by Rosie Dean
Both Christophe and I knew a set-up when we saw one. Trouble is, he didn’t look half as awkward or pissed off as he should have done. That was my role. ‘So,’ he said, with a smile lighting up his face, ‘you completed your picture – I think you must be feeling good, yes?’
‘Good’ was a very inappropriate word for how I was feeling, right then; confused and disappointed but above all, angry. I stared at the closed door, repeatedly smoothing the silky belt of the kimono between my finger and thumb. I wanted to confront him, find out what was going on with Sylvie, even though I was pretty sure he probably just couldn’t resist her any more than he could resist flirting with every other woman who crossed his path. He was a serial philanderer. I forced a smile and stuck my chin out saying, brightly, ‘Yes. I’ve proved to myself I can do it. And now that I’m really fired up – I feel I could do anything.’ I fixed him with my eyes. Yes, I thought, Vicki’s on her way back.
‘Anything?’ he asked, quietly – one edge of a double-entendre nudging its way forward.
I closed my eyes in exasperation. ‘Don’t go there, Christophe!’ I fixed my eyes back on him. ‘Stop looking on me as just one more girl in a long line of romantic conquests.’
His mouth dropped with surprise and then he clenched his jaw before saying, ‘It didn’t seem to bother you the other night. I thought you were quite enthusiastic, until you decided you weren’t ready to get involved.’
I opened my eyes and stood up. ‘Maybe I was taken in by you.’ A dramatic exit was on my mind, but where would I go? As I hesitated, he had moved to within inches of me.
‘Taken in? I’m not trying to fool you. I…I am attracted to you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But it would seem that you don’t have any good feelings for me. Clearly, you were right – you are not ready.’
He had a nerve. ‘And you think you are?’ I said through gritted teeth.
‘What?’ he asked. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
It was on the tip of my tongue to say, I’ve seen you. I have the photographs to prove it. But in light of his opinion on journalists and photographers, I knew how unwelcome that would be. No, I had the upper hand. I didn’t need to tell him. ‘Nothing. Forget it.’ I said.
‘You’re talking about Jeanne, aren’t you?’
Oh, and there was her too. ‘Isn’t she important in your life?’
He looked at me for a moment and then his voice became very soft, ‘She’s a friend, an old friend. I admit she may have wanted to be something more but, I assure you, Jeanne is only a friend.’
At least I’d been right on that score. But I doubt my face registered much relief, since he was barking up the wrong tree.
‘Hey…’ he put a hand up as if to touch me but stopped before he made contact. ‘Let’s not be enemies.’
His hand was hovering within inches of mine. My treacherous body tingled in anticipation but I stepped back and folded my arms. ‘Of course we’re not enemies,’ I said, equally quietly.
‘Then, don’t run away.’
I took another step back and bumped against the sofa. ‘You’re crowding me.’
‘Sorry.’ He stepped back too, and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Okay.’ He looked around the room and pointed distractedly towards the coffee table. ‘Why don’t you relax with a magazine and wait for Colette. I have a feeling she will be back as soon as I’m gone.’
At the door he turned back. ‘I must apologise for not telling you where to find petrol. There is one garage on the Limoges side of the town but nothing else for about twenty kilometres.’
‘Thanks.’
He nodded and left.
As the door shut, I slid down onto the sofa and reached out for a magazine. I flipped through its pages unseeingly. I realised staying with Christophe was going to be impossible. He was clearly unable to take the hint for more than twenty-four hours at a time, and I would never be able to concentrate on my work, living in such an atmosphere. I would have to find somewhere else to live. I would phone chase up Bruno and hope Daniel hadn’t rubbished my chances of working for him. I was damned if I was going to let this drive me back to Bristol. Marc had already bombed one big plan in my life, Daniel had nearly succeeded with this one, no way was I going to let Christophe torpedo it now.
As he had predicted, Colette reappeared with a small tray of canapés. ‘I thought you might be feeling hungry.’ She set the tray down on the coffee table and offered me a plate. It was hours since my sandwich but I wasn’t hungry. Out of politeness, I took a couple of crackers garnished with fish pâté and dill. Colette perched on the sofa opposite. ‘Where did my son go? I wanted to ask him something.’
