by Rosie Dean
Daniel smiled, pleased with her reaction.
She looked up and beamed back at him. ‘Oh Daniel, you’re such a good guy. Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.’
She threw her arms out and hugged him to her. He could feel the strength of her gratitude in that hug. How satisfying, he thought, and allowed the smile to spread across his face. ‘You’re very welcome.’
*
Yay! Daniel was my hero. Had any man (other than my dad) ever made such an effort on my behalf; ever championed my corner quite like he had? Without a doubt, Daniel was on my side. I felt a shift in my attention from the news he’d just delivered to the feeling of his arms around my waist. How cosy it felt. How secure. Yes. Daniel offered me the kind of security I’d never experienced with Marc. I relaxed the squeeze I was subjecting him to and rested my head against him. He was a few inches taller than me, so my head fitted snugly on his shoulder.
Daniel wouldn’t stand me up. Daniel made a habit of calling when he said he would and turning up on time. Daniel kept his word. More than that, he anticipated my needs and went out of his way to meet them.
I could feel myself relaxing even more into the shape of him, and the weight of his head shifted to lean against mine.
The music volume increased as someone came out from the party. Just my luck. There I was, in the first truly romantic moment of my life since…well, Christophe didn’t count – that was an aberration on my part…since the early days with Marc. I opened my eyes to see Jeanne, her unblinking stare boring into us before settling on me. Her mouth lifted into a glittering but irregular smile – like the dermal filler in her lips had just melted. Then she moved past us, bathing us in the wake of her pungent fragrance.
I stepped back and whispered, ‘I wonder why she’s suddenly looking so pleased with life.’
‘Who knows?’ He smiled. ‘Fancy some champagne? I snuck a bottle into the boot of my car to stop all this lot guzzling it.’
Champagne. What a gent. ‘Ooh, yes please.’
As Daniel offered me two champagne flutes to hold, the cork flew off with a loud pop. ‘Here,’ he guided the flutes towards the stream of foam. ‘I’ve started writing an article. About you.’
‘Me?’
‘Your work. You and your work.’
My work. Humble little art teacher, Vicki Marchant.
‘Careful,’ he said, righting the flute that was about to dispense fizz over the gravel.
‘But, who’d want to read it?’
‘Lots of people, I hope. He took one of the glasses from me and held it up in a toast. ‘To your future.’
I raised my glass and took a sip. It was chilled to a crisp, straight out of the coolbox. ‘Thank you, Daniel.’
His eyes twinkled back at me. ‘It’s a pleasure.’
I took another sip. ‘What kind of thing would you write about me, though? Struggling artist makes stab at the big time?’ Disbelief and insecurity were winning out over pride and excitement.
‘Come on, I’ll show you,’ he said, tucking the bottle under one arm and slipping the other around my waist to guide me back into the house, and up to his room.
Okay, even though it was almost Come up and see my etchings, I was perfectly happy to comply.
His room was furnished with old furniture. None of it matched. Still holding his arm around me, we moved towards a bureau on which sat a laptop and small printer. After putting his glass down, he one-handedly brought the laptop back to life, clicked through to a document and set the printer running. As it whirred and chuntered, I looked from it to Daniel, and felt a delicious and warming glow spreading through me.
‘What?’ he said, that lopsided smile tweaking my neural pathways.
‘I don’t know,’ I whispered, feeling uncharacteristically shy.
‘Here.’ He leaned across to lift the paper from the printer. I didn’t move out of his way. If anything, I pressed a little closer as my body switched into hussy mode.
The title of the piece was, Vicki Marchant – An Emerging Talent.
*
Daniel could feel the pounding of Vicki’s heart through her rib-cage, and smiled to himself. As she hesitated, looking first at the page and then back at him, he said, ‘You don’t have to read it now, if you don’t want to.’
She placed her glass down on the bureau and took the paper from him. He couldn’t be sure how much of the first page she’d read, because moments later he saw a tear trickle over her cheek. She placed the paper back on the desk and wiped the tear away. She sniffed. It was a much stronger reaction than he’d expected; delight – yes, conceit – possibly but tears? ‘Hey, it’s just an article,’ he said quietly.
