Vicki's Work of Heart

by Rosie Dean

  ‘You get to see an awful lot of dross. That’s why I like to share the load. I used to fly solo but, Christ, it was intense.’

  Daniel came back with two mugs of coffee and sat next to me. ‘So, this château you visited – I assume it’s the one belonging to the Dubois family – what was it like?’

  ‘Fabulous. Big rooms, tall windows. A bit crumbly round the edges, though. It could do with some money spending on it.’

  ‘That’s the home of the Dubois stables, isn’t it?’ Con asked. I nodded. ‘Bloody loaded, so I’ve heard. See the stables?’

  ‘Yes, briefly but I’m not a horsey person, so please don’t ask me about them. I don’t know a fetlock from a nosebag.’

  ‘Colette Dubois has quite a reputation, too. Don’t suppose you met her, did you?’ he asked.

  I wondered if all journalists were chronically nosy. ‘Yes. She was lovely. I liked her.’

  ‘Bit of a man trap, I’ve heard,’ he said, leaning forward to refill his glass. ‘And an art collector, isn’t she?’

  ‘Come on, Con,’ Daniel interjected, ‘give the girl a break.’

  ‘Just curious. Thought you might engineer yourself an invite, Dan. Check out her collection.’

  Dan looked at me over his coffee, a smile playing round the corners of his eyes. ‘Can I apologise for all Con’s failings, here and now? Save repeating myself for the rest of the evening?’

  I smiled back. ‘Colette might enjoy showing you round. She’s certainly not the shy, retiring kind.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve plenty to keep me occupied.’

  ‘He’s playing it cool, Vicki. The man’s personal obsession is private collections, isn’t it, Dan?’ Connor knocked back a hefty slug of port.

  Daniel rolled his eyes and shook his head. If there were an Olympic sport for stirring up trouble, I reckon Connor would go for gold.

  ‘I will try. If you’d like me to,’ I said, smiling at Daniel.

  ‘It’s not important.’ He turned to Connor. ‘Come on, let’s see this film before Con nods off.’

  I settled back onto the sofa next to Daniel, feeling a companionable warmth and found I quite liked it. He didn’t exude a dangerous heat like Christophe did. Around Daniel, I didn’t feel that vertiginous threat – no desire to throw myself at him. So later, when he drove me home and suggested we might meet for lunch, the following week, I had no hesitation in accepting.

  ‘There’s a very pretty river valley near here. While the weather’s still good, it’s worth a visit. You never know, it might inspire you.’

  ‘Daniel, you realise you could turn into my ancillary muse?’

  ‘Ha! That’d be a first.’ When he pulled up outside the house, he smiled across at me. ‘Tell me, do you have a series of paintings in mind – a theme?’

  ‘Absolutely…not.’ I winced. ‘Daniel, I haven’t a clue where I’m going. I’m rusty, I’m…I’m shit-scared, to be honest. I’ve given myself this year but what if I waste it trying to find my creative mojo? What if I’m no better than a high-school art teacher? You know what they say, those who can, do, those who can’t…’

  He nudged my arm. ‘Vicki, this is the year to find out. Give it a go. If it’s not your destiny, you can go back to being a great art teacher and inspire the next generation.’

  He made it sound simple, like it didn’t matter whether I succeeded or not. Hell, I wished I could be so easy on myself. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’ll mull that over.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up on Tuesday, around twelve.’

  As Daniel had promised, the river valley was gorgeous. On sight, I thought to myself, if this doesn’t spark something in me, I should jack it in and go home. You’re an artist, I told myself, wake up!

  Either side of the valley, a blend of evergreen and deciduous trees made a haphazard patchwork of texture and colour, all reflected in the slow-moving surface of the water. ‘Good shout, Daniel,’ I said, reaching round for my camera bag. ‘This place is beautiful.’

  As we turned along a curve in the path, I stopped abruptly, and Daniel bumped into me. About a hundred metres away, a man and a young boy were fishing from the bank. ‘Shh,’ I put my finger to my lips and whispered, ‘That is a picture.’ I switched to telephoto lens and began to shoot.

  When we finally reached the couple fishing, I asked the father if he minded me taking a picture of the boy with his fish. Without hesitation, the youngster handed his rod to his father and lifted his booty into the air, his cheeky grin exposing a large gap between his front teeth. I took a couple of pictures and agreed to send them copies via email – jotting their address in my notepad.

