by Rosie Dean
‘Absolutely.’ I beamed back at her, recognising her as the woman I’d seen in Christophe’s arms, in the photograph on his piano. ‘And I’m sure this is a much better view, as well. Who wants to look at rows of sweaty bodies and pink faces?’
Colette took hold of my other hand and looked at her son. ‘What did I tell you, Chéri? Only a woman could understand.’ She turned her attention to me. ‘In any case, carpet is much kinder to the knees and ankles, wouldn’t you agree?’
Christophe’s eyes creased softly at the corners. ‘Maman, I need to talk to Alain. I think Vicki might like a coffee and then, perhaps, you can show her round.’
‘I would love to show you round, Vicki. Tell me, is that short for Victoria?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah. Victoria is such a beautiful name. But your Queen Victoria was so plain and yet, I read somewhere, she was sex mad, non?’
Christophe rolled his eyes, placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder and said, ‘I will leave you to your conversation.’
‘Apparently, I am an embarrassing mother.’
Christophe gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Not at all.’ He turned and gave me an apologetic nod before leaving.
Colette picked up a telephone, pressed a button, and ordered coffee – like she was at The Savoy. I observed her – taking in the thick auburn hair, skilfully layered so it had height and movement. She wore several gold bracelets that slid up and down her wrist as she moved, and a necklace of amber, jade and gold. For a woman who was probably in her late fifties, she looked a good ten years younger. She gestured for me to join her on one of the sofas; old sofas, in a heavy chintz design of pink and cream roses on a saffron yellow background were positioned opposite each other at right-angles to the window. A low, carved coffee table stood between them. She crossed her long legs, one foot still tapping to the music, and smiled encouragingly. ‘It’s so lovely to have female company. I always seem to be surrounded by men.’ She gave a little chuckle. ‘Not that I’m complaining but a woman needs the society of other women, don’t you think?’
‘Definitely. Girlfriends offer something a man never could.’
‘This is so true. I do, of course have the company of Sylvie here, but I find her very much more like a man in her attitudes – very cool. She’s away at the moment and I find I really don’t miss her at all. You’ve heard of Sylvie, of course.’
My brain was pedalling fast to come up to speed on this one. Sylvie – the phone call to Christophe and the person I’d heard Jeanne mention, several times last night in the same breath as Christophe. ‘Um…Sylvie…no, I don’t think so.’
‘My son’s ex-lover. She used to live with him. So surprising. He had always remained resolutely single.’ She tutted. ‘But it didn’t work out.’
So that’s what Louise had meant when she said his ex was still around. Dear old Christophe – what a guy. He even kept his ex-girlfriends simmering in the family château. I wondered if he had the name Lothario tattooed across his chest, and summoned up the vision, just for the hell of it.
‘Christophe thought it was time to settle down but personally, I always thought he’d picked the wrong girl. A mother can tell, you know.’
I nodded, taking it all in and rapidly assessing the situation. Christophe had wanted to settle down, then. So he must have felt a lot for Sylvie. Possibly still did. Louise had said things were complicated.
Colette ran both hands through her thick hair, bracelets jingling as she did so. ‘Of course, it was devastating for him when she was discovered with Gerard.’
‘Gerard…that’s his cousin, isn’t it?’
‘Oui.’
I swallowed as I digested this revelation. First, we had Colette’s affaire with François and now Christophe’s girlfriend had been cheating on him with his cousin. I wondered if he had been as magnanimous and forgiving of her infidelity as his father had of Colette’s.
She shrugged. ‘Oh well. Now Sylvie is married to Gerard, I will have to spend more time with her, I expect.’
What?! ‘So, Christophe’s girlfriend married his cousin, Gerard?’
‘It’s far more exciting than that, my dear. They eloped! Who would expect it these days? Unfortunately, Alain was very much against the marriage. It only happened a few days ago and threw everyone into turmoil.’ She glanced across as an elderly woman appeared in the doorway. ‘Ah, coffee.’