‘He didn’t say.’
She was fiddling with her bracelets. ‘I hope you don’t find him too difficult to live with. He’s always been very good-natured – sometimes a little preoccupied, perhaps but who isn’t?’
Colette was fishing. I wondered if she’d make as good a composition as the scene I’d just painted. ‘He’s absolutely fine.’ I said, before pushing a cracker into my mouth and moving it round with a dry tongue.
Colette started drumming her fingers on the cushion beside her. ‘Excuse me for being so direct, Vicki, but I feel that something…’ she gestured with her hands as she sought for the right words. I wasn’t sure where she was going with this. ‘I feel there is a tension between you and my son. If he is a little ill-tempered at the moment, it is because he is dealing with some complicated family issues.’
She could say that again. I swallowed the cracker, which lodged below my windpipe. ‘Yes, I know.’ I swallowed again. ‘The…erm…Albina thing…and the Gerard and Sylvie thing…and the Foundation…thing’ for every instance of thing, insert scandal. ‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t affect me,’ I lied. ‘I’ve just been a bit grumpy with my painting and I probably took it out on him. We had a few words on Friday but everything’s fine.’
‘Good. I’m pleased. Now…’ she clasped her hands together, jangling her bracelets emphatically. ‘Will you stay for dinner? We have a lovely wild salmon from one of the local lakes.’
I shook my head. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I must go back. I need to seal the painting and prepare another canvas for my next one.’
Colette’s head tilted. ‘Are you sure? We would be delighted to have you stay. And I don’t think your clothes are quite dry yet.’
‘Honestly. I wouldn’t be very good company.’
‘But we still have a lunch date for Thursday?’
I slapped a smile on my face. ‘Definitely. And if you come to the house, I’ll show you my painting.’ Assuming I was still there…
‘Wonderful. I shall look forward to it.’
I borrowed a pair of Colette’s navy jogging bottoms, which I doubt had ever been jogging, and a cream sweater. Both were too large, so I turned them up at the ankles and cuffs. As I prepared to leave, there was no sign of Christophe. Despite everything that had happened, I still felt it would be impolite to leave without saying goodbye.
The door to his apartment was on the ground floor. I waited, biting the inside of my lip until he appeared. His smile was slight. ‘Do you want to come in?’
‘No – thank you. I just wanted to say thanks for organising the search party. And…um…I’m going back now.’ Everything about me felt awkward, from my still-damp shoes to my oversized clothing.
He gripped the edge of the door and leaned his head against it. ‘Don’t get lost, huh?’
I smiled. ‘Nooo!’ I wavered in the hallway. ‘Will you…I mean…When…’ I looked at my feet momentarily, before fixing my eyes back on his. ‘Will you be coming back to the house?’
His eyes narrowed a little. ‘Why don’t I give you a bit of space for a while? So you have chance to get involved with your painting.’
‘But that’s your home.’
He shrugged. ‘So is this.’
And much more handy for Sylvie, I thought. ‘Well, that means I’ll be staying under false pretences. So, if I’m not
cooking for you, I must pay you rent.’
‘Absolutely not. You are a friend.’ Then his smile broadened. ‘You don’t eat your friends, I don’t take money from mine.’
I really wanted to stop liking him but he made it impossible. ‘Thank you.’
‘De rien.’
I stepped back. ‘See you, whenever?’
He nodded but said nothing. I turned and walked away, an unwelcome stinging sensation prickling at the back of my eyes, and an undignified squelch in my shoes.
CHAPTER 29
I was up to my wrists in paint as I attempted to kick-start my creativity with finger-painting. The muse had abandoned me – again. Occasionally, I would scroll through my growing archive of photographs for inspiration, but always ended up loitering over the wonderful picture of Christophe riding Léopard. Then I would torture myself by clicking forward to the shot of him with Sylvie. Each time, I could feel my pulse increase before I reached it and each time I felt sick as I looked at it, knowing how close I’d come to falling for him – big time. I returned to the one of him riding. I really wanted to paint this. I didn’t know if I could capture the sense of power and speed but I was more turned on by this image – creatively of course – than anything else.