  Walking on, Daniel offered to carry the camera case. I realised, as I watched him wrap the strap around his hand and carry the bag over his shoulder, it was a gesture Marc would never have made. Men and women had been equals in our world. So equal, Marc wouldn’t even offer to carry the shopping in from the car; I’d always had to ask.

  In the shade of an overhanging willow tree, I quickly flicked back through the images I’d captured. ‘Yes!’ I declared, punching the air and beaming at Daniel.

  ‘Something there?’ he asked.

  ‘Something stirring,’ I answered, not missing the flicker of his eyebrows. ‘I feel a little badda-boom, badda-boom just here,’ I said, patting my heart. ‘And up here,’ I pointed to the middle of my forehead, ‘plans…plans for my first picture of the new era. Thank you, Daniel.’ I threw an arm around his neck and hugged him. ‘I think my mo is finally jo-ing.’

  He grinned. ‘Hey, happy to oblige.’

  I bounced a little on the spot. ‘I can’t wait to get started.’

  ‘We can forego lunch, if you like. Although the restaurant’s only just at the next bridge.’

  ‘No. Not at all. Lunch. Excellent. Lunch. Just what I need to set me up for an afternoon’s painting.’ I almost skipped along the river path. ‘What sort of restaurant is it?’

  ‘Small and traditional, with excellent foie gras.’

  I stopped skipping. ‘Ah. Small problem. I’m vegetarian and I’m beginning to realise France isn’t the ideal destination for veggies, is it?’

  ‘They do excellent fish dishes, too. And the best Vin de Pays in Limousin.’

  ‘Marvellous!’

  Over lunch we covered topics as diverse as Daniel’s preference for cats over mine for dogs; if there was a chance society would swing in favour of women being the key breadwinners (bit of a sore point for me); and why whole nations were obsessed with football. ‘If I were running the FA,’ I said, tapping the salt cellar with my finger, ‘I would insist all football shorts had a pocket with a hankie in.’

  ‘Ah…but would they use it?’

  ‘They’d bloody well have to, if I was in charge.’

  ‘And so speaks Miss Marchant, Head of Art and Football.’

  I giggled. ‘Once a teacher, always a teacher.’

  ‘But you can become an artist. I’m sure, if you really want to.’

  ‘I do.’ I paused. ‘I think.’

  He dipped his head and looked at me, over invisible spectacles. ‘Only think?’

  I shook myself. ‘It’s self doubt, that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t waste your time on that. Life’s too short. I’ve told you, go for it and if it doesn’t come off, you can say you tried.’

  ‘So where does your confidence come from, Daniel?’ I asked, although I had a sneaking suspicion it was down to his privileged upbringing. Who wouldn’t be confident with lofty connections and no financial worries?

  He tipped his head to one side. After a moment, he narrowed his eyes and said, ‘Life’s all about survival of the fittest. Show weakness and someone will spot it, they’ll seize their opportunity and rub you out.’

  ‘Wow. That’s a pretty dark view of the world.’

  ‘I learned it at an early age. Remember, at boarding school, we had no Mummy and Daddy to fight our battles for us. It was sink or swim, do or die.’

  I rea
lised his background wasn’t so different from Christophe’s. However, I’d spent my life in state education but I didn’t recall many parents strolling into school like the Mafia to stick up for their progeny. ‘Are you saying, bully or be bullied?’

  He frowned. ‘No. Absolutely not. No. That’s cowardly. No.’

  He pushed his empty plate away and signalled to the waiter for the bill.

  ‘You see,’ he went on, ‘I had an older brother who went through it all before me. I learned from his mistakes.’ He glanced at his watch and grinned up at me. ‘Listen, if I get you home in the next half hour, you’ll have three good hours of daylight to start that painting. What do you think?’

  I smiled and nodded. ‘Sure.’

  Plucking raw nerves wasn’t the kind of activity I liked to engage in.

  CHAPTER 13

  Having left the table set for dinner, I returned to my studio and began flicking through the pictures on my screen, rocking back and forth between the ones of the young fisherman and his father. I chose one of the images taken with the telephoto lens and started working out my composition on paper, before placing a new blank canvas on the easel. Within an hour, I had my principal structure and colours blocked in. There wasn’t much to see but I was bouncing again. I would use misty colours to suggest the autumn light and sharp focus on the main characters. I was humming to myself and jumped when Christophe tapped on the open door. I looked up and grinned. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Good afternoon. You have been busy, I see. May I come in?’

