by Rosie Dean
I forced a smile. ‘Absolutely certain. But I promise I won’t mention it again.’ Tonight, I added mentally. I didn’t believe it was off the agenda for good.
The crab was a challenge. I’d once had it in a sandwich. I’d never actually wanted to tackle one, claws and all. ‘This will be fun,’ I said, surveying the crustacean and an interesting selection of hardware. ‘Where do I start?’
Christophe leaned across and discarded the underside of the body onto my side plate. ‘All this in here is edible, and inside the claws.’
‘Right…’
I must have burned more calories mining the damn thing for meat than I consumed. But it was fun. Probably the most fun I’ve had eating a meal since my days playing with Alphabetti Spaghetti.
At the end of the meal Christophe said, ‘So you brought me some steak back from Paris, huh?’
‘Yes, I went to this fabulous butcher in the fourteenth arrondissement. He came highly recommended.’ He smiled at me. He was clearly impressed. Maybe I’d got something right, at last. His smile broadened into a grin. ‘What?’ I asked.
‘You do know, all the best beef is bred in Limousin?’
I didn’t. Beef wasn’t exactly my specialist subject. ‘So, I’ve brought you a steak, all the way from Paris, that I could have got down the road?’
He was still smiling. ‘But I’m touched that you thought of me. And I look forward to eating it.’
Bollox. I bet I’d paid way over the odds, too.
CHAPTER 26
So, I was back in my studio with a reprieve from Christophe but my enthusiasm for painting lasted about three days. After getting off to a cracking start with my next picture, I was languishing in the doldrums of self-doubt and creative inertia. No matter which way I looked at the canvas, I couldn’t bring myself to apply any more paint.
I re-read my affirmations and said them aloud but the voice in my head was Daniel’s: ‘I’m sure you’ll make a great art teacher.’
I looked at my canvas. It was a second study of the boy with the fish – only this time, from a distance – a tableau of father and son, lost in their dreams as they patiently watched the water. The scenery – for which I had previously applauded myself for its moody and autumnal appearance – now looked like random, amateur daubs and my attempts to strike the right attitude in the young boy’s body had failed miserably. I would sit, for minutes on end, staring glumly at my work, unable to raise any interest in it. At the end of each day, I had to soak my palette in fabric softener to release huge blobs of unused acrylic.
For two days, I busied myself in the kitchen. I baked my favourite chocolate layer cake and made lemon curd. I washed and ironed anything I could lay my hands on. I spring-cleaned the fridge and tidied all the cupboards. Now and again, I would return to my studio in the vain hope my enthusiasm would resurface. But each step up the second staircase felt harder to make.
I invited Louise over for supper on an evening when Christophe was in Toulouse, and spent most of the day preparing food, cleaning the silver and setting the table in the dining room. But it was too formal so I set it again in the kitchen.
She was impressed with my home-made pumpkin soup. ‘You must give me your recipe, it’s delicious,’ she said. She was so sweet, I had the feeling she would have been impressed even if I’d just opened a can of supermarket special.
I didn’t want to talk about me or my painting, so now that my French was so much better, I quizzed her on her childhood, her family and her hobbies. When she said she liked line dancing, I said, ‘Really. Can you teach me?’
Minutes later, we had moved the coffee table from the centre of the salon and there was music blaring from the speakers, and we were stomping, wheeling, kicking and slapping for all we were worth. Just as we were hacking back on our heels, I noticed the dogs circling and barking in the hall.
Wiping my forehead with my sleeve, I walked over to answer the door. It was Jeanne…in a dress. It was in slate grey wool with a scooping cowl neck, which she’d teamed with a pair of fabulous black bondage boots. Okay – they were lace-up with modest heels but they had the whole shiny leather and silver eyelets thing going on.
‘I don’t see Christophe’s car,’ she said – a touch proprietorially. ‘Is he out?’
‘He’s in Toulouse. Would you like to come in?’ I quite fancied the challenge of getting her doh-si-dohing with us.
She stepped over the threshold with some authority, closed the door and ignored the dogs. ‘He asked me to come round. Perhaps I got the date wrong.’
