Vicki's Work of Heart

by Rosie Dean

  Daniel, on the other hand, was positively happy to praise my efforts; delighted to see progress in my work and never needed prompting. Suddenly, my life felt like an all-in luxury cruise instead of a self-catering school trip. Even cooking for Christophe only happened two or three times a week. He was either out (sometimes all night) or down at Toulouse. I had to wonder if he still had a thing going with Sylvie – although where on earth they would conduct it, I had no idea, since the château was just bulging with relatives.

  I didn’t like imagining Christophe was carrying on with Sylvie – it tainted him. It was bad enough Jeanne appeared to hold his affections, a woman I would never have associated with him. No. I wanted to believe I was sharing a house with a decent guy. Hell – I wanted to believe my brief aberration with him at Francois and Marie’s could have held some promise beyond a tipsy tumble on his heavy blue bedspread. Because that would have tainted me.

  Not that any of it mattered. The crucial point was – my painting was coming on in leaps and bounds. I had support from Daniel and life was, in many ways, sweeter than it had been in ages. He’d even set up a meeting for me with some friends near Bergerac, who held painting, photography and writing courses.

  ‘Their regular art tutor’s emigrating to South Africa, and they want to run two, one-week residential courses in the spring,’ he told me over the phone. ‘You never know, it might lead to more.’

  ‘Would I be paid?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Any fees would be very handy. ‘Fantastic. Should I send them an email?’

  ‘Yes. His name’s Bruno. I’ll text his email to you. He’s coming up this way in a week or so. You could meet him.’

  Life was getting sweeter by the day.

  The next time Christophe was away at the veterinary school, I cooked Daniel a special dinner. We had scallops on puy lentils, grilled sole with samphire and sauté potatoes, followed by Crepes Suzette. I knew my way to a man’s heart.

  When it came to the washing up, he insisted on helping. ‘I can’t sit around watching you toil, darling. My mother would have a fit. She’s always had a bit of a thing against cavemen.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re a mummy’s boy?’

  ‘In so far as my father spent most of his time at work, I suppose I must be. Though, to be honest, my older brother Jamie’s umbilical cord is much tighter.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Dull.’

  ‘That’s a terrible thing to say about your brother.’

  ‘Alright, he’s not dull. He’s tall, dark and handsome, achingly funny and a lawyer. I had to leave England to maintain an uninterrupted love life. Too much competition at home.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. You’re lovely.’

  ‘And you’re sweet.’ He kissed me. ‘Plus, you haven’t been Jamied, yet.’

  ‘Ha-ha! Now, if you go and sit in the salon, I’ll bring the coffee through.’

  He gave me a parting peck on the nose. ‘Don’t be long.’

  I buzzed around the kitchen, arranging dinky little coffee cups and saucers on a tray, along with a plate of petit-fours I’d knocked up with some marzipan and Armagnac syrup. I congratulated myself on it all looking pretty stylish, and headed off to the salon.

  Daniel wasn’t there. But there was a light under Christophe’s study door so I put the tray down and went in. He was standing by the book shelves, leafing through a small, leather-bound volume and looked up, grinning, when I entered. ‘Nice collection,’ he said.

  ‘Really? There are more books in the salon, if you want something to read,’ I said holding the door open, eager for him to move and wondering why on earth he wanted something to read tonight.

  He slipped the book back onto the shelf and continued browsing.

  I propped the door open with my body. ‘Look, I’m a bit uncomfortable with you being in here. It’s very much Christophe’s territory.’

  ‘Oh don’t worry, it’s not like he’s here to see me.’

  ‘I know but…’ I was there to see him, and it went against my sense of decency. ‘Daniel, please. For me.’

  ‘Oh, darling,’ he said, coming over to me and stroking my arm. ‘The thing is, I have this wonderful opportunity to do a documentary on great art collectors. Colette’s father acquired those famous Russian paintings and, judging by some of the books here, he was very keen on that particular school of Russian art.’

  ‘Then, why don’t you ask Colette? Better still, ask Christophe. He knows you’re helping me. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘You know as well as I do, he’d probably mind like hell.’