  ‘Of course.’ I stepped back from my canvas.

  He studied it for a moment. ‘I see it is not the château.’

  ‘No. Daniel took me down to the river, this morning. I saw a father and son, fishing. This is the start of that picture.’

  ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘You are inspired, non?’

  ‘I am. And it’s very exciting.’

  He nodded. ‘So, were the pictures of the château not up to standard?’

  ‘Aha…yes. They were very good but I want to study them and decide which scenes I want to revisit. The château is such a beautiful building but…it’s really what goes on there that interests me.’

  Christophe rolled his eyes. ‘Mon Dieu! I doubt that would make an attractive image.’ He turned abruptly. ‘I will leave you to your work.’

  I shrugged and focussed again on my canvas. He didn’t leave, instead he said, more quietly, ‘Would you like something to drink – red, white?’

  ‘Red. Thank you.’

  He returned with a glass and the bowl of fruit from the kitchen. ‘I don’t want you forgetting to eat,’ he teased, flashing his most practised and spine-tingling smile.

  Nice one, I thought. But I’m an artist, now. I’m immune.

  The following morning, keen to top up my bank of images, I took advantage of the crisp, bright morning to visit the weekly market. It really was an uplifting kaleidoscope of colour as it meandered through the small town. I thought back to the vast market I went to in Bristol – all noisy vendors and cheap clothes, the kind a girl might wear on a Hen Weekend in Magaluf.

  There were neat rows of fruit and veg in a patchwork of texture and earthy colours. An elderly stall-holder nodded and mumbled ‘bonjour’ in a deep, gruff voice as I wandered towards him. His face was so lined from a life in the outdoors, he looked shockingly like one of his Savoy cabbages.

  Moving on, I smelt the unmistakable and, frankly, repellent smell of raw meat. I scanned the chiller cabinet displaying butchered birds and animals: duck hearts, rabbits complete with their own offal, great shiny slabs of muscle and bone. Yuk! I dragged my eyes away settled on a stall festooned with lush scarves and shawls.

  I raised my camera and clicked. A woman, layered up in grey wool, stepped out to promote her merchandise with an encouraging smile, so I was drawn in to touch the sumptuous fabrics. Tempted by a cerise, chenille shawl with tiny blue birds embroidered along the edge, I lifted it, felt its weight and absolutely knew it would drape perfectly.

  It would look great with jeans and with my Best Winter Coat. But I’d left the Best Winter Coat in England. Would I really wear this out here? Reluctantly, I let it go and watched if fall back. I smiled, thanked the woman and moved away.

  A cat was dozing beneath the fish stall, cunningly opening one eye, now and again – ever the opportunist. I bought a couple of red mullet and some huge, glossy grey prawns.

  The next stall was Italian, with hunks of parmesan – like Cotswold stones – piled on the top of the stand over racks of polenta, gnocchi and domed panettone. I bought some fresh pasta – it would be great with the prawns.

  At the end of the market when I turned and looked back, there was a sudden burst of winter sunshine warming the canopies. I clicked away – thrilled by the potential for another painting.

  I had done my shopping so I could concentrate on snapping more pictures. I say ‘done my shopping’ but truth was, I’d not quite finished. Drawn – as I knew I would be – back to the cerise shawl. It’s not as if I’d treated myself to much, recently. Well…apart from the rail ticket to France, new brushes, canvases and paint. But, without my Best Winter Coat I might freeze to death. This shawl was an investment. An absolute bloody necessity. ‘Oui,’ I said to the woman. ‘Je voudrais ceci,’ I would like this.

  ‘Bien sur,’ she replied with a knowing wink.

  Back at the house, I could see Christophe in his dove grey vet’s scrubs walking across the courtyard towards the house. It was the first time I’d seen him in uniform. It didn’t exactly have the impact of the military but it had a certain appeal. I plonked my shopping on the table and reached for the kettle, just as he came through the back door.

  ‘Coffee?’ I asked.

  ‘Thanks, but I have one going cold at the surgery,’ he said, with a polite smile, as he carried on through to his study.

