Vicki's Work of Heart

by Rosie Dean

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that. It must have been difficult.’ His voice had dropped to a cosy, comforting level. I’d heard him muttering words of affection to his dogs in the same tone.

  There was a tingle in the back of my nose. I lined up the bowl and whisk, ready for the eggs.

  ‘Good for you, Vicki. You’re making a change, you’re moving forward.’

  I walked across the kitchen to find something, anything, so I could blink the tears away before he saw them. I opened the napkin drawer. ‘Well, I don’t much fancy the alternatives. He’s done me a favour, really.’

  ‘I guess it didn’t feel like that at the time.’

  ‘No. And I could have done without the debts he left behind, too.’ I slapped the napkins down on the table. By the time I’d put the cutlery out, I was back under control.

  ‘Did he actually leave you waiting at the church?’ he asked.

  I looked across and was consoled to see his eyebrows dipped in a frown of concern rather than in that arched, are-you-shitting-me? way that so many others had adopted.

  ‘Yes. Dad and I were shivering under a brolly in a horse and trap outside. His best man came up to us with this terrified look on his face, poor guy, and I knew.’

  He shook his head. ‘The man’s a coward, huh?’

  ‘Yes.’ I had formed quite a list of other adjectives but coward was definitely on it.

  ‘So, I’m guessing you don’t trust men now. All of them are bastards, non?’

  There was a twinkle in his eye so I guessed he was trying to lift the mood rather than flirt with me. ‘Well…after my recent and, it has to be said, most disastrous attempt at choosing a partner, I’ll take my time and wait until I can identify someone with all the right qualities.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t have him back?’

  ‘Marc?’ I thought for a moment. Marc’s mercurial character had fascinated me. No run-of-the-mill dependability there. Oh no. How had I described him? Enigmatic. Yes, well, it was a quality that didn’t pay the bills and didn’t turn up at church. But he’d probably love it here in France, with the new me. I wondered just how boring I had become; always banging on about school, or trawling through solid wood flooring brochures – not to mention adjusting seating plans for the wedding a hundred times. Maybe I’d moved so far from the girl he’d fallen in love with, he couldn’t face the thought of spending the rest of his life with who I’d become. ‘No. I don’t want him back.’ I cracked the eggs into the bowl with one hand and stirred vegetables with the other.

  ‘So, you have come here to paint and to cook for me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And after that…how are you going to set about finding your perfect man?’

  ‘I have no idea. I’m off men. For now,’ I added out of self-respect. No woman wanted to be thought of as perpetually frigid.

  ‘When was this wedding?’

  ‘Last year. August.’

  ‘Really? How long a break are you going to take?’

  I stopped multi-tasking and stepped back to look at him. ‘I don’t feel the need to set a schedule.’

  ‘No, but you seem like a woman who wouldn’t wait around for too long.’

  ‘Do I?’ I asked, putting my hand out to adjust the heat, without taking my eyes from his.

  ‘Well, you got impatient when I was delayed picking you up…’

  ‘I was soaking wet.’

  ‘…You’re eager to see me eating a healthy diet…’

  ‘I know – Mrs Stafford.’

  ‘…You put your heartbreak behind you and travel to another country to pursue your ambitions; you get to work straight away on your paintings…’

  He had a point. I picked up the whisk and began beating the eggs furiously.

  He continued, ‘I don’t believe a woman with such passion can be fulfilled by work alone.’

  I took a deep breath and slowed down on the egg-beating front. I turned and looked him in the eye. ‘Is that so?’ I poured the eggs into the pan so they filled the gaps between the vegetables. ‘Well, I am also a very determined woman.’

  He looked back at me, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. Then he leaned forward, gently stroked the feather down my cheek and whispered, ‘I believe you,’ before slipping off the work surface to go and pour himself more wine.

  I stirred mechanically, as my insides liquefied and my head span. The guy’s charm was lethal. And I was pretty sure he knew it. Well, he might find that kind of trick worked in his bachelor world – and good luck to him – but I didn’t have to fall for it.