  ‘Then…all the more reason why you shouldn’t be in here, at all.’ I could feel the soft, mellow mood of the evening stiffen like over-whipped cream.

  ‘Look,’ he took hold of my hand, ‘I just wanted to get the details straight before I completed my proposal for the documentary. That way, when I show it to the Dubois family, it will be factually correct and they’ll have confidence in me. Ergo, they’ll give their approval.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you ask me to find out?’

  ‘I didn’t want to trouble you. In any case, if Dubois didn’t approve, it could have caused a problem between you and him. You could lose your studio, and that wouldn’t be fair. You’re doing so well up there.’

  I wriggled my hand free of his. ‘I’m sorry Daniel. But I’d much rather you broached the subject directly with Christophe or Colette. It makes me uncomfortable. This is his private office.’

  He shrugged. ‘Sorry, sweetheart. I guess it comes as second nature to a journalist. We do like to take the most expedient route to the evidence.’ He smiled his lopsided smile but the magic didn’t quite sparkle as much as before.

  In an attempt to lift the mood, I wagged my finger at him and said, ‘Well, young man, I want it on record that I’m registering my disapproval of your methods.’

  ‘Duly noted,’ he said as he mimed scribbling on a notepad. ‘Miss Marchant.’

  ‘Come on, let’s have coffee,’ I said, taking him by the hand out of the study and letting the door close behind us.

  The following morning, I called Isabelle. She had, as promised, rung me every day – not for very long since she was so exhausted from her regimen of painkillers, no alcohol and lots of rest. Each time we spoke, I offered to go and look after her but she swatted me away with the contagion argument. However, this time she said, ‘You can stop worrying, my mother arrived today.’

  ‘What if she catches it? She’s nearly sixty and much more vulnerable than I am.’

  ‘She’s been vaccinated. In any case, she was a nurse, she’s immune to most things.’

  ‘Okay. And, to be honest, you already sound brighter…even with your mum in residence.’ Muriel Masson was one of those bright, efficient mothers who could smother you with love one minute and bawl you out the next for leaving a magazine on the floor. I had no doubt Izzy’s resourcefulness came from her mother’s side.

  ‘So, my little pumpkin,’ Izzy said, imitating my father’s Bristolian accent and using his pet name for me. ‘How are things with you?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Not good, then. What’s happening?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘It’s a man, then. Daniel or Christophe?’

  ‘Both, kind of.’

  ‘Mon Dieu! You’re sleeping with both of them now?’

  ‘Only Daniel.’

  ‘So, what’s wrong?’

  I sighed. It was never easy for me to open up to people, especially when it meant fessing up to a possible error in judgement.

  Isabelle cut in. ‘Are you okay?’

  The story tumbled out. Finally, I said, ‘Daniel has been wonderful to me, but I can’t get over how uneasy I feel about him sneaking around in Christophe’s study.’

  ‘Surely, if he was really sneaking about, he’d do it when you weren’t there. Not right under your nose.’

  She had a point. The study door was on a
self-closer; it wasn’t as if he’d shut himself in there. ‘If only Christophe liked Daniel, I wouldn’t feel so bad.’

  ‘It’s just macho rivalry.’

  ‘But Christophe’s only my landlord,’ I said, imagining my nose growing a couple of inches as I pictured our earlier liaison.

  ‘Maybe he’d like to be more.’

  ‘Has he said so?’

  ‘No. But you know what men are like.’

  ‘Well, he’ll just have to get over it,’ I said, although I wasn’t entirely convinced she was right. ‘What about you, any more thoughts on your future?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s wise to plan anything while I feel like this. I have a big event coming up, next week…’

  I cut across her. ‘You can’t go to that. You’re sick. You know you can’t.’

  ‘I’ve been planning it for months, I have to at least show my face.’

  ‘You can’t. You’re contagious. It would be irresponsible.’

  Izzy sighed. ‘Not according to the doctor. He says the flu is passed. I’m just weak.’

  ‘Then you should stay home. In bed. What’s so important, anyway?’

  ‘I’m running an exhibition stand for my main client.’