She nodded and looked up at him, a watery smile softening her face. He felt her cool fingers touch his cheek. And as her lips came up to meet his, pressing gently against his mouth, he felt a new ripple of satisfaction. It wasn’t a deep or wild kiss but a soft, sweet kiss…of what – gratitude, promise? He lifted his head and looked back down at her. Yes, if he wasn’t mistaken, of promise! He leaned in and kissed her again.
*
Historically speaking, it’s not like me to take the slowly-slowly approach with men; probably because it’s been my custom to be half-trolleyed before making a move. Looking back, guys don’t usually make plays for me unless they’re well-trolleyed. Neither Daniel nor I were even close to being trolleyed, barely even roller-skated. But there we were, in the comparative tranquillity of his room, the floor pulsating to Beyoncé belting out Single Ladies and I thought, Vicki, you may not be single for much longer.
Although…it really wasn’t in my plan to get involved this year…
The thought pulled me back, ever so slightly. Daniel backed off too, one hand moving up to push a strand of hair behind my ear, which I found rather sweet. Maybe I could lighten up a little on my resolution to abstain from male company; a bit like the time I went on my alcohol-free month and allowed myself one bottle of wine at the weekend. I’d certainly felt better for it. Maybe I could ration myself to one man-filled day a week…
‘I’ve never had that kind of reaction to my work, before,’ Daniel said, quietly. ‘If I had, I might have been inspired to write a few more biographical pieces.’
‘Best not write one about Raimond, then.’
He laughed and I noticed that crooked tooth which gave his smile character. ‘Why not take this home with you to read. It’s not quite finished yet but maybe it will make you believe in yourself a little bit more.’
I took it from him, rolled it up and held it against my chest. ‘If it’s as good as it sounds, I’ll frame it.’
‘Wait till it comes out in print. It’ll be more impressive with Modern Cultural Review in the header.’
Little old me in Modern Cultural Review. I leaned up to kiss him again, just as the music downstairs stopped abruptly and we heard Connor yelling, ‘Fireworks! Everybody outside! Outside, NOW, for fireworks!’
‘Oo-er,’ I said, noticing Daniel’s eyes roll. ‘He should be in the army.’
‘Oh, no, too much discipline for Connor. Come on.’ He picked up both our champagne flutes. ‘These bloody fireworks have cost me an arm and a leg. I want to get my money’s worth.’
They were impressive. Not quite Olympic but they sure beat the family pack of Standard fireworks Dad used to buy when I was a kid. I had hoped to nestle into Daniel while we watched, but the minute Connor saw him, he was marshalled over to help with the display. So I hugged my jacket around me, sipped my champagne, and smiled every time I caught Jeanne’s eye.
I had no doubt she was well stoked to think her machinations to partner me off with Daniel appeared to be bearing fruit. I also had no doubt it was engineered to keep my hands off Christophe. I tried to picture them together. It wasn’t a pretty sight. She was too prickly for him, too detached. He needed someone funnier and friendlier but someone he could respect. He’d already told me he didn’t like journalists so Jeanne seemed totally the wrong match.
>
Still, what did I know?
After the last rocket faded in the sky, she sauntered over and began speaking to me in French, the gist of it being, ‘How are your paintings coming along?’
‘I’m making some progress.’
‘You seem like the kind of person who has her life all planned out.’
‘Do I?’
‘I admire you for that; for taking charge of your destiny.’
‘You do?’ Excuse my disbelief but it didn’t feel like she admired me at all.
A beatific smile emerged on her face. It was scary in its mesmeric quality. ‘And Daniel could be a very good ally.’
‘Yes. I realise that. Thank you for introducing us.’ I added, because I felt she was fishing for it.
‘My pleasure.’ As Daniel approached, she inclined her head towards me and whispered, in English, ‘I recommend you maintain that confident front – I think you’ll need it.’
I didn’t like her conspiratorial nose wrinkling, one bit.
