difficult situation he was dealing with?

  CHAPTER 7

  Christophe felt the wine easing into his system and releasing the tension as he sat on the kitchen table, resting his feet on the seat of a chair. He would take time to savour the second glass. The last twenty-four hours had been quite an ordeal. Why did life have to be so complicated – especially where women were concerned? Oh for the simplicity of a few casual affairs. It had been so easy when he was younger; lots of pretty girls and so much fun with no strings attached. Last year, he had changed the pattern and what a mistake that had been. Now he was dealing with the fallout.

  He heard Vicki running down the stairs and looked up as she came into the kitchen. At least she brightened his day a little. She smiled at him. He poured another glass of wine and offered it to her. As she clinked her glass against his, she said, ‘So, what would you like in your frittata? Onions, mushrooms, tomato, peppers?’

  ‘Anything. I’m sure it will be delicious.’

  ‘Okay.’ She sipped her wine. ‘Hmm, that’s lovely.’ She raised her glass to him and placed it down on the counter.

  Beside him on the table was a small vase containing a bunch of twigs and feathers which Vicki had arranged. He took another slug of his wine and pulled one of the feathers out, turning it between his fingers as he watched Vicki move about the kitchen.

  Cute.

  He clenched his teeth, reminding himself not to complicate things. Their set-up was nice and simple. She had come here to paint. The last thing he needed was another emotional complication.

  *

  I don’t usually mind people watching while I’m preparing food, it was no different from teaching, really, but right then, I was acutely aware of everything I did. Not because I thought Christophe was judging me but because I wondered if he might be – and that was unnerving.

  I glanced round and saw him sitting on the table, looking broodily into his glass and twirling one of the feathers from the vase. Heathcliffe in Armani.

  I threw chopped onions into the frying pan and stepped back as they sizzled. Suddenly, I became aware of a change in temperature – not in front of me but behind. Christophe spoke so close to my ear, I swear I must have flinched.

  ‘Perhaps I should watch you and learn to cook, myself, huh?’

  I pulled a smile. ‘Happy to teach you, if you want to learn.’

  ‘Do you know what?’ he said, smoothly. ‘Standing this close…’

  Er…yes?

  ‘…I close my eyes and I think François is here.’

  I turned and looked at up him. ‘What?’

  ‘It is the Gauloises. Yesterday you smelled of lemon and mint.’ He moved round and leaned against the counter next to me. ‘François smokes more than he breathes. He is not a healthy man but…he is an interesting one. My father was very fond of him – even though he had an affair with my mother.’

  My mind buzzed. First I was insulted by his practically saying I smelled like an old ashtray, then the lemon and mint comment and now, now he was telling me personal details about his mother’s infidelities. How disturbing was this man? He was so close it was verging on intimate…he must be getting quite a lungful of my smoky hair, which was now absorbing tincture of allium as I stirred the onions unnecessarily. ‘That was very magnanimous of your father. He must have loved her very much.’

  ‘You think? Or perhaps he just wanted a quiet life. He was very preoccupied with his horses and racing. In many other ways she was an excellent wife. She was a superb hostess and brought many good contacts to him. You see, my father was a quiet man, he needed her social skills to further his business.’

  ‘That’s awful. You make it sound like a corporate merger.’

  ‘This is often the case in marriage.’

  ‘It won’t be for me.’ I said defiantly, then coloured at the irony of what I was saying. My own choice of husband had been seriously flawed and yet there I was, passing judgement on his parents’ marriage.

  ‘So, Vicki, you believe in love and marriage?’

  I added peppers to the pan. ‘Well…’ what did I believe? He was looking at me expectantly. ‘…Marriage works for some people…’ Just not me, I thought.

  ‘And it worked for my parents.’

  ‘Okay, point taken.’

  ‘But…?’

  I shrugged. ‘Marriage should be about two people really wanting to share their life. About commitment to a joint future. It’s about teamwork.’

  ‘So, if you’re not a team player, you shouldn’t get married, huh?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And are you a team player, Vicki?’

  ‘Yes. But right now, I prefer a singles game.’

  ‘You are impatient to paint, huh? What age are you, twenty-six?’

  �
�Twenty-eight.’

  ‘Interesting. Most women your age are starting to look around – they’re like Meerkats.’

  I shrugged. ‘Then I guess I’m not like most women.’ I jiggled the spatula vigorously through the onions and peppers.

  ‘I guess not.’ He heaved himself up to sit on the work surface next to the chopping board. I lifted the board, moved it to the opposite side of the hob, and set about quartering mushrooms. He sat, sipping his wine and watching me. I threw the mushrooms into the pan. As sizzling vegetables filled the weighty silence, I took a long, cool hit of white wine, he said, ‘Some people rush into marriage, don’t you think?’

  ‘Possibly.’ What was his obsession with marriage? Was he talking about mine? I was bloody sure Isabelle hadn’t said anything, but maybe Louise had. ‘Look, do you mind if we change the subject?’

  He shrugged. ‘Okay.’ Good.

  I went over to the fridge for the eggs.

  ‘It smells delicious,’ he said quietly as I came back to the hob.

  Now he’s being nice, I thought with a pang of guilt. I lowered the heat. ‘It’s not much, really,’ I said, before looking up to meet the deep brown, unblinking gaze of his eyes.

  ‘Since you’re keen on a singles game, it’s quite a compromise to worry about cooking for me, non?’

  ‘No. I’m happy cooking.’

  ‘But maybe that’s why this subject bothers you – I’m thinking you’d rather not have to…’

  ‘No. Not at all,’ I said turning the heat down and stepping back. Before I knew it, some latent, Catholic desire for confession pulled an invisible chord in my back so I was spewing my story in bite-sized phrases, like a walky-talky doll. ‘Izzy hasn’t told you, has she? About my wedding day. Or rather, non-wedding day. My fiancé stood me up. He made off with my life’s savings. He gambled money he didn’t have. He used money I didn’t have. There. Now you know why I’m here. It’s a fresh start. Something for me. Nothing and nobody is going to screw it up. Not this time.’ I drew a deep breath. ‘That’s it.’ I took a gulp of wine, picked up the spatula and batted mushrooms from one side of the pan to the other.