  ‘Brief someone else.’

  ‘They could screw it up or worse, steal my client.’

  ‘No. How could they?’

  ‘You’d better believe it.’

  ‘Then brief me. I’ll do it.’ What was I saying?! I’d never done PR in my life but it couldn’t be worse than the average parents’ evening, could it?

  Izzy chuckled and then immediately coughed. ‘You’re funny.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No, chérie. Thank you but I’ll cope. Honestly. I’m much better. You said so yourself.’

  Which was typical of Isabelle Masson. Bloody-minded, stubborn and always in charge. If I didn’t love her so much, I could cheerfully give her a good lecture on being kind to herself, but it would be a complete waste of energy.

  CHAPTER 22

  As Christophe returned on Friday evening, he saw light shining into the night sky from Vicki’s studio, the rest of the house was in darkness. When he entered the hall, Hercules and Boz leapt around him like excited puppies. Although exhausted from three days of field visits with students, he dropped to his haunches and fussed them vigorously, breathing in their warm, doggy smell and, above that, picking up notes of something savoury cooking in the kitchen – predominantly sage and garlic. But the only light in there came from the oven. Vicki must be upstairs, painting.

  He gave the dogs a final rub, hung his coat on the stand and carried his briefcase into the study. He felt a drop in temperature, and touched the radiator. It was warm enough but then he noticed the window was open a crack, its latch undone. Frowning, he pulled it closed and rammed the latch down, tight. He surveyed the room. Everything looked as it should. He opened each drawer of his desk in turn. Nothing appeared to have been moved. After another scan of the room, he wandered over to the kitchen to find a beer. He pulled the cap from the bottle and peered into the oven, where a casserole simmered in its clear glass dish, and he grinned to himself. Good. It looked like there was meat on the menu tonight.

  With a scuffle of paws the dogs trotted back into the hall to greet Vicki as she came downstairs. Christophe straightened up and took a swig from the bottle as she walked in. ‘Good evening,’ he said.

  ‘Welcome home.’ She beamed at him. Her hair, with a shock of blue paint above the temple, was scrunched on top of her head in a clip, and she’d swapped her painting clothes for clean jeans and a chunky red sweater. ‘Did you have a good trip?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘Busy.’

  ‘Aha – better to wear out than go rusty, as my grandmother always says.’ She moved past him to reach the fridge, leaving a blend of linseed oil and sweet sandalwood in her wake.

  He took another swig of beer, swallowed it and clenched his teeth. Philippe had mentioned he’d seen a lot of Daniel Keane over here, recently. He didn’t like to attribute Vicki’s cheerfulness to that odious journalist.

  He stepped back and leaned on the counter. ‘Vicki, I noticed the window in the study wasn’t fastened properly. It’s quite old, so you need to ram the handle down hard to make sure it’s secure.’

  Vicki looked up from the fridge, a deep frown forming on her face. He guessed she didn’t like being told what to do. ‘Oh. Okay.’

  ‘It’s not that I have much of any great value in the house, but I wouldn’t want to clear up the mess if somebody did break in.’

  ‘No. Of course. Absolutely.’ She closed the fridge door and took a cabbage out of the vegetable rack and ran water into the sink. He watched as she wrenched the cabbage apart, tearing hard, white stems from soft, dark green leaves, before plunging them into the water.

  ‘How’s the painting going?’

  ‘Fine.’ She held the leaves under the water, like she was trying to drown them. ‘It’s going well.’

  He passed her a saucepan, hoping the gesture might help lift her suddenly altered mood. He hadn’t meant to criticize her about the window, he just wanted to point it out. Somehow, since Keane had come onto the scene, his own relationship with Vicki had become brittle.

  ‘How long till dinner?’ he ventured.

  ‘Twenty minutes.’

  ‘Right. I’ll just go and change.’

  *

  Shit! What was that about the window in the study? I hadn’t opened it. Could Hercules have dislodged the latch? I’d not had him pegged as a particularly dexterous animal. Maybe it had been undone for some time and a sudden gust of wind had displaced it.