She smiled at Daniel, slid a hand down his arm and said something along the lines of, ‘I’m glad you two are getting along so well.’
‘Vicki may well be a star of the future,’ he said.
‘Marvellous. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see Christophe. No reason why he should miss out on all the fun.’ She waved a packet of sparklers and winked at me.
I watched as she hurried to her car, and checked her reflection in the rear-view mirror. What did she mean about maintaining a confident front? I could hear the embers of any self confidence I possessed hissing into dust. I looked to Daniel for re-ignition. ‘Great fireworks,’ I said, slapping on my broadest smile. ‘But the party’s not over, is it?’
‘Not unless you want it to be,’ he said.
I felt I had three choices: would it be upstairs with Daniel for an introductory romp to the rhythm of nineties’ disco hits, or take him back to Chez Christophe for a cheeky coupling that might just put Monsieur Dubois’ nose even further out of joint, or should I go for a thrash around the dance floor with the fizz of champagne in my veins?
Despite my throbbing hormones, I plumped for the last option. There was plenty of time for a spot of mattress dancing, later.
By midnight I was in charge of the music and by two o’clock, I was the last one standing, doing the Macarena all on my own. Daniel had disappeared – up to bed, I guessed, and Connor lay on the sofa, his shirt open to his corpulent belly, snoring intermittently. Two others had crashed on the floor. I staggered to a standstill, looked around me and felt a wave of self-pity wash over me. It was a wave laced with alcohol. Had I learned nothing in this life of mine?
I turned off the music and, rather than listen to the post-party silence and inhale the stench of alcohol and smoke, I grabbed my coat and went outside. In the distance was the drone of traffic from the A20 motorway, heading north to Paris and south to Toulouse. Toulouse – where Christophe spent so much of his time.
I imagined he was an excellent vet. I’d seen how gentle he was with his dogs and how professional he had been at the farm. Veterinary work was clearly a vocation for him and he must be quite accomplished to lecture at the college.
I’d left him a beef casserole for dinner, feeling unnecessarily guilty for abandoning him on a Saturday night. How had that happened, and why had I worried when he had Jeanne swooping in on him for dessert?
No, it was still not a pretty picture.
Leaning against the wall, the soles of my feet felt like they’d been bashed with a baseball bat and my eyelids were heavy. I wondered if it would be acceptable for me to slip upstairs and catch a nap with Daniel. I weighed up the pros and cons: comfortable bed and handsome mentor versus my reputation…
Daniel was tucked up and lying in the middle of his bed. In the interests of modesty, I only took off my shoes and jeans. It wasn’t a full-sized double so when I slipped in beside him, there was no avoiding close contact. His body was firm and comfortingly warm. As I lay down, he turned away in his sleep and pulled the duvet with him. After gently coaxing a few inches of it back for myself, I lay listening to the shrill whine in my ears until I fell asleep.
CHAPTER 19
Christophe peered out of his study window when he heard the car pull up. Daniel Keane was quickly round to hold open the passenger door before Vicki had chance to swing her legs out. He offered her a hand, guiding her towards him before leaning in for a kiss. Christophe’s lip curled, even though he knew it was exactly the kind of thing he’d do himself.
It was gone mid-day. No guessing what they’d been up to, last night. Who could blame the guy? Vicki was very tempting. Although that assumed Vicki wanted to get involved with Daniel, and from what he knew about her, she was much more determined to concentrate on her painting.
He turned back but couldn’t focus on his laptop screen. The car engine revved and Daniel drove away. Good. At least she had the decency not to bring him indoors.
He listened to her murmured greetings to the dogs; that silly baby-talk she adopted for them –‘Herculey -wooley’ and ‘little Bozzy-wozzy’. Mon Dieu!
Would she prepare lunch, today? He heard the stairs creak as she headed up to her room. How long before she moved in with Keane? He shook his head. Maybe that would be for the best.
He clicked through from one document to another, trying to get his mind back into his report. Just as his fingers settled again on the keyboard, he heard a creak on the landing above as Vicki headed back downstairs. Moments later, there was a tap on his door.
