by Rosie Dean
Around the table, conversation was animated. I tried tuning in to what was being said, but with so much noise, it was difficult. I tasted the white wine. It was delicious – light, crisp and very cool. The neighbours, Henri and Helene, were sat to my right. They were in their mid-forties; he a teacher and she a housewife. Suddenly, he was eager to try out his English and discuss various trips he had made to Britain. After a while, I could tell by Helene’s travelling eyes, she’d lost interest so I endeavoured to draw her back into the conversation, asking if she too had enjoyed the same excursions.
‘Helene speaks very little English,’ Henri confided, before pressing on to relate a school trip he had recently organised to Edinburgh. ‘Very interesting – but so cold,’ he exclaimed.
‘My mother is Scottish,’ I announced.
‘Really?’ Henri raised his glass. ‘A very friendly nation, I think.’
I raised my eyebrows. Good job he hadn’t gone to Glasgow.
He continued to ignore his wife and struck up conversation with Jeanne, who was seated across from him and next to Christophe’s empty chair. They spoke rapidly and, sometimes across each other’s sentences, making it impossible for me to pick up. I sat with my elbows on the table, clutching my white wine and straining to grasp threads of their conversation. All I could hear was a barrage of chatter – occasional phrases made sense and then I would lose it again. It was like listening to a badly tuned radio – there one minute and gone the next.
Where was Christophe? Waylaid, en route, by one of his lady-friends…maybe his mystery caller – Sylvie or possibly Louise? Perhaps they were having a highly-charged moment of passion, now that the English school-mistress was safely out of the way. I emptied my wine glass. It really was the most glorious wine.
Marie moved around the table gathering up the dishes, followed by François with another bottle of white wine. He sat briefly on Christophe’s chair.
‘My dear Vicki. Are you enjoying yourself?’
‘Yes, thank you. That wine was delightful. What was it?’ He held the bottle label towards me. ‘Sancerre? I’ve had that at home but it never tasted as good as this.’
‘This is an excellent vintage.’ He refilled my glass. ‘I hope Christophe will be here soon. It’s a pity to see his lovely escort alone.’ Jeanne glanced across and pulled a taut smile before returning to her conversation with Henri.
As François stood up to continue his round of the table, I felt a pang of isolation. Marie was right. People-watching was an entertaining pastime. I tried to remember all their names. Was the doctor called Raphael – or was that the financial director for the French television company?
Jeanne was toying with her wine-glass, her pewter nails dancing round the rim. Was she flirting with Henri? I glanced at him. He was mildly good looking. My ears pricked up when I heard two names mentioned – Christophe et Sylvie. Who was this Sylvie and what did croceuse dedi amant mean? I knew amant had something to do with loving. I made a mental note to google it later.
Further along the table, a heavy-set woman with a cleavage a man could lose an arm in, rocked with an earthy laugh. Damn! Now I’d completely lost the thread of Jeanne and Henri’s conversation.
Just beyond Jeanne was a tall, fair-haired Dutch man. Was he called Kurt or Karl? He had something to do with shipping – although why he was doing it in the middle of France, I couldn’t imagine. I wondered if he had been invited to make up the numbers with Jeanne – who didn’t seem remotely interested in him.
Marie reappeared pushing a trolley laden with plates. As my plate was put in front of me, I looked down in disbelief and horror. Seated in the middle of a circle of shallots and tiny potatoes, was the whole body (minus head and feet) of a small chicken – poussin – a French favourite. My heart began to hammer. Christophe had clearly said nothing to Marie. How was I going to deal with this? Perhaps I could shriek ‘Fire!’ then slip it into my handbag during the ensuing pandemonium. A small steak would have nestled neatly between the make-up bag and mobile phone but it would take a magician of David Copperfield’s proficiency to disappear this little beauty. Where were Hercules and Boz when I needed them? Perhaps I could dissect it slowly and mash the meat into a small steak. I took another slug of wine and wondered if, with a little Dutch courage, I could actually eat it.
‘Aha! Mon ami. Bienvenu!’ François boomed, as the familiar and very welcome figure of Christophe walked in from the terrace.