  Christophe headed out of the kitchen to put some music on, and I completed the frittata without further discussion. We sat at the kitchen table and, in my determination to act naturally, I brightly rattled on about how beautiful the countryside was in the Limousin region, ‘It’s so rural, it reminds me of England.’

  ‘Then you should feel at home.’ He refilled my glass. ‘Tell me, how many paintings do you think you’ll paint this year?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You have no target?’

  ‘It’s not that simple. It depends whether I’m swept away on a wave of inspiration…or not.’ I lifted my glass and gestured to him. ‘But what about your ambitions, Christophe? Is there a cup you haven’t won or an operation you haven’t performed?’

  ‘Oh, many.’

  ‘What are you goals?’

  ‘Hah! There’s always something more to be achieved. It’s what keeps mankind going, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, probably, although that’s very non-specific. Are you avoiding the question?’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  Who is the woman in your life – or are there many? Why is your house so sparsely furnished and am I imagining it, or are you flirting with me? And, if I succumbed, do you think we could just be physical without getting involved?

  I cleared my throat. ‘You’re how old, thirty-four?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You live here, all alone with your two dogs…’

  ‘And you.’

  ‘Okay, and me, at present. What does the next five years hold for you?’

  ‘What you really want to know is, do I want to get married, non?’

  ‘No.’ I ran a hand over my hair. ‘Although, it’s a perfectly reasonable question – but I wasn’t exactly asking that.’

  ‘True, you were being non-specific.’

  ‘And the answer is?’

  He smiled. ‘I guess I’ve decided I like things the way they are.’

  There was a groan from the corner as Boz stretched his legs in sleep.

  I’d had enough of this subject. ‘Would you like some lemon mousse?’

  ‘Pudding as well?’

  ‘I made it last night, but you had to rush off.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ A frown creased his brow. ‘Lemon mousse sounds delightful. And then, I think I will take the dogs for a walk. I missed it this morning and it’s such a beautiful evening.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I said, rather more wistfully than intended.

  ‘Then you should come, too.’

  Should I? I shrugged. ‘Okay.’

  We headed off towards the town and turned up a narrow lane, past a shabby house where an old sheep dog staggered from its kennel to greet us. We waited as all three dogs pushed their snouts up against the fence. ‘Bonsoir, Emil,’ he said to the ragged old collie. ‘Poor thing, he’s very old and stiff, but he has a strong heart.’

  ‘That’s more than can be said for me,’ I said, staring down at them. ‘Look how matted and dusty he is. I bet he’s never curled up on a sofa having his tummy rubbed or waited eagerly for an empty crisp packet to lick out.’

  ‘I should hope not. Crisps packets are not for dogs.’

  ‘Oh, well our Connie has a knack for turning them inside out. It’s her party trick.’

  Christophe moved on and whistled to his own dogs.

  I threw my arm in the air. ‘Look how brilliant the moon is
tonight. See how it throws the trees into stark relief – can you see? It really brings out their texture in a completely different way from daylight.’

  He looked up.

  ‘And look at the grass, you’d never know it was green, would you? It’s in such a cool light.’

  ‘It’s remarkable. All I can remember of art lessons is drawing buildings in perspective and making some very bad pots. Perhaps, if my teacher had had your enthusiasm, I might have enjoyed it more.’

  Back at the house, I thanked him for the guided tour.

  ‘And thank you for a fascinating insight into the vision of an artist.’

  ‘You’re welcome. I just hope I didn’t bore you – I can be a bit evangelical about these things.’

  ‘Not at all. You were charming.’

  Charming? I turned away and began unbuttoning my jacket. I was charming. That sounded nice. He moved to help me off with my jacket, and I noticed the soft, amber fragrance of his cologne and felt the warmth of his hands as they lightly touched my shoulders.

  A shrill, repetitive note split the air. He stepped back, pulled a phone from his pocket and sighed. ‘Bonsoir, Sylvie,’ he said and walked towards his study, with a nod of dismissal to me.

  I watched the door close and took off my own jacket.

  Coffee. I needed coffee and an early night.

  As I scooped up the coffee grounds, my chief thought was, ‘Who is Sylvie?’