That could account why Louise had been crying and for the tense phone calls Christophe had been having. Not only had his relationship failed but now his ex had married his own cousin, and was living under the same roof as his mother. But what, I wondered, had Sylvie been doing phoning Christophe only two nights ago?
Still, it certainly threw my own position into more favourable perspective. At least Marc had the decency to move continents.
I was itching to know more, but waited until the coffee had been served before I asked, ‘Why was Alain so against the marriage?’
Colette was perched on the edge of the sofa, holding her coffee cup and saucer. ‘Gerard is a very passive man. Sylvie is a strong and determined woman. We all feel that, perhaps…well, no.’ She turned the cup on her saucer. ‘It’s not fair to judge, is it? Alain believes that the marriage will fail. We will leave it at that.’
I stirred my coffee, even though I didn’t take sugar.
Colette changed the subject. ‘So, how did you come to be in France – and painting? Christophe tells me you gave up your job – that’s a brave thing to do.’
‘Not really. It was more an act of survival.’ I wasn’t exaggerating; a few more years at the mercy of Darwin High pupils and who knew what state I’d be in?
‘And would I be correct in assuming you have no man in your life, at present?’
‘There was one but we had a parting of the ways. He went to Barbados, I came to France.’
‘Barbados... I once had a marvellous trip to Antigua, so beautiful – the colours. Why didn’t you go with him? It is an artist’s paradise.’
I pulled a face. ‘I wasn’t invited.’
Colette gasped. ‘Non! He just went? You didn’t know?’
And so, I spilled the whole story.
Colette was enthralled. ‘And you still went ahead with the wedding reception – good for you.’
‘Obviously, they thought I was mad but I’m a great believer in making the most of a situation.’
‘Wasn’t it awkward?’
‘God, yes. Although in a funny way, everyone covered it up. There was a kind of hysteria took over. Most of it mine, probably. Lots of alcohol consumption. Also mine, I expect, and wall-to-wall jocularity.’
‘What about his family – weren’t they ashamed?’
‘Well, his father had disappeared when Marc was a baby.’
Colette leaned across and touched my arm. ‘Like father, like son, you see. You had a lucky escape. And his mother?’
‘Embarrassed, naturally. Although I got the impression she was more miffed that he hadn’t told her first, and saved her the humiliation of turning up at church. She stayed long enough to be polite.’ About twenty minutes as I recalled.
‘But you’re here now. And it’s wonderful.’
‘Thank you. I’m very happy to be here.’
Colette leaned forward and took my hand as she said, sotto voce, ‘And what do you think of my son?’
‘Erm…’ I fought down the memory of his arms around me, and the sensation of his kisses.
Colette winked. ‘He’s adorable, non?’
I was trying to catch a rational thought. Finally, sounding as breezy as a holiday rep in the first week of the season, I said, ‘Well, he’s been very kind to give me a room in his house. I’m really grateful, and my studio is perfect.’
‘Of course, as his mother, I adore him – but I think I should warn you, he has littered half of Limousin with broken hearts.’
No surprises there, then. ‘Don’t worry. I have absolutely no intention of losing my heart to anyone. I’m he
re to paint. I’m taking a sabbatical from men, too.’
Colette squeezed my hand. ‘But chérie, make room for a little fun.’
I smiled back at her. ‘I’m already having fun. I haven’t felt this positive for ages. It’s like I’ve been handed a second chance and the world is my oyster.’
‘Bien. I feel I know you so much better, Vicki. I really look forward to spending more time with you. Now, you want to see the château. Let’s go.’
Generations of French families had knocked the château about a bit, and now it was divided into five apartments; one for Colette, another for Alain and his wife, two for the cousins, Gerard and Louise and the other was Christophe’s. It was the French equivalent of Southfork Ranch and almost as riddled with scandal. Colette had no access to Gerard’s apartment but Alain’s wife, Anne, showed us theirs. She was the polar opposite of Colette – very quiet and with seriously conservative taste, reflected in her furnishings of beige, sage and cream. Colette, on the other hand, worked with a more opulent palette. Paintings and sketches hung in every room alongside an eclectic mix of ceramics and sculptures. I was certain I saw two sketches by Picasso.
