Vicki's Work of Heart

by Rosie Dean

  I groaned. This was all too familiar. Where was my bumper pack of chocolate chip cookies, now? I lay back and stared at the canopy above, feeling tears trickle down over my temples and into my ears. ‘What a bloody mess,’ I muttered into the silence. A silence soon broken by the distinctive rhythm of paws trundling down the corridor outside. ‘The dogs,’ I bleated, my chin puckering anew. I could hear them sniffing at the base of my door and nobody seemed to be calling them back. I sniffed as well, threw off the bedclothes and jumped down to let them in. Boz yapped with delight and Hercules head butted my thigh. I crumpled to the floor, hugged him to me and ignored Boz’s infantile tugging on the end of the robe’s belt. ‘Lovely boys,’ I sobbed into Hercules’ furry neck. ‘You are the sweetest dogs in the world. I’m going to miss you so much.’

  There was a cough. I looked up. Christophe was standing in the doorway, he appeared slightly less grim but still pale. The dogs, knowing their rightful place, deserted me and sidled back to him. ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  I shrugged. Puffy red eyes and nostrils weren’t my idea of a good look. I felt a draught over my chest and realised the robe was gaping. I snatched it shut although, with my boobs on show, he probably wouldn’t have noticed my eyes. ‘I’ll be fine. I just feel so dreadful about this whole business. You were right, Daniel is a creep.’

  He nodded slowly and with no sense of victory.

  I stood up. Despite my transgressions, the humiliation of crouching at his feet was more than even I could take. ‘How are you?’

  He ran a hand through his hair and leaned on the door-frame – more from exhaustion, I imagined, than any desire to appear cool which, of course, he did anyway. ‘Still assimilating the news. Preparing myself for the fallout.’

  ‘And Colette?’

  ‘She knew all about it.’

  ‘Where is the girl now – Albina?’

  ‘She died in her early twenties.’

  After digesting the implications, I said, ‘I guess it’s really hard to associate such a deception with your grandmother.’

  He shrugged. ‘Soon after the birth, my grandfather told her the baby had died because of her deformities.’

  I took this in. ‘That’s despicable.’

  ‘Exactly. But he made sure the Foundation paid for Albina’s care, in Surrey. She was passed off as the child of a drug addict, which meant she qualified for funding.’

  ‘So, it was a massive cover-up for a tragedy that his company had been responsible for?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘Christophe, I can’t apologise enough. If I’d had the slightest idea Daniel was…’

  Christophe held his hand up to stop me. ‘He was a man on a mission. He’d have got the story, sooner or later.’

  ‘You were right about him, though. I was wrong.’ I could feel myself start to implode from humiliation.

  He shrugged. ‘Don’t beat yourself up over it, Vicki. We all make mistakes.’

  Yes, like he’d made one by taking me into his home.

  ‘See you in the morning,’ he said before stepping out with the dogs and closing the door. I sat back on the bed and listened to them retreat down the corridor and stop for a moment before heading back in my direction.

  Oh, no. I thought. This is it, the ultimatum: ‘Pack your bags and leave tomorrow!’ I held my breath. He tapped on the door. ‘Yes.’ I croaked.

  The door opened. ‘Would you like the dogs to stay in here, tonight?’

  I nodded like my head was on springs.

  He signalled them in before saying, ‘Goodnight’ and left us.

  Hercules sat at my feet and grinned up at me. I lifted Boz with one hand, nuzzled my nose into the woolly fur on the back of his neck and scrambled onto the bed. I drew the covers over me and sat him by my feet, at which point, Hercules immediately leapt up, circled and plopped down next to me. ‘You darling, darling dogs,’ I whispered, snuggling up to Hercules’ back. Maybe, just maybe, Christophe didn’t hate me, after all.

  I couldn’t believe my luck. As I lay in the dark, wallowing in my trough of shame and self-pity but slightly comforted by the rhythm of Hercules’ snores, Izzy texted me. She wanted to know if there was any chance I’d meant what I’d said about helping her out on that PR job in Paris.

  Any chance?