  CHAPTER 8

  François delivered my canvases late the following morning but didn’t stop to chat. If I’d had a tail to wag it would’ve been going like a metronome. I hoisted a canvas onto the easel. Next, I squeezed large blobs of acrylic paint onto the palette. On the distant horizon was a line of trees crowning the hill. I would attempt to paint this. As a first work, the only objective was to flex those muscles I hadn’t flexed for some time – both creative and physical. I’d studied my photographs and absorbed the mood of the season. Now, I just wanted to let loose and release my creative energy.

  ‘You rock,’ I crooned, sweeping blues and ochres across the canvas to obliterate its inhibiting purity. ‘Go sister!’ I mixed the paints, sweeping and daubing it in arcs and dashes. ‘Feeling the mood, loving the vibe.’ I knew my first effort would be weak. Hell, maybe even disastrous but, like an athlete, I just needed to limber up. I pushed and dragged the paint, imagining how Marc would have loved to watch me and revel in my liberation. Too late.

  ‘Oh, bollocks to him!’ I stabbed at the canvas. I didn’t have to beat myself up over the failure of our relationship. ‘I had to pay for our bloody lifestyle. I took responsibility. I’m not a loser.’

  I painted. I wept. I laughed. Sometimes the brush strokes were thick and dynamic, other times fine and feathery. But through every one of them, I felt I was tuning in to the essential Vicki. It was like coming back into focus.

  Only when the light began to fade and the dogs began to bleat for their meal did it dawn on me to stop. Six-thirty. Late dinner, then.

  My mind was buzzing as I moved about the kitchen. There was no deadline for my artwork. No exam board to please – just freedom to explore. Could life get any better?

  When Christophe came home, I very nearly leapt on him like his dogs did.

  ‘Bien. You look like you had a good day,’ he smiled at me as I paced about the kitchen.

  ‘Fantastic. I spent the whole day painting.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve been productive. It would have been a terrible waste for you to travel all this way only to feed me.’

  He could say that again. I was no chef. ‘Aha, well, after a few weeks of my cooking, you might think it was a waste me coming at all.’

  ‘Tomorrow, you will be free to paint through the night, if you wish. I must leave early in the morning to go to the veterinary school in Toulouse. I will not be back until Friday.’

  ‘Really?’ I maybe sounded a bit too thrilled at the prospect. ‘Then, I shall definitely get stuck in.’

  He moved over and took a chunk of carrot from the chopping board. ‘And I will look forward to seeing the results.’

  ‘Don’t expect too much. I’m a bit rusty.’

  ‘If you paint as well as you cook, I’m sure I will be impressed.’

  I had much higher hopes for my painting.

  He crunched on the carrot, all the time studying what I was doing. Just as I was mentally trawling through a range of topics to discuss, he glanced at his watch and excused himself. ‘I’ll be in my study,’ he said, in what I can only describe as a very weary tone.

  By the time I came down to breakfast, Christophe had already left. Two whole days of freedom to paint stretched ahead of me. In the morning sunshine, yesterday’s canvas looked an absolute fright. There were haphazard attacks of colour, spiky strokes and areas of imbalance and yet…there was something I wanted to develop. I toiled over it, worrying small areas with new colour, until my jaw ached from being clenched in concentration. So I escaped into the fields with the dogs for a welcome breath of fresh air. I sat on the stile to watch the sun set behind the trees; Boz and Hercules sitting alert at my feet. The mobile in my pocket began to ring. I flipped it open and saw Christophe’s number.

  ‘Salut.’ I chimed, feeling very French.

  ‘Salut,’ he returned, sounding preoccupied. ‘We have an invitation to a private viewing of paintings by an artist called Florin. It is on Friday evening. Would you be interested in going?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Good. Can you be ready for seven o’clock?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very good. I will arrange it. Au revoir.’

  I closed the phone. ‘Having a lovely time, thank you. Painting’s coming along nicely. The dogs are fine.’ Boz was watching me, his head tilting from side to side. I scratched behind his ear. ‘Old Christophe’s a bit of a mystery, isn’t he?’ I cast my mind back to a couple of nights ago – what was that face-stroking-with-the-feather all about? Nice boys didn’t do that kind of thing to girls they hardly knew unless they were after something. I closed my eyes for a moment and allowed myself to relive the shocking, dizzying sensation. Well, even elective celibates could fantasize, couldn’t they? But for now, I supposed I was in limbo but it was a good place to be. Limboland. Nice. Lacking in responsibility and furnished with hope.

