Vicki's Work of Heart

by Rosie Dean

  ‘How awful for her.’

  He turned back to focus again on the château. ‘And not just for her. The family and the business suffered.’

  ‘I can only imagine how that must have been.’

  ‘I was just a young boy. I’d never seen an adult cry until I saw my grandmother, weeping with shame. She was a wonderful woman, she did good things for people. I loved her more than anybody. It was…bah!’ He shrugged. Why was he telling her all this? It was history, now. They had all moved on.

  *

  I would never have anticipated Christophe Dubois would bare his soul to me. The hunch of his shoulders and the drop of his head brought a shocking and unexpected lump to my throat. I sat forward, closing the gap between us. I could feel the muscles of my arm twitch as I resisted touching him but, after last night, I didn’t trust myself to do anything, nor him for that matter. It’s at times like that, I want to say something profound but all that came out was, ‘You never know what’s round the corner, do you?’

  After a moment, he turned his head and looked at me. The gloom appeared to have lifted and as his gaze connected with mine, he said. ‘You certainly don’t.’ That glimmer in his eye could only be alluding to last night.

  I swear I could feel the heat off him scorching my face, and I’m not absolutely sure I didn’t flinch as his thigh moved against my knee. I swallowed and dragged my eyes away from his, clasping my now sweating hands securely together. His family history was littered with infidelities. As far as I knew, my own family had been steadfast to the point of calcification. I changed the subject. ‘So, is Colette like your grandmother?’

  He nodded slowly. ‘In small ways. But she’s more like my grandfather.’

  ‘You mean, she has a roving eye, too?’ He inclined his head and frowned as he looked across at me. Damn. Me and my big mouth. ‘Sorry, it’s just…the François thing…’ My heart was starting to pound.

  He studied me in an unnerving way. ‘I imagine you’re building up quite a picture of us all, huh? The Dubois and the de Chatillons – all loose morals and disloyalty.’

  ‘No. Not at all.’ I said, although he’d pretty much hit the nail on the head.

  He continued staring at my face, his Bourneville-brown eyes judging me and drawing me in at the same time. I had the wild notion he was deciding whether or not to prove just how loose his morals could be, by ravaging me on the arbour seat in full view of the château. And I’m not sure I would have resisted. I could sense my body drifting towards him in slow motion.

  ‘Is that what you were hoping for last night?’ he murmured. ‘Is that the kind of man you’re looking for – a man with no strings to suit your new life?’

  I lurched away and looked back at him. ‘Hang on a minute. What happened last night was entirely a result of too much alcohol on an empty stomach. And you know it.’

  ‘So you would have done the same thing if it had been François who walked you to the car, huh? Or Henri?’

  I stared back at him. He had a point. There was no way I would have snogged Henri or François without a hefty financial reward to a charity of my choice, which meant…

  Without a response from me, he continued quietly. ‘So does that make your morals any superior to Colette’s or my grandfather’s?’

  I stood up clutching the camera case and drew in a deep breath. ‘I think we’re both adult enough to know that…that last night was a blip. You were my ally, my friend. I was seriously under the influence of François’ entire wine cellar and yes, congratulations. From the selection of men on offer last night, you were the pick of the bunch.’

  ‘And I’m delighted you picked me. It’s always a pleasure when a beautiful woman takes the lead.’

  Yes, oh Heartbreaker of Limousin. ‘So I’ve heard.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘That you have a reputation where women are concerned.’

  He looked bewildered.

  What on earth was I doing getting into this discussion? ‘Never mind. Forget it.’

  I spun round and stomped off – more annoyed with myself than anyone else. As I rapidly approached the paddock, I attracted the attention of the horses grazing there. Suddenly, the black one turned, raised his head and hit the gas…accelerating towards the fence, his mane dancing and mad eyes glaring as he approached. I stopped. Horses could jump fences. Wasn’t that what the Grand National was all about? I watched in mounting horror as the enormous beast headed straight at me. I dropped to the ground and scrunched myself into a knot, waiting for the inevitable. I wasn’t sure which was louder – the pounding in my ears or the hooves on the turf.

  I waited.

  Nothing.

  I looked up. He was standing behind the fence, his head lurching and a snort billowing through his nostrils. I let out a whimper of relief, followed swiftly by a groan of humiliation. Finally, I sat back on my haunches and watched it from the safe distance of twenty metres. And the horse watched me. Before the moment was lost, I took out my camera.

  Christophe appeared at my side. ‘Did you think he was going to leap over the fence and eat you?’ I ignored him and started taking photos. ‘Equinophobia. We could help you get over that, you know.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘I could teach you to ride. I like a challenge.’

  I stood up, and looked him in the eye. ‘Yes. I have a fear of horses. You can blame a donkey at Weston-super-Mare.’

  ‘What did it do?’

  I hesitated. Could a donkey savage a three year old? I coughed. ‘He dribbled on me.’

  After a second’s disbelief crossed his face, Christophe chuckled.

  ‘He was big and I was very small. It was like a monster. It gave me nightmares.’

  Christophe studied me some more so I busied myself tidying away the camera. Eventually, he said, ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Good. Because I see the table is being prepared for lunch.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Should I tell my mother you’ll only be drinking water?’