‘Viens!’ he barked.
Her head appeared, blonde waves ragged around her pretty but pale face. He’d seen her like that once before and pushed the memory back. She smiled and said, ‘Hi. How are you?’
‘Very well, and you?’
‘I’m good, thanks.’
‘Good.’
She may have been looking pale but she was sickeningly cheerful. ‘Would you like some pumpkin soup?’
He glanced at his watch, knowing full-well it was almost quarter to one. ‘No rush.’
‘It’s okay. I’m ready for it, so I’ll heat it up and you can come and get it when you want it.’ Her smile flickered. ‘The soup. Obviously.’
‘Thank you.’ He focussed again on his computer screen. He would miss her cooking when she went, that was all. But as the door closed, he stared at the back of it for several moments before shaking himself and scowling at his laptop.
*
I’ve never actually tried to cut an atmosphere with a knife. All I’d ever had was my bravado, which I’d just deployed in Christophe’s study…bravado and a seriously misplaced sense of humour. Of course, I knew he wasn’t going to be remotely pleased to see me roll up with Daniel. I’d been praying I might come home to an empty house but God must have been busy on something more important.
I’d made the soup the day before so all I had to do was reheat it. A simple enough task – except I was working with a hangover, a guilt complex and confusion…confusion over Daniel. I’d woken an hour earlier to an empty bed. Nothing much wrong with that, but when I went downstairs and found him chatting over coffee with Connor, all he’d done was pour me a cup and continue his conversation. And after coffee, he offered to drive me home; no ‘shall we go back to bed’ or even ‘that was a wonderful evening, let’s do it again’. Just coffee.
On the way home, he’d warmed up a bit; wanting to know if I still had the copy of his article and would I let him know what I thought about it. It was only when I stuck my neck out and offered to cook him dinner, while Christophe was away in Toulouse, that he livened up. I tried to put it down to his gauche, public school background but hell, he was over thirty, he’d surely cracked the dating game by now.
As I stirred the soup, my memory randomly fired off Jeanne’s words from last night, ‘I recommend you maintain that confident front.’ A front, indeed. Is that how I came across – a confident pain in the arse? And even if it was, she didn’t have to be so patronising
about it.
I pulled out the bread board and attacked the loaf with a knife. Saw. Saw. Saw. Bang! into the bread basket. Saw. Saw. Saw. Bang! Saw. Saw...
‘Ayayay!’ Christophe said in alarm as he walked into the kitchen.
‘Hungry?’ I asked, slowing down on the sawing front.
He grunted in reply then asked, ‘What did the bread do to upset you?’
‘It’s not the bread. Somebody said something that bugged me.’
‘Not me, I hope?’
‘No. And before you ask, not Daniel, either.’ I looked for a reaction but he’d already turned away and was rifling through the dishwasher for clean cutlery. He started laying the table. Finally, I filled the silence. ‘Christophe, do I seem confident to you – like overly confident, like I’ve got it all figured out?’
He carried on, lining the spoons and knives up on the table. Eventually, he looked at me. ‘I think you have confidence but that’s not necessarily the same as being confident.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I’ve no doubt you could get up in front of a class and command their attention and demonstrate a skill. That shows confidence. You can walk into a room full of strangers and charm them with your personality. But do I think you are confident in who you are? Non.’
And to think I was looking for reassurance that I wasn’t a pain in the arse.
I filled the bowls with soup and Christophe carried them to the table.
As I sat down, he said, ‘Vicki, you know, very few people are truly confident in who they are.’
‘Exactly.’
He stirred his soup for a moment before looking up at me. ‘The question is, do you have the confidence and the application to fulfil your dreams?’ The way he looked at me, reminded me of my headmistress, Mrs Pope, when she’d asked me if I was going to knuckle down to my GCSEs. He could have been channelling her when he said: ‘Only you can control that, Vicki.’
That proved it – I was no further advanced than I had been at fifteen. Just older. Older and more battle-scarred. ‘I know. And I will.’
‘So, who has upset you?’ he asked.