He was wearing an open-neck, navy shirt, cream linen jacket and navy trousers. He glanced around the table, smiled and apologised for his lateness. François hugged him heartily and began introducing the guests. Clearly, the only person Christophe didn’t know was Karl or Kurt from Holland. He made his way around the table, shaking hands with the men and kissing the women on both cheeks – including mine. His face was warm and I realised I was becoming familiar with his fragrance. I found I rather liked it tonight. When he kissed Jeanne, I noticed with a pang of acid resentment, the way her steel-tipped fingers caressed his neck as she accepted his kiss. I gulped more wine. No wonder poor Kurl (or was it Kart?) didn’t get a look in – Jeanne had been honing her skills on the pathetic Henri in preparation for the main event. As Christophe sat down, Jeanne smiled triumphantly at me.
Well bully for her.
I drained my glass. Christophe turned and leaned forward to apologise. ‘Vicki, I’m so sorry. It was unavoidable. I hope you have been okay?’
‘Totally. Yes. Thank you. No worries. Famulous.’ There was a kind of numbness to the letter ‘B’ in the word ‘Fabulous’ which was my first hint at inebriation. I’d have to pace myself. Leaning forward, I whispered. ‘There is just one, small promlem.’ There it was again; a bee that didn’t buzz. I giggled.
‘What?’
I looked down at my plate and back up.
His intense, brown eyes did the same, coming back to rest on mine – small creases just forming at their corners. ‘This is one of your friends, huh?’
I pulled an apologetic face. ‘Please, I don’t want to make a fuss. Just help me smuggle it out.’
He smiled and my heart revved. Why did he have to do that?
‘I think we can do something about this,’ he murmured. ‘I suggest you eat everything else. Just cut the meat off and move it around your plate for a while.’
I raised my eyebrows in question, which he answered with a nod of his head and the ghost of a smile.
François revisited his guests with rosé wine and new glasses. I tucked into the vegetables and made a wonderful job of carving my poussin. Suddenly when everyone was engaged in conversation, Christophe whipped my plate from under my nose and replaced it with his own – now only holding a stripped carcase.
‘Nice work, monsieur,’ I muttered.
‘Lucky for you, I missed lunch.’
Unlucky for me, I was missing dinner. My stomach rumbled. Perhaps pudding would be something substantial – like rhubarb tart and custard or a big stack of Crêpes Suzette. The cheese course arrived. And since it was most unlikely that Marie had purchased special vegetarian cheese, I was stumped on this course too. ‘Quel fromage,’ I muttered.
Out came another wine – this time, a Bordeaux. I hung my nose over the glass, inhaling its ferny vapour. I decided I’d better dig into the French bread to soak up the wine.
Speaking of digging in – Jeanne had her talons well and truly stuck into Christophe. She was talking animatedly on a quite fascinating subject, I was sure. For a few moments, I watched her flashing her eyes at him, stopping occasionally to listen, enthralled by his response.
Hmph! Wasn’t it time they had some cheese? Go on, Jeanne, tuck into a wedge of Roquefort and breathe on him.
I corrected myself. Why on earth was I bothered? Christophe was nothing more than my landlord. I had absolutely no claim over him, whatsoever. He could talk to anybody he liked. Have any woman he liked, and quite possibly did. Good for him.
So my feeling of triumph was totally unjustified when he
excused himself from Jeanne’s conversation and switched his attention to me.
‘Hello, Christophe. D’you know, I’m really, really struggling,’ I confessed. ‘Everyone might as well be talking Greek.’ I raised my glass. ‘Fortunately, the wine is jolly good’
‘And perhaps a little strong, on an empty stomach?’
‘Does it show? Are my eyes all bloodshot and my nose red?’ I went cross-eyed just to check.
He chuckled and shook his head. ‘I think you will feel better in the morning if you stopped drinking wine and tried a little water.’
I nodded and placed my glass carefully on the table, giving him my very best, twinkly smile.
‘Christophe!’ François called from the other end of the table. ‘Do you have any tips for the coming racing season?’