Louise’s apartment was more of a bed-sit. Being the youngest, I guess she drew the short straw. Mind you, at her age, I’d have been pretty glad to have a huge room with en-suite and kitchenette to take my friends to.
Christophe’s apartment was a big surprise. In contrast to the homely, somewhat sparsely furnished house by the surgery, there was a glorious, modern spaciousness to the place. Sand-coloured carpet had been laid throughout. In the sitting room, huge squashy sofas in dark brown sat at right-angles, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows. There were big cushions in the same teal and brown fabric as the curtains and in the centre of the ceiling hung a massive multiple light in stainless steel. It was a very manly room – but comfortable. The bathroom was, possibly, the most luxurious I’d ever seen; with his-and-hers basins and the biggest bath you might find outside of a rugby changing room. The master bedroom had modern, dark brown and steel furnishings, cream and rust coloured fabrics and a bed wide enough to host half of said rugby team.
I was itching to have a good nosey around but Colette swept me out and back to her own salon, which pulsed to the beat of Jive Talkin’. ‘This is one of my favourites,’ I confessed.
Colette gasped with delight. ‘Me too. But you’re so young to like the Bee Gees.’
‘My mother’s a huge fan.’
‘How marvellous.’ She turned up the volume again. ‘Come!’ she clasped my hand and began dancing me around the room.
Within seconds, we were like a couple of seventies’ schoolgirls – only without the flares. When I noticed Christophe standing in the doorway, I pulled a broad grin of embarrassment and stopped abruptly. Colette, on the other hand, swayed across, reached out and encouraged him to join us. Cool as you please, he cooperated in a few bars of perfect jive dancing with his mother, before the song ended.
Wow! He was good. Most guys I knew danced like lunatics. I applauded and Christophe nodded his head in acknowledgement. After reducing the volume he commented, ‘I think you are feeling better, huh?’
‘I’m feeling much better, thanks.’
‘Chéri, Vicki is a fan of the Bee Gees. I think we must be due for a party, soon. Don’t you?’
By the drop of his face and the slump of his shoulders, I guessed he didn’t agree. Maybe it had something to do with the Sylvie situation. He shrugged and turned to me. ‘Vicki, would you like to come for a walk outside; perhaps you could take some photographs?’
‘Great!’ I said and picked up my camera case.
Colette shook her magnificent auburn mane. ‘I think the weather is good enough to have lunch on the terrace today. You are staying to lunch, chéri?’
Christophe glanced at me. I was more than happy to stay so I nodded. ‘Oui,’ he said, with a sigh. Rude bugger.
‘That would be lovely,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
Christophe nodded. ‘Bien sur. Viens!’ He gestured for me to follow him. At the door he turned back to his mother. ‘Vicki is a vegetarian – no meat, only fish.’
‘Vraiment?’ Colette drawled. ‘That must be why you’re so lovely and slim.’ She studied herself in the large gilt mirror over the fireplace. ‘I wonder if that would work for me?’
CHAPTER 11
I watched Christophe bounding down the staircase like he had the cavalry after him. I scuttled behind until we were outside, when he finally came to rest by the balustraded wall separating the terrace from the lawns. Aside from picking up on his strange mood, I couldn’t help noticing how well the lichen-covered wall blended into its surroundings.
Christophe had his arms open wide, hands pressing on the stone slabs as he gazed over the grass. He’d hitched up the sleeves of his rugby shirt, displaying a fine pair of forearms, flecked with dark hairs. He turned and pulled a polite but incomplete smile. ‘Feel free to take all the pictures you want.’
Like a Formula One racing driver, I gave him the thumbs up, ‘Roger that,’ I said before scrabbling about in my camera case.
After a few minutes, I’d walked the length of the terrace, looking for the best shots. From the far side I peered through my camera, training it on Christophe. Quickly, I swapped to telephoto lens and refocused, zooming in on his face. The lids of his eyes were half closed as he stared into the distance. I liked how the sunlight picked out the texture of his hair and the angular planes of his face. Click. He looked down. Click. And then, as if sensing my attention, he turned to look at me. Click. I lowered the camera and picked up my case, blushing like a Peeping Tom caught in the act.