‘He’s back tomorrow.’
She nodded a smile at Louise, who had turned the music down and joined us in the hall. ‘You’re having a girls’ night in,’ she stated. ‘How nice.’
I offered her a glass of wine. After some hesitation, and watch-gazing, she declined. I got the impression she had more important places to be. ‘Tomorrow night, you say? I must call him and check our plans. It’s been a very busy week, made even more hectic by this wretched Daniel Keane.’
‘Yes. I can imagine.’ Beneath her business-like surface, I could almost see Jeanne twitching. For once, I actually didn’t feel to blame over Daniel. I couldn’t be, since she appeared to be shouldering that responsibility herself.
She glanced at her watch for maybe the sixth time since she’d arrived. ‘Well, I’ll leave you. Enjoy the rest of your night.’ With one hand on the door handle, she stopped and looked back at me. ‘Oh, I meant to ask, how is your artwork progressing?’
‘Really well, thanks. I’m loving it,’ I lied.
She nodded and flared a quick smile. ‘Good. That’s good.’
Moments later, she was in her car and roaring off up the road.
‘She can’t seem to keep away from him,’ Louise remarked as we turned look at each other.
‘Really?’
‘I think she was here every day, last week.’
‘Didn’t Christophe go to Toulouse?’
Louise looked thoughtful. ‘Ah yes, he did, but she was here as soon as he came back.’
‘Are they lovers?’ I couldn’t help myself.
She shrugged. ‘It looks that way, don’t you think?’
With a surprising lurch in my stomach, I had to agree, it did.
Despite Christophe’s apparent interest in the progress of my work, I had banned him from my studio until the picture was finished, fixing a taut smile on my face and saying, ‘You won’t appreciate the final piece if you see it through all its stages of development.’ When what I’d really meant was, through all my futile attempts to turn this piece of rubbish into a work of art.
On Friday evening, as I stood in the kitchen, gazing out into the courtyard and questioning my talent, Christophe’s voice jolted me from my thoughts. I turned and tugged a mouth-only smile in his direction, before I focused again on stirring my tea.
He continued, ‘I’m going over to the château to pick something up, why don’t you come with me?’
I raised my eyebrows. I was sure he’d never needed an escort before. Maybe he wanted to parade me in front of Sylvie. I’d heard The Elopers were now home and settled into Gerard’s apartment. Still, if it helped Christophe to feel more comfortable about facing his ex, I didn’t mind playing along. Although reasoned that if it were the case, he should be taking Jeanne with him. Still, what else was I going to do, spend another evening fretting about my painting? ‘Sure. I’ll just go and get changed.’
I tugged off my sweatshirt and looked at my make-up bag. Should I make an effort? I swept a little blusher over my cheeks, applied smoky-grey liner and soft pink lip-gloss. Removing my hair from its clasp, I attempted to brush it into an alluring shape about my face – but there was a big kink above my right ear and another just below my left. I groaned, rolled it back up and fixed it with a clasp. I tested a sultry, oh-so-cool look but dropped it hastily. ‘That’s it, Vicki, looking dozy is seriously on trend.’
Christophe parked alongside an old, red Citroen, which I hadn�
�t seen at the château last time we’d visited. I assumed it must be Sylvie’s. Surprising, really, I’d imagined she’d drive something much more sophisticated. Christophe walked round to my side of the car and opened my door. He had a curious look on his face. I glanced up at him as I stepped out. What did he have to be so cheerful about?
He closed the door after me. ‘Tell me, how do you like surprises?’
I turned around, half expecting my family to leap out from behind the trees. It would be so lovely to see them. The very possibility suddenly made me feel homesick. ‘What…’ I began, swallowing a lump of emotion, ‘…what are you talking about?’
Christophe stepped towards me and gestured to the red Citroen. ‘I think you need a car – so you can go out and take pictures whenever you want. It’s not much, but it’s reliable.’
I looked from him to the old car. In the twilight, its paintwork was glistening from the recent rainfall. Oh. He’d actually taken the trouble to find me a car. I’d had to sell my own to make ends meet. Now I could tootle about the French countryside to my heart’s content. I looked back at his smiling face and threw my arms around his neck and hugged him. ‘It’s lovely, lovely, lovely. Thank you so much.’