  Fair enough.

  I packed the food away in the fridge and opened a tin of nutty flapjack I’d made the day before. It was one of those delicious winter treats that always reminded me of home. As I leaned against the counter, chomping on a sweet, buttery mouthful of oats and toffee, Christophe reappeared. His eyes did a quick flick in my direction. He stopped, sidled over to see what I was eating and raised an eyebrow.

  I held the open tin towards him. ‘Nutty Flapjack. Packed with calories and hazardous to teeth but really scrummy.’

  ‘Mmm,’ he murmured in anticipation, as he dipped his hand into the tin and pulled a piece out. He studied it for a second and took a bite. It wasn’t easy; the texture of my nutty flapjack has been likened to concrete. He frowned and then a piece snapped off into his mouth. As his jaws worked a little harder, the taste delivered its magic, and his face relaxed. ‘Mmm,’ he repeated.

  ‘Sure you don’t want a hot coffee to dunk it in?’ I asked.

  He shook his head, jaws still working on the flapjack. Finally, he said. ‘You had the description about right, I think.’

  ‘Do you want to take the tin with you – share it with your colleagues?’

  He looked at the tin and he looked at me. ‘Probably safer I don’t, huh?’ He went to move away then paused, turned back and smiled. ‘Oh…maybe I will. We have a long day ahead of us.’

  As he walked out of the door with the tin under his arm, I’m pretty sure he said, ‘Scrummy.’

  Days later, to say I was pleased with my first, proper painting of the new season would be an understatement. It was singing to me. If my painting had a voice, it would be belting out Stayin’ Alive. Okay, so I’d had to repaint the boy’s face a couple of times to get it right, but in the preceding years, I’d been so bogged down with educational admin and wedding plans, I wouldn’t have been surprised if all I could muster was a psychedelic spreadsheet in the style of Mondrian. I bounced around the attic like Tigger. ‘Go girl!’

  My mobile rang.

  ‘Daniel,’ I yelped into the phone. ‘You’ve called me just at the right time.’

  ‘Delighted t
o hear it. Why’s that?’

  ‘I’ve finished my first painting and I’m really pleased with it.’

  ‘There you go. I’m sure it’ll be the first of many.’

  ‘I do hope so.’

  ‘How do you fancy coming with me to see a small gallery?’

  ‘Yes, please. That’s just what I could do with – more stimulation.’

  ‘Truth is, the gallery owner’s a bit of a bore – obsessive over his artistic choices yet always has his eye on business. With me, of course, he knows he’s unlikely to make a sale but he labours under the illusion I have some influence in getting others to buy.’

  ‘Oh dear, I hope he won’t think I’ve got that kind of money.’

  ‘Ha, no. I was thinking more along the lines of you getting to know him; preparing the ground for your future exhibition, while I check out the exhibits. I happen to know, he doesn’t have a full calendar for next year.’

  I raised my eyes to heaven in silent thanks. ‘Brilliant! Count me in. You’re an absolute star.’

  ‘Oh, God, yes,’ he said with mock emphasis, ‘I’m a regular bloody saint.’

  I started pacing a small circle. ‘Daniel, are you sure it’s not too soon?’

  ‘It’s never too soon to put your plans in motion.’

  ‘No, of course. You’re absolutely right.’

  ‘Good. I’ll set up an appointment with Raimond and let you know.’

  I heard the slow rumble of a car engine, followed by the excited barks of the dogs as Christophe pulled onto the drive. I ran downstairs, arriving in the hall just as he entered. ‘Guess what?’

  ‘I don’t know, tell me.’

  So I did.

  ‘Very good,’ he replied. ‘Daniel is proving to be quite a useful contact, non?’

  ‘It’s serendipity.’

  The look he gave me only lacked a curled lip and a snort of scorn.

  Miserable bugger! I thought, beaming more broadly as I headed towards the kitchen. ‘Artichoke and mushroom flan – how does that grab you?’ I called over my shoulder, not waiting to hear his reply.

  I’d swapped several texts with Izzy during the day but felt a full-on dialogue was essential. So once dinner was over, I excused myself and shot up to my studio to call her. Unfortunately, it was one of those days when my mood was completely at odds with hers. I’m not saying she deliberately deflated the balloon of my excitement but she was definitely straining to match my enthusiasm.