  I zipped the bag up. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘Good. Then I won’t have to worry about you getting so drunk that I have to fight you off.’

  ‘Oh, per-lease!’

  ‘Well, you appear to think I have no shame where women are concerned so if you were to make another pass at me, your honour would be seriously at risk. Although why you would make such a judgement about me, I cannot understand. Unless Isabelle has been very creative…and I know she can be.’

  ‘Isabelle is a good friend of mine.’

  ‘Well, she must have said something.’

  ‘You don’t have to look that far away from home. Your mother seems to think you’ve broken every heart in Limousin.’

  He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Now you’re talking about someone even more creative than Isabelle.’

  His smile was killing me. That’s how men like him worked – pissing you off then launching a massive charm offensive. How many times had Marc sweet-talked me round when I was fuming at his selfishness? ‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you but you really do give off that whole ‘love-em-and-leave-em’ kind of vibe. And I’m even more sorry I was so stupid last night. It was purely biological. I’m a woman in my prime – what can I say?’ I headed off towards the château, gesturing with my free arm. ‘I have no intention of doing it again. I promise.’

  Alain and Anne joined us for a lunch of salade Niçoise and tarte aux pommes. Despite Colette’s relentless cheerfulness, the air between Alain and Christophe was so glacial you could have seen your breath in it. Neither met the other’s eye and both said very little when spoken to. Anne was as quiet as a Carmelite nun, so the onus was on me, Louise and Colette to maintain the conversation. I plugged away with my interest in the château and its history. Colette seized on this by suggesting I spend a few days with her. ‘There is a beautiful room overlooking the garden – well, you’ve seen it – I would love
to have you here with me.’

  Her offer was mighty tempting, in light of last night’s little soap opera.

  She continued. ‘We could fly down to Nice for a few days – what do you think? I have some very good friends there…’

  ‘Maman!’ Christophe interrupted. ‘Vicki is here to concentrate on her painting. She doesn’t need you distracting her with shopping trips and soirées with your friends in Nice.’

  I was surprised at the edge in his voice; surprised and somewhat miffed that he should be speaking for me. What was he – my manager? On the other hand, we did have a deal of sorts, and it would seem impolite and ungrateful if I cleared off to live it up with Colette – particularly when he’d gone to the trouble of setting up my studio.

  Colette also raised her eyebrows at his reaction and looked over at me before saying, ‘Everyone needs a little recreation, chéri.’

  I imagined Colette could be wonderful and diverting company but Christophe was right – even if I did resent him speaking for me. I would tell him so later but, for now, I was possessed by pure devilment. ‘Actually,’ I said, looking from Colette to Christophe – who appeared to be fascinated by his empty plate – ‘I’d really like to take you up on the offer…’ I heard his deep intake of breath and saw the smile twinkle in his mother’s eyes. ‘It’s so lovely here, with lots of stimulating scenery – and Nice. Wow! I’m very tempted…but could we leave it for a few weeks? Only I do need to get my head down and work. I’m sure there’ll come a point where I’ll be desperate for a diversion and when I do, I’ll be over like a shot.’

  Colette raised her glass. ‘Good. I shall look forward to it.’

  I stole another glance at Christophe, who had sunk back in his chair. As he looked up at me, I raised my eyebrows over a benign smile. He merely narrowed his eyes and returned to studying his plate.

  During the journey home, I said, ‘I’m curious, Christophe, since when did you take responsibility for my painting?’

  He looked across at me. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You told your mother I needed to concentrate on my painting – what are you, my agent?’

  He briefly raised both hands off the wheel in exasperation. ‘No. But you do want to concentrate on your painting, don’t you? I thought I was helping. My mother can be quite formidable when she sets her mind on something. I didn’t want to see you pushed into a corner by her.’

  ‘I can speak up for myself – and have been doing for some time.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that.’

  I had the advantage of watching him while he concentrated on the road. He ran a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to keep the weight of it off his brow. Why did I have the distinct impression he didn’t want me to stay at the château? Maybe he didn’t like his mother cutting in on his territory – after all, he had quite a nice little arrangement with me being his resident cook. And then, of course, there would be Sylvie. If I went to stay at the château, I would get to know Sylvie and he probably didn’t feel too good about that either.

  In fairness, I did rather like staying at his house. Last week, when he was away, I’d been left to my own devices. If things continued in the same vein, I could be bashing out paintings at an impressive rate. A memory of last night shivered through my body. Or…was it the chance of more shared intimacy that I didn’t want to give up…and was he feeling the same? I swallowed and opened my window for air.

  Christophe spoke. ‘I apologise.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He continued. ‘You’re right. It was not my place to interfere. Perhaps you would do better at the château. You will have more stimulation there, more space, more inspiration. And you will have more company than you will at the surgery. The room at the top of my house is probably not suitable for a studio, anyway.’

  ‘I like the studio at the top of your house.’

  ‘You do?’ he looked over at me.

  ‘The wheels of my ambition started rolling in that room, I feel quite attached to it now. And as for company – you’re absolutely right; I don’t need any distractions if I’m going to paint.’ I hoped he took the hint vis-à-vis last night’s little aberration, too. ‘So I’ll stay put, if that’s okay with you?’