‘It’s just an old car, Vicki. I’m sorry it’s nothing smarter.’
‘I don’t care. It’s great. But there’s a problem…I don’t have any car insurance.’
‘It’s okay, I’ve sorted that out.’
‘Really? How much do I owe you?’
He tilted his head and gave me a look. ‘Nothing.’
‘No, wait. You can’t get insurance for free, it doesn’t work like that. Please let me cover the cost.’
‘You can paint me a picture.’
I thought for a moment and grinned. ‘Wow, French insurance must be seriously expensive.’
He smiled down at me. Killer smile, actually. The kind of smile gets a girl into all sorts of trouble. Suddenly, my tummy was tipping sideways and back again and my heart picked up a beat or two. Alarm bells screamed in my head and I stepped away quickly. There was the sound of footfall on gravel and Christophe’s back stiffened as a woman’s smooth, clear voice said, ‘Bonsoir.’
It could only be Sylvie. He was looking at her over the top of my head. I don’t know why I felt guilty; it was hardly the same as when I was found kissing Jason Cartwright at the fairground – by his girlfriend.
The woman I saw approaching was wearing a thick, cream, woollen sweater, with fern coloured breeches tucked into black riding boots. She was almost as tall as Christophe, with long, dark hair smoothed into a plait, which hung forward over her shoulder. She walked with the grace of a model and the tone of an athlete. Less than an hour earlier, I had fantasised about flooring her with a pathetic don’t-mess-with-me look. I now realised it would take the might of Boadicea and her tribe to floor this woman.
After a brief exchange, Christophe introduced us. She came forward and stretched out her hand. I took it, noticing how warm and dry it felt against my own, chilly one. I had built up a grossly unpleasant image of Sylvie and now, here she was in the flesh, smiling kindly down on me. Merde!
‘I’m so pleased to meet you, at last.’
‘And it’s a pleasure to meet you.’ After everything I’ve heard, I added silently.
‘Unfortunately, I can’t stop to talk, now. We’re going out. We’ll catch up some other time.’ She smiled briefly at Christophe. It was one of those, we’ve-got-a-past smiles. ‘A tout à l'heure.’
There followed a moment’s silence in due respect for the departure of this splendid creature. Finally, he looked at me and said, ‘Do you want to get in and see if you like it?’
Of course. The car. I shook my head, as if waking from a trance. ‘Wait a minute. Where did it come from?’
‘We’ve had it for years – but it’s an excellent little car.’
‘This is so kind of you.’
He shrugged, his eyes smiling down at me, ‘It makes sense. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.’
I sat in the driver’s seat. My feet were so far from the pedals I might as well have been sitting in the boot. I adjusted my position and looked at the gear knob, which was on a short stem jutting out from the dashboard. ‘Weird,’ I said, tracing my hand over the switches and dials.
He sat in the passenger seat and demonstrated the position of the gears. ‘Now, we take it for a spin.’
It took me a couple of minutes to get used to it but I loved the throaty noise of its engine and the quirky way I had to change gear. When we parked back in the driveway I beamed at him. ‘Thank you so much. It was really thoughtful of you. I’ll take very great care of it.’
He laughed. ‘You’ll be the first person who has. We all learned to drive in this car, even my mother, it has quite a history.’
I could well imagine.
‘Come,’ he said, pulling on the door handle. ‘We should say hello to Colette before we leave. She will never forgive me if we don’t.’
We found Colette in the salon, reading a travel magazine. As soon as I’d said ‘Salut’ to her, I launched into a grovelling apology for all the trouble I’d caused. Before I was fully into my stride, she leaned over and took hold of my hand. ‘Chérie, you could not have known.’
‘But I’ve caused a lot of upset for you…’
She shook her head. ‘We have grown thick skins in this family. And we have come to know the people we trust and the people we don’t. Now, why don’t you and I go out for lunch, next week?’
‘Erm…’
‘We’ll go to Limoges, and I can show you some of my favourite shops.’