Everyone turned towards Christophe and I worked very hard to understand his take on horses and races. Every so often, he would turn and translate certain words, especially for me, so I wouldn’t feel left out. Always thoughtful, I sighed to myself, toujours attentif.
Jeanne, however, was attentive only to Christophe. Like the world-class footballers about whom she probably wrote many column inches, she had spotted a new opportunity to seize the conversational ball, and now doggedly manoeuvred around him, fighting to retain his interest at all costs.
As if sensing I was being neglected, Marie beckoned to me to change places with François, so we could have a little chat. Grateful for her concern but reluctant to leave Christophe to Jeanne d’Arc there, I moved up to the far end of the table with some reluctance. I wondered if, like her namesake, Jeanne was on a secret mission to drive the English – moi – out of France.
Marie immediately engaged me in conversation, showing genuine interest in what I had to say and, at last, I felt comfortable. So comfortable, I ventured to bring up a subject that had been pressing on my brain for days. ‘Louise, at the surgery, she seems very nice.’
‘Louise? Yes a lovely girl. Nothing like her brother, Gerard.’
‘Oh?’
Marie raised her hands. ‘I should not say. It is not my business. All I will say is…Louise has all the character that Gerard lacks.’
I was confused. ‘Does Gerard work at the vets, too? I haven’t met him.’
‘No. I’m sure you will meet him, he is Christophe’s cousin.’
So that made Louise his cousin too.
Ah. Aha. Ahahaha!
I nodded and toasted the discovery with some of the Bordeaux.
The pudding course, when it finally arrived was, to my dismay, a fruit plate. Delicate slices of melon, mango, pear and strawberries were arranged beautifully beneath a drizzling of fruit syrup, accompanied by another new glass – this time of dessert wine. Wow! These French certainly knew how to marry their dishes with their wines. Having sunk the Bordeaux, I sampled the Sauternes. It was delightful. I could get used to this.
Finally, sometime after midnight, Christophe rose from his chair and made his way around the table. In my peripheral vision, I tracked his progress – willing him to come to me. It worked. He came to a halt behind me. With a hand on each of our chairs, he turned to Marie. ‘That was a beautiful meal, Marie. I must apologise, again, for being late.’
‘Not at all, Christophe. I know you would have a very good reason.’
‘Now, I’m afraid, I really must take Vicki away from you.’
Even though it made him sound like my carer, I felt a guilty ripple of satisfaction that he would be leaving with me and not Jeanne.
Christophe continued. ‘I’ve had a very long week and tomorrow, I’m taking Vicki to see the château.’
‘Ooh…that’s right.’ I beamed up at him.
Marie smiled at us both. ‘I understand the weather tomorrow will be perfect. Vicki, you will love the château.’
‘I’m really looking forward to it. And thank you so much for a lovely evening.’
‘You’re welcome. I hope we will see a lot more of you.’
Christophe moved to hold my chair as I stood up. I teetered on my stilettos, and he instantly caught my hand and rested his other on the small of my back.
‘Ooops! I’m a bit out of practice with the heels, sorry,’ I said, squeezing his hand to steady myself, although I hope I passed it off as a gesture of gratitude.
I scanned the table and wished them all a very good night. François was now seated in my old chair at the end of the table with his head back and snoring softly.
Marie escorted us into the hallway and found my coat. She took my hands in hers. ‘Vicki, it has been a pleasure to meet you. I think you are quite delightful, and I hope you find what you are looking for.’
‘So do I, Marie, so do I.’ I leaned forward and kissed her on both cheeks.
Once out in the cool night air, I held my face up and breathed in the musty, autumn scents of fading leaves and damp earth. Moonlight was picking out silhouettes of trees on the far hillside.
‘Look!’ I said, sweeping my arm out. ‘Just look!’