  If time travel were possible, I’d hit the transporter button and dematerialise from Limousin, immediately – dogs or no dogs. I re-read the text. It’s not like Izzy to do such a marked about-turn, she must have been sicker than she made out.

  I hit the call button and sat up.

  ‘Allo.’

  ‘Izzy, babe, how are you?’

  ‘Better than before. You got my text then?’

  ‘Yes. Tell me exactly what you need me to do.’

  ‘Bring your best clothes. Be charming. Schmooze the clientele. Easy stuff. You could do it with your eyes closed.’

  My heart sank. ‘I’ve never schmoozed in French, before.’

  ‘They’re coming from all over Europe. What the French don’t understand, the Brits, the Dutch and the Germans will.’

  ‘When do you need me to be there?’

  ‘Tomorrow – until Tuesday. Is that possible?’

  Well, that would shaft my meeting with Bruno into oblivion.

  ‘Absolutely. I’ll be there.’

  I asked a whole bunch of questions to clarify the situation. The product was a new beauty range. I would need a convincing makeover to pull this one off. She was emailing me all the gen, the press releases and a cheat sheet of things to say. Her company would pay for my rail fare and accommodation.

  ‘Can’t I stay with you?’

  ‘You need to be on site.’

  ‘Who else will be there?’

  ‘Me, of course.’

  ‘But you’re ill…’

  ‘I won’t be there all day – just when I need to be. Don’t worry, I won’t be snogging anyone. Nobody will die,’ she added with emphasis. ‘So is that a yes?’

  ‘Erm…’ There was just one problem – Christophe. How would he take it? I’d put a match to the blue touch paper, launched the turd rocket at the fan, and was doing a runner before the fallout landed.

  ‘Vicki, what’s stopping you?’

  ‘Nothing, really. To be honest, it’s exactly what I need, right now.’

  ‘Good. You’re not worried about cooking Christophe his dinner, are you?’

  ‘Well, there is that.’

  ‘Listen, I’ll call him in the morning and talk him round. I’ve got him out of some scrapes in the past, I’m sure he’ll give you a break.’

  ‘No! No, I should be the one to ask him.’

  ‘Suit yourself. I’ll ring you in the morning.’

  She hung up so I didn’t have chance to pour out my sordid and sorry tale. Although, on reflection, it might be better told face to face. Preferably when we were old, grey and senile.

  CHAPTER 24

  You can do a lot of thinking on a train hurtling through France in the driving rain. I certainly did. I replayed every flattering, encouraging, dishonest word Daniel had ever spoken to me. I took every one of those words, negated it and got off at Paris Austerlitz Station, convinced I’d been kidding myself that I could become a proper artist. I wasn’t even sure I was fit to teach. My suitcase felt lead-lined as I dragged it behind me.

  In the station concourse, I spotted a man holding a large white and red sign with my name printed on it – printed – not scrawled in marker pen. I smiled and headed towards him.

  ‘Mademoiselle Marchant,’ he said, using that same soft ‘ch’ Christophe used. I felt a pang – a poignancy for lost opportunities. Christophe had actually looked relieved when I’d asked if he’d mind me going to Paris for a few days. ‘Stay longer, if you like,’ he’d said. ‘Probably best if you do. That way, Daniel can’t cause you any trouble.’

  So he’d taken me back to the house to pack my best clothes, which amounted to half my wardrobe and barely filled my case. Then he’d dr
opped me at Limoges station and driven off without as much as a wave.

  The taxi moved slowly through the streets of Paris until we reached the hotel, where huge, branded flags fluttered outside and massive posters of beautiful women beamed sunnily through the grey drizzle.

  Once inside the hotel, I whipped off my coat – it was several seasons old and very much in the school teacher mode – just in time, as Isabelle rushed over to me. Her face was so hollow-cheeked beneath her immaculate make-up, you’d be forgiven for thinking it was still Halloween. Thank heavens I managed not to gasp but my face may have dropped momentarily before lifting into the brightest smile I could manage. She was wearing a buttercup yellow dress that hung loosely on her normally curvy frame. I threw my arms around her and began to hug her tightly, but slackened off for fear I might snap her in two. ‘Izzy, there’s nothing of you,’ I said stepping back and holding her hands.