That sounded expensive. ‘Thank you. That would be lovely.’
‘Chérie – I can hardly wait,’ she said as we parted. ‘And perhaps you will let me see your current masterpiece. My son tells me you are really quite talented.’
Had he? Oh dear. The clouds were gathering once more. That wretched picture was waiting at home for me. It was sitting there on the easel, like a big, fat bully with its arms folded and a curl on its lip, goading me to try and tackle it again.
The gloom continued to roll over me as I followed Christophe home in my little car, talking to it as I went. ‘How did I ever believe I was an artist? I must want my head testing. I gave up a perfectly good job. Daniel was right. I’d make a much better teacher.’
As I pulled onto the drive next to Christophe’s car, and switched off the engine, I suddenly became aware of him standing outside, head bowed, watching in fascination as I chattered away to the dashboard. He opened the door and leaned on the top of it, looking down at me. ‘You know, they say it’s the first sign of madness – talking to yourself.’ There was just the ghost of a smile on his face.
‘Then, I must be absolutely barking – I’ve been doing it for years.’ I stepped out of the car. There was only the driver’s door separating us and so very little room between the car and the house wall. I spluttered on. ‘I’ve called him Tom, it’s short for Tomato – you know, red car – red tomato. Is that okay?’
‘You can call it whatever you like.’ He was closing the door and advancing on me as I backed off into the space behind the car. I’d already discussed with Tom that my attraction to Christophe was just a symptom of my emotional confusion. If I acted on it, I might as well hit the self-destruct button. He was just one of those men who attracted women. We were like wasps to a picnic. I hurried round to the front door, where Hercules and Boz were waiting, excitedly. Christophe greeted his dogs while I escaped into the kitchen.
It was getting late and we hadn’t eaten yet. I began gathering the ingredients for a spicy prawn pasta, acutely conscious of Christophe’s presence in the hallway. I prayed he would go into his study and leave me in peace to make supper. God wasn’t listening.
‘Talk to me, Vicki.’ He came and stood right in my bubble – heating the space between us.
I busied myself at the chopping board, aware my hands were doing things with peppers
and onions but I couldn’t be sure if they were doing the right things. ‘What about?’
‘Earlier, when we left my mother’s, you let out a huge sigh, like you were dreading coming back here.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes.’
I’d never chopped pepper so finely – or so fast. ‘Agh!’ I had overshot the pepper and sliced into my finger.
Quick as a flash, Christophe took the knife from me and steered me to the tap. Pulling off several squares of kitchen roll, he dried my hand and pressed a piece firmly to the cut. ‘I don’t think it will need stitches. We’ll put a tight plaster on it, here.’ He delved into a drawer to find some plasters, and carefully smoothed one around my finger. Finally he looked up. I flicked my focus to the finger.
‘Thanks,’ I said, not wanting to look at him. ‘I can’t believe I just did that.’
‘Let’s forget about cooking, for now. This whole situation with…Keane,’ he said the name with a blend of reluctance and venom, ‘has clearly upset you, and I can understand that, but you have to believe me when I say neither my mother nor I hold you responsible. So, put it behind you.’
‘I may not be totally responsible but you are still having to deal with the outcome – the lawyers, the other journalists. If I hadn’t come to France and got involved with Daniel, you wouldn’t be in this mess.’
‘You think so?’ he asked. ‘You don’t think Jeanne might have introduced Daniel to me anyway? Remember, it was my mother’s collection he was interested in. He got lucky – he met you first.’
I took a deep, shaky breath and continued to stare at my plastered finger, pressing against the wound with my thumb. Daniel had got lucky in more ways than one, but Christophe had a point. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Exactement,’ he said, as if to close the subject. ‘Now, I don’t think you should be allowed near sharp instruments tonight, do you?’
‘Are you saying, you want to chop the vegetables?’
‘Why not? Time for a cooking lesson, huh?’
‘I guess.’
After dinner, as we cleared away the dishes, I shared my fears with him about my painting. ‘Daniel was so supportive, I honestly believed I could do it, but now…maybe I was deluding myself.’