*
Christophe was looking. At her. In the moonlight, her hair seemed more silver than gold. He cast his eyes down to her slender ankles, above the elegant crimson shoes which made her taller than he’d seen her before – although Vicki still only came up to his chin. There was so much energy in this English woman. He glanced back at her face as she turned towards him. Before tonight, he had thought she needed taking in hand by a stylist but her dress, with its halter neckline, displayed the fine edge of her collarbone and suited her frame so well. Her hair, usually scraped up and fastened in a clip, now fell in a soft cloud around her face and neck. The natural beauty of her eyes was accentuated by a lavender shadow.
‘You’re not looking at the view,’ she chided him.
He gave her a long, lazy smile, blinked and turned to study the view. ‘I’ve looked at it many times but perhaps not concentrated on it as you would.’
‘You should start. It will enrich your life.’
He nodded slowly, before looking back at her. ‘Maybe I should. Maybe I will.’
‘No time like the present. Go on. What do you see?’
He scanned the view. ‘I see trees against a moonlit sky.’
‘Excellent. Very good.’ She swayed in front of him. ‘I think you can do better.’
‘Maybe another time, huh? I’m tired and I want to make an early start tomorrow.’
She pulled her coat tight and headed off in the direction of his car. Although she appeared to be staring at the destination, her body kept veering off the edge of the path. He caught her with an arm around her waist and steered her back on track.
‘Oops. Sorry. Not enough solids in my diet,’ she said, leaning against him.
‘It was my fault. I should have remembered to tell Marie. But you know, you could have told her tonight, I’m sure she would have been able to fix you something.’
‘Nooo. I didn’t want to make a fuss.’ He felt her nestle into his body, her own arm sneaking round to hold onto his back. Suddenly, she stopped and threw her free arm forward. ‘See those bushes? See how the moonlight makes them look like they’re made of steel?’
‘Steel? Non. Steel is too hard, too industrial.’
‘Okay then. What would you say it looks like?’ She gazed up at him.
‘I’d say it looks like a plant that has been dipped in melted silver.’
‘Molten.’
He looked down at her. ‘Molten?’
‘You could say molten rather than melted.’ He could feel her heart was pounding beneath her ribs. ‘A bit like your eyes being like molten chocolate,’ she added.
He turned his body towards her, one hand still resting on her waist. ‘You think my eyes are like molten chocolate?’
*
I gulped. ‘Did I say that?’
‘I think you must have. I’m not a mind-reader.’
As he smiled down at me, his eyes were creased wickedly at the corners. God, he was cool. I’d never been with a man who
was so cool – as in sexy cool – before. My eyes dropped with embarrassment and now took in the breadth of his chest and the way the top of his shirt opened to expose fine, dark hairs beneath. There was a heat coming off him, bringing with it that delicious, spicy scent. I swallowed. He wasn’t backing away, so either he liked being where he was or he thought I needed holding up. Judging by the jelly in my knees, he was right. What was my favourite saying? Always make the most of the here and now. My hand moved up to rest on the front of his shirt. Under the smooth fabric I could feel the heat and strength of his muscles. His breathing seemed to increase. I didn’t dare look up in case I broke the spell. But he wasn’t backing away. I moved my other hand so it skimmed across his abdomen till it came to rest on his hip. My thumb slipped naturally into the dip of his pelvis.
I felt a shudder run through him which meant there was only one way to go. I lifted my head up and felt his fingers lace into my hair, drawing me towards him. He was warm and firm and strong. Jeez! it had been a long time. He looked into my face. It was like he was debating whether to kiss me or not. Or maybe he just wanted to relish that delicious anticipation leading up to the first kiss. He circled my nose with his before gently brushing his lips over mine. I inhaled his breath. When my lips touched his, and I felt the moist tip of his tongue coaxing me to get closer, that was it.
His arms tightened around my waist. His mouth moved over mine with a heat and intensity I couldn’t ever remember feeling before. I picked up the pace – tasting, sucking and nipping at his mouth. Sweet heaven. It was magnificent – far exceeding anything I’d ever felt with Marc.
Thank you, Marc, for leaving me so that I could find this.
Hang on a minute.
What?
This is NOT what you came to France for.
Oh, but it’s so delicious…
Stop it! You might be attracted to him, but you can’t have a fling with Christophe.
Why not?
You came here to paint. Remember?