‘I thought you were interested in the château,’ he said, as he walked towards me.
‘I like human studies too. A telephoto lens is very good for that – it usually means the subject is unaware of the camera, so it makes for a more natural result.’
‘Yes, I have personal experience of that.’ His tone was deadly flat.
‘Oh?’
‘Journalists. It was a long time ago, but it was humiliating for my family. So forgive me if I don’t get excited at the prospect.’
‘Sorry.’ I unscrewed the lens and placed it back in the case. Trust me to piss him off when he was already in such a sour mood.
He walked down the central steps that led onto the upper lawn so I caught up. He tucked his hands into the tops of his pockets and looked at me. ‘I apologise. I’m a little distracted at the moment.’
‘Can I ask why?’
We continued walking. ‘It’s just a family affair.’
Appropriate choice of phrase. I shrugged, ‘Okay,’ and stopped halfway down the lawn and turned back to look at the château.
I got the message: it was nothing I needed to know about.
*
Christophe watched Vicki as she worked, changing her position; sometimes crouching down, sometimes swapping lenses but absorbed in her task. He liked the way her hair was loose again, and the colour was back in her cheeks.
As they walked to the end of the lower lawn, he led her to a seat under a rose arbour, now devoid of flowers. She placed her camera case down and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. ‘This is such a lovely place. Do you know how lucky you are?’
Lucky? He could understand why she would think that, with her English love of history and her artistic imagination. He sat down beside her, forward on the seat with his arms resting on his knees, one hand inside the other. He was looking back at the château, his eyes narrowing against the sunlight. Was he lucky?
She filled the silence. ‘I really like your mother. She’s wonderfully eccentric.’
He nodded.
‘What was you father like?’
Christophe’s fist twisted back and forth in his palm. ‘Much more serious. I used to think they were nothing like each other, but in a way, they were. They were both single-minded. He was passionate about horses…’
‘And she’s just passionate.’ Vicki cu
t in, making light of the situation.
Finally, he smiled and sat up, stretching his arms to rest on the back of the bench. ‘Yes. That certainly describes my mother.’
‘She’s very different from mine.’
He looked at her. ‘What is she like?’
‘Quieter. She’s a lab technician at the hospital. Very organised, you know, writes lists and lists of lists.’
He nodded and smiled to himself. ‘Like your little food inventory?’ He saw her jaw drop. ‘I’ve seen it on your notebook in the kitchen.’ He wrote in the air, ‘Dairy, Fruit, Vegetables…very organised, I was impressed.’
‘Oh, no. I’m turning into my mother.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Moving on…did your father always breed horses?’
‘Yes, and his father before him. The Dubois family were farmers. Grandpère Dubois acquired his first race-horse in a game of cards. It was very successful so he bred from it, and so he became more wealthy. And, of course, my father’s marriage to my mother helped.’
‘Your mother, the social butterfly.’
‘Yes. My maternal grandmother was from a wealthy English family – a socialite who came over to France after the Second World War. She met Grandpère de Chatillon, fell in love with him and stayed here.’
‘What did Grandpère de Chatillon do?’
‘He had a pharmaceutical business.’
‘So, did your grandmother go back to England when he died?’
‘Non. Grandpère de Chatillon had, what you would call, a roving eye, which she ignored for many years, until…bah!’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘You remember I told you about my concern over journalists? It was twenty-five years ago. There was a dispute between my grandpère’s pharmaceutical company and a smaller one. Unfortunately, grandpère underestimated the determination of his opponent, who hired a journalist to grind the very dust out of the story. He discovered my grandpère with a fifteen-year old chambermaid in Milan. He caught some very explicit photographs with his telephoto lens.’ He raised his hands in exclamation. ‘There was an exposé and the name of Antoine de Chatillon, which was already known and respected throughout Europe, became known for a very different reason. Of course, it was a set-up. The girl in question was paid off by his adversary and disappeared into obscurity. But the whole story was too great a humiliation for my grandmère. She walked out on him, returned to England and never set foot in France again.’