  ‘Great, isn’t it?’ she smiled. ‘All those years I’ve stayed off carbs and one dose of flu does the trick.’

  Now was not the time to say I preferred the fuller version. ‘Honey, you always look gorgeous.’

  She smiled a grateful but knowing smile. ‘I’m greeting the client at twelve,’ she said. ‘Here’s your room key, it’s fourth floor, the lift’s over there. Freshen up then meet me on stand number six. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  She squeezed my hand and said, ‘So glad you’re here.’ Then she whipped round and speedwalked back into the main hall.

  The room was splendid. Izzy had left a comprehensive array of cosmetics on the dressing table and a name badge for me. I opened my case. The Dyed Wedding Dress lay clean on top. Beneath it my shoes shimmered crimson. Third time lucky, I thought as I lifted them out of the case.

  I dressed, swept my hair up into a silver butterfly clasp and applied some of the expensive lipstick. I thought I looked the part. Yes. I was going to schmooze the silk socks off those corporate honchos. I really hoped I wouldn’t let Izzy down. My recent record on reliability wasn’t exactly stellar.

  If I’d thought teaching was tough on the feet, I hadn’t experienced handing out leaflets at a trade show whilst wearing cripplingly high, crimson stilettos. But I really had nothing to moan about because, by lunchtime, Izzy looked done in. She’d sailed through her thirty minutes with the client and appeared to chatter comfortably with other celebs of the cosmetic cosmos, but I could see perspiration glistening on her face. ‘Here,’ I said, pressing my room key into her hand, ‘go and lie down.’

  I watched in wonder as she took it from me without argument. ‘Thanks, pumpkin. You’re a star.’

  I’d ear-wigged a lot during the last hour and picked up enough from my cheat-sheet and Izzy’s patter to make a passable impact during the following three hours. I was particularly proud of my performance with Margo – a buyer from a large chain of Dutch department stores. Descriptors like glowing, silky, dewy and radiant dripped into my spiel like beauty serum.

  ‘Well, of course,’ Margo said – clearly jaded from a decade or two listening to sales patter, ‘most products make these claims, but I want to know why our clientele would choose Mineral Cosmetics over their usual brand?’

  ‘It’s the new, ingenious science they’ve applied to the development of their products, enriching the formula so that it truly has a rejuvenating quality. Eighty percent of the ingredients are derived from organically grown resources.’

  Margo nodded and fondled one of the sample tubes in the complimentary goody basket. ‘And...?’

  ‘There’s been concentrated research on our improved use of flavanoids, which as we all know…’ I rushed on, since I had absolutely no idea what they were and prayed she wouldn’t ask, ‘are essential for improved skin texture.’

  She picked up the freebie lip balm and made eye contact.

  I smiled but her look said she wanted more. ‘As you’ll see, that particular product is rich in Omega 3, for nourishing the lips.’

  ‘Hmmmm.’ She replaced the lip balm and glanced around the stand. I was losing her.

  Amongst the beautifully shot botanical photos, were images of Europe’s leading trio of gorgeous classical songbirds – Tre Cantate – who Minerals Cosmetics had signed for their launch campaign. I decided to busk it. ‘Tre Cantate have been using the products since the first trials. Just their association with the range will guarantee superb coverage and instant absorption by the cosmetic buying public.’

  Margo glanced back at me, a glimmer in her eye. ‘How agreeable would Tre Cantate be to a personal appearance in our flagship store?’

  ‘I’m very glad you asked,’ I said and then leaned forward, dropping my voice to a more intimate level. I didn’t want anybody overhearing the bullshit I was about to spread. ‘They have pencilled in a couple of dates for such appearances. But it’s yet to be decided where those events will take place. If you’d like your store to be considered, give me your card and I’ll make sure Isabelle Masson gets it.’

  ‘Who’s she?’ Margo asked, rather rudely.

  ‘Isabelle Masson is running all PR for this product launch. She will be very influential in the decision.’

  ‘Is she here?’

  I wasn’t about to drag Izzy from her bed so I spread some more of the smelly stuff. ‘You’ve just missed her. She’s in tele-conferences for the rest of today, negotiating with some top Hollywood actors about representing a forthcoming range of male grooming products.’