  He nodded in acceptance. ‘Good.’ Gradually, his frown lifted – as did the atmosphere in the car.

  I shifted in my seat until I was almost facing him. ‘So, did your mother teach you to dance?’

  He glanced at me. ‘Of course. It’s one of the things she does best, that and spending money on travelling and parties.’

  ‘She taught you well. You’re quite a groovy little mover.’

  Now he laughed. ‘A groovy mover. I like that. And you – do you dance?’

  ‘I love dancing but I’ve never learned to jive. I wish I could.’

  ‘It’s easy. Maybe I can teach you, sometime.’

  I could let him teach me to dance. That would be fun. Just dancing. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Of course, you would have to let me take the lead, which might be a problem for you…’

  I gaped at him.

  He laughed. ‘I’m teasing. It would be a pleasure to teach you to jive.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Around the next corner, there were half a dozen cyclists taking a break in a lay-by. They looked seriously fit, all lean and sculpted in their skin-tight vests and leggings. I let out a low whistle of appreciation as we passed – a shameful throw-back to my adolescence. A couple of guys looked up and waved.

  ‘You like, huh?’ Christophe asked.

  ‘What’s not to like?’ I said, shrugging and settling back into my seat.

  Christophe slowed the car, stopped and, to my horror, began a slow reverse back up the road.

  ‘What?’ I shrieked. ‘What are you doing?’

  He looked at me, all wide-eyed and innocent. ‘Well, you seemed pretty keen to show your appreciation. Maybe you’d like an introduction, huh?’

  ‘Noo! Stop it! Drive on!’

  ‘What? You don’t want another look? Maybe take a photo for your archive?’

  ‘Christophe!’

  He grinned at me. Stopped reversing, put the car into forward gear and set off again, chuckling at my mortification.

  Just as we pulled into our little town, my mobile trilled into life. ‘Excuse me,’ I said to Christophe before answering it. ‘Good afternoon, Daniel, how are you?’

  ‘Pretty good, thanks,’ he replied in his easy way. ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘I’ve just been out taking some photographs.’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘A château.’

  ‘Where did you go, Lubersac?’

  ‘No.’ I didn’t like to say more. I didn’t want Christophe thinking I was a blabber-mouth as well as a loose woman. ‘So, Daniel, why are you calling?’

  ‘Are you busy, this evening?’

  I looked at Christophe whose eyes were fixed on the road. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘My friend, Connor, has a preview copy of the latest Jim Carrey movie so he can write a review. Wondered if you fancied joining us to watch it?’

  ‘I do. I love Jim Carrey.’ But I still had to cook dinner. ‘What time?’

  ‘It’s flexible.’

  ‘Could you pick me up at eight-thirty?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said and we ended the conversation.

  After a few minutes silence, I said to Christophe, ‘I’d quite like to get dinner finished by eight-fifteen. Is that okay?’

  ‘Sure. If you love Jim Carrey.’

  CHAPTER 12

  Daniel looked better tonight. He was wearing navy jeans and an amethyst coloured sweater. He gave me a rueful look just before we entered his friend’s house. ‘I apologise, in advance, for the state of the place. Con considers himself too cerebral to tackle housework.’

  Connor reminded me of a typical student, which would have been less disturbing if we’d all been eighteen. Instead, Connor – or Con – was nearer to forty. Born in Dublin, h
e’d arrived in France via Repton and Cambridge. They lived in an old farmhouse, once lovingly modernised but now a bit of a tip. An army of cleaners could probably get it up to Homes & Gardens’ standard by Christmas.

  A bottle of port had been opened and was sitting on the coffee table with some glasses. It was forming a new, glistening ring on the wooden surface, amongst dozens of similar, wine bottle rings. Con hauled his eighteen stone frame from his armchair as we entered. He smiled, a broad, welcoming smile and shook my hand before leaning forward to kiss my cheeks.

  ‘Welcome to a Limousin Arts and Reprobates Social Event,’ he said. ‘Or L’ARSE as we like to call it. We’re thinking of giving it official status and filing for government funding, what do you reckon?’

  ‘Is that to buy the port,’ I asked.

  ‘Smart girl. Would you like one?’

  ‘Don’t suppose I could have coffee, could I?’

  ‘Coffee? Good idea. You and Dan can stay sober and tell me what the film’s all about.’

  Daniel raised an eyebrow. ‘Here, sit down,’ he said, plumping a cushion on the sofa. ‘How do you take your coffee?’

  ‘Just black, please.’

  ‘Settling in alright?’ Con asked, thudding back into his armchair.

  I perched on the vacant sofa. ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘Always good to meet a kindred spirit in this place – and a Brit. It’s full of agricultural Frogs, of course.’ He picked up the remote control for the TV and brought the set to life. ‘I’ve cued up the DVD. Do you want to watch the trailer; get an idea of what we’re watching?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Always best, I think. Then if I nod off, at least I’ll have the gist of it,’ he laughed.

  ‘Don’t you enjoy reviewing films? I’d have thought it was a great job.’