  Sadly, a grim and more worrying thought shadowed my brain…Daniel.

  Crap! Crap! Crap! Was he capable of leaving it open so he could sneak back in and have another nosy around the study? Around the house, even?

  There’d been a cold lurch in my stomach the moment Christophe mentioned the window, and the more I thought about the possibilities, the more it lurched. It felt like crossing the English Channel on a hovercraft in a force six.

  I went and stood in the kitchen doorway, listening for Christophe. When I heard the hiss of water in his bathroom, I scampered across to his study and flicked on the light. I looked around. Everything seemed the same, didn’t it? Had Daniel snuck in here and rifled through private papers while I was sleeping? He could have driven round the corner, walked back, let himself in and spent hours in there, and I wouldn’t have known. As for the dogs, just a couple of biscuits tossed their way and they’d roll over and grin.

  Bloody-hell, Daniel, I thought. You’ve taken this a bit far. More than that, if my suspicions were right, there was absolutely no future for us. No matter how good he’d been to me.

  I stood, breathing heavily at the possibilities.

  Just how far would a journalist go for a good story?

  A massive penny dropped down the well of my being, and landed with a sickening splat. Would he go as far as to sweet-talk an aspiring artist?

  I slammed off the study light and belted back upstairs. I rifled through my bag and fumbled for my phone. Daniel, Daniel…where’s your bloody number? Eventually, I punched the dial button and waited. Message only. ‘Shit!’ I spat before leaving as controlled a message as my pounding heart and heaving lungs could manage. ‘Daniel. Vicki here. Please will you call me?’

  I flopped onto the bed. Would he call? Of course he would. He always returned my calls. And probably had no idea that my suspicions were roused.

  Maybe I was over-reacting.

  Being dumped at the altar had sure put a massive dent in my self-esteem.

  I managed to get through dinner by cross-questioning Christophe on his trip to Toulouse. Never before had an English art teacher been more fascinated by the machinations of the French veterinary training process. Every question I asked deflected any possibility of him quizzing me on the state of his study window. Every answer distracted me from the horrors of Daniel’s
potential culpability. He complimented me on the chicken casserole, while I chomped my way through a tasteless heap of cabbage with hummus and walnuts. My mind had been too preoccupied to serve up a half-decent meal for myself.

  He left the table in a more buoyant mood, I think, than I’d found him in. So job done. Only Daniel Keane to sort out now. I checked my phone for service – five bars – but no missed calls. I toyed with the idea of asking Christophe if I could borrow his car. But even if I drove to Connor’s there was no guarantee I’d find Daniel at home. I’d just have to wait.

  I fixed myself a coffee and resisted the urge to lob a slug of brandy in it. I wanted a clear mind if Daniel rang me back. I headed up to my studio to tidy the mess I’d left before dinner. Moments later, I heard the second flight of stairs creak as Christophe came for a visit. I turned to see him in the doorway, his face blank and taut. ‘Vicki,’ he said in the dullest tone ever. Either someone had died or I was about to.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Forgive me for asking but have you taken a photograph album from my study?’

  A photograph album? I swallowed. ‘Was it leather bound?’

  ‘So you have it, then?’ his face seemed to relax. ‘Were you looking for more inspiration for your paintings?’

  ‘You know me,’ I said, shrugging, as my mind raced to assimilate this new development.

  He sighed. ‘I’d prefer you to ask before taking my things. That was my grandfather’s album. It means a lot to me.’

  ‘Of course. I’m really sorry. It was stupid of me. I just got carried away.’ I could hear a peculiar note in my voice, as fear and guilt clutched my vocal chords.

  He glanced around the room. ‘I hope you haven’t got paint on it.’

  ‘No. Not at all.’

  He continued scanning the room. ‘So, where is it, please?’

  ‘The thing is…’ I could see his mouth flatten as I began. ‘It was precisely because I didn’t want to get paint on it that I asked someone to scan a few of the pictures for me. Then I could work from those…’

  ‘By “someone” I assume you mean Daniel Keane.’

  Oh kerrist! Could he make his name sound more evil? ‘Well, yes, but…’