  That got her eyebrows moving. ‘I see.’ She handed her basket of freebies to me so she could fish in her bag for a business card. As she passed it over, she said, ‘Perhaps Isabelle could call me tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll call you just as soon as she is free.’

  ‘Thank you…’ she peered at my badge as she retrieved the basket, ‘…Vicki. Enjoy the rest of your day.’

  ‘You too, Margo.’ I beamed after her, and stuffed the business card into my bra.

  When the first day’s event came to a close, I couldn’t get up to my room fast enough but I practically had to perform a military tattoo on the door, to rouse Izzy. To say she looked rough would be charitable. She’d slept in her dress which was so crumpled that, over her newly skeletal frame, she looked like a street urchin, and she had a consumptive cough to go with it.

  ‘What can I get you?’ I asked as she stepped back to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘A hot drink? Do you have any medicine?’

  ‘I have some water. I’ll be fine. I’ve just woken up.’ The last time I saw Izzy looking this bad was after her twenty-first birthday, which had involved a tray of Margaritas and a Havana cigar the size of a marrow.

  ‘Get into that bed, now, while I order you a hot drink. What would you like?’

  She scrambled back up the bed and lay against the pillows. ‘Just mint tea, please.’

  ‘In bed would be best, Izzy. But take the dress off first.’

  At the pathetic look she gave me, I leapt over and hugged her, then helped her out of the dress; not letting her see my reaction to the sight of her angular shoulder blades, and the bra cups dimpling over her reduced cleavage.

  She wasn’t supposed to be staying at the hotel, but no way was I bundling her into a taxi to go home. Especially since I knew her mother had gone back to Bordeaux. If necessary, I would sleep on the little couch. ‘Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?’ I asked as she settled into bed.

  ‘No. I have some antibiotics for my chest infection but there’s nothing else he can do.’

  ‘You’re sure it’s just flu?’ I asked tentatively, convinced she should be tucked up in bed under medical supervision – and I was no Florence Nightingale.

  ‘Positive. I just had it badly.’

  I rang down for some mint tea and a coffee for myself. Then, with massive relief, kicked off my shoes and felt my toes spreading, like little sponges, back into their natural form.

  ‘Thanks for helping me out,’ she said.

  ‘Absolute pleasure.’ I bent forward to loo
sen the kinks in my spine.

  ‘I know, it’s hard on the feet and back, isn’t it?’ she reached out and stroked my back. ‘You should have a bath.’

  After an indulgent groan, I unfolded. ‘Nope, a shower’s fine. But first, let’s look at the room service menu.’

  ‘You choose,’ she said, closing her eyes.

  I selected tomato soup, two Caesar salads – we both needed our greens – mushroom risotto for me and chicken casserole for Izzy, and two fruit salads. She was surely going to eat something from that selection. Oh, and half a bottle of Sancerre for me.

  I left her dozing while I had my shower, then pulled on my jimmies. Izzy stirred and said, ‘Feeling refreshed?’

  ‘Very.’ I sat on the bed next to her and put my feet up. ‘Do you do these events all the time?’ I asked, despairing for my friend’s sanity.

  ‘Ugh, no.’ She hauled herself up into a sitting position. ‘The real work is in the preparation, the copywriting, the press chats. The shows are a necessary evil. You have to be seen at them – especially with a new product.’

  ‘Well, hats off to you. I thought facing year nines on a windy day was bad enough, but at least I didn’t have to be relentlessly cheerful. Poor you.’

  ‘Hmmm, poor me.’

  I handed her Margo Nieman’s business card. ‘I have a confession to make…’ and trotted out my Tre Cantate story, along with the Hollywood idol subplot.

  Izzy grinned back at me. ‘Who told you about the personal appearances?’

  ‘What? You mean, they’re for real. I didn’t just make it up?’

  ‘It’s our special telepathy at work.’ My jaw dropped as she continued. ‘They’re actually doing six dates, coinciding with their European tour but it’s not public knowledge – yet.’

  ‘Wow! Mineral Cosmetics must be throwing a load of dosh at this new range.’