  I shook my head and stood up.

  ‘Come on, boys. Let’s go home.’

  On Friday evening, I bathed early and took great care over my appearance. I’d just about managed to get the paint from around my nails, and covered up some of the staining with a blackberry coloured nail varnish. Not sure of the dress code for a private exhibition, I selected, navy trousers and a sky blue top I’d bought from a new designers’ show in London. It was about six years old but I loved it.

  By seven-thirty, there was no sign of Christophe so I called him, only to hear the messaging service. I hung up. He must know he was late. I was just stomping over to the bookshelf to find something to read, when the dogs began to bark. At last!

  However, a knock at the door signalled it was not Christophe. As I opened the door, I swear to God, predatory music rippled through the house and thunder rattled the windows. The woman standing outside was tall and gaunt with short, spiky black hair and scarlet lipstick; her eyebrows dipped in the middle, suggesting a permanent state of irritation, and she made no attempt at a smile. Finally, she introduced herself as Jeanne. Since her canine teeth looked normal and there were no tell-tale scars on her neck, I invited her in.

  ‘No need,’ she said, chomping briefly on a piece of chewing gum, which seemed a little incongruous for someone wearing a sharp, black, business suit. ‘Christophe asked me to pick you up and take you to the exhibition. He’s running late.’ No surprises there, I thought, and grabbed my coat and bag. I supposed I should have been grateful he hadn’t asked me to call a taxi…again.

  The first thing I noticed when I sat in the car was a catering pack of nicotine gum in the central console. On the car ra
dio, a current affairs programme was playing. Jeanne reached out a pewter-coloured, acrylic fingernail and pressed the off button. She then proceeded to quiz me about my home, my family and my view of life in France. Finally, and with some effort, I found an opportunity to fire off a couple of questions in return and discovered she was a sporting journalist. Not surprising then, that I hadn’t detected much genuine interest in her interrogation of me – it was probably habitual. Apparently, she knew Christophe well, from reporting on his horse-racing achievements. ‘We’ve spent a lot of time celebrating his successes,’ she crowed. ‘Did he tell you about the Plat d’Or dinner?’

  Ah. The tuxedo night. ‘No. Was it good?’

  ‘Well, we had a good time.’ Which suggested she knew him very well. ‘So, Christophe says you are an artist. What do you paint?’

  They’d discussed me then? Better to be talked about than not, I supposed. ‘I think my heart really lies in studies of people.’

  ‘Portraiture. Have you done anybody famous?’

  ‘No. But I don’t do portraits, as such. I’m more interested showing something about people’s lives. Showing them at work or relaxing.’

  ‘I see.’ And that was the last Jeanne uttered until we reached the gallery, when she snatched up two glasses of champagne, handed one to me and steered me towards the exhibits. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘there’s someone I need to speak to,’ before abandoning me in favour of a smart looking chap on the other side of the room.

  The paintings were abstract in mixed media. Large strips of textured paper, woven back into itself and coloured in shades of dirt with jagged fragments of rusted metal nailed to them. Florin, the artist, was tall, skeletal and spent most of the evening out on the street, smoking. I was just trying to decide if I found his work entirely depressing or merely grim, when Jeanne reappeared.

  ‘Vicki, this is Daniel Keane. He’s an art critic from England.’

  We shook hands and he studied my face briefly before saying, ‘I hear you’re also an artist. Might I have seen your work, somewhere?’ His eyes were a cool, piercing blue, which echoed the blue of the Oxford shirt he was wearing beneath a sludge green tweed jacket. I decided he had to be ex public school; they had such a knack for lousy colour combinations and clashing patterns. I put it down to their being jettisoned from home at an early age and left to make their own choices from a bewildering wardrobe of clothes, added to which, poor laundry habits invariably left them wearing whatever had the fewest creases.