What the heck. I needed to get it out of my system. I was an artist, after all, and this was how artists worked – through their emotions. Removing the practice canvas and securing a new one, I settled in front of it to draw it out.
On Thursday, Colette arrived for lunch in a haze of expensive fragrance – and late. I had vacillated between leaving the incomplete picture of Christophe on the easel or concealing it. Coward that I was, I stuck it behind the empty canvases. Artist or no artist, I didn’t want to subject myself to more speculation from Colette. She clapped her hands at my first painting of the fishermen. ‘C’est magnifique! I love it. Will you sell it to me?’
I was taken aback. ‘I haven’t even thought about selling any paintings yet.’
‘When you do decide to sell it, please, think of me first.’
The restaurant she took me to in Limoges was in an old part of the city, with dark panelled wood and stained-glass windows. I chose onion soup, followed by soft scallops with lavender cream, while Colette chose garlic prawns and stuffed breast of pheasant. Once the waitress had departed with our order, Colette placed her elbow on the table, rested her chin on her hand and said discreetly, ‘I must tell you – Alain has finally accepted the marriage between Gerard and Sylvie.’
I smiled. ‘How lovely.’ I nodded. My thoughts were replaying our lunch at the château, when I’d detected an atmosphere between Alain and Christophe. Alain had been the first to discover Sylvie with Gerard. Had he also discovered she was screwing Christophe behind Gerard’s back? Why not continue a family tradition, now she had married into it?
Colette nodded. ‘It has been difficult. Of course, you know Alain strongly believed Sylvie was only after the Dubois fortune?’
I didn’t but it certainly matched Jeanne’s opinion.
She stroked a large tear-drop of gold, hanging from her earlobe. ‘Christophe has had to work very hard to change Alain’s point of view.’
Wow! I thought. That was pretty magnanimous of him, not to mention, creative, bearing in mind he was rogering her in the woods.
Colette continued. ‘So now it looks as if I shall have my party after all. We’re celebrating their wedding, next weekend. I can’t wait! And you, chérie, must be there.’
I forced a smile. Deep joy. My first wedding party since my own. Another opportunity to pretend all was well in my world.
I cleared my throat. ‘Do you think Christophe has got over Sylvie?’
Colette had just raised her wine glass but put it down again. ‘Of course. She was not right for him. Too cool – very much like Marie and François. Oh, I’m sure they would have managed, but Gerard is a far better match for her. Christophe is too sensitive.’
I was surprised Colette believed she knew her son so well, especially since she had been absent for most of his childhood.
Colette continued, ‘He takes after my mother. She was a wonderful lady.’
I frowned, as Colette continued, ‘I’m afraid I take after my father,’ she laughed heartily, shaking back her rich, auburn hair, and winking at me over her wine glass.
‘Christophe told me about his grandmother. He was very fond of her.’
‘And not so fond of my father. He disapproved of all his infidelities. Mind you, so did half of France, at one time. The other half were jealous.’ Colette laughed again.
Her glee was infectious, I laughed too.
‘My dear, my father and I chose to have fun. Unfortunately, as we have discovered, he was also something of a rogue. On the other hand, Christophe’s own father was a very good man but also very serious. I think I found that attractive at first, he was so different from me I was sure we would have a wonderful, passionate marriage but…’ she stopped for a moment and considered. ‘We were much too different. Eh bien.’ She shrugged before raising her wine glass. ‘To life’s pleasures!’
After lunch, we wandered around the older part of Limoges, stopping at a créperie close to the St Aurelien chapel, for dessert. As I tucked into my crépe with crème de marron and Chantilly cream, she confided, ‘I shall never be thin again but I don’t care. It’s so important to live life, eat life, for tomorrow…who knows?’
I leaned forward. ‘But Colette, you have a great figure.’
‘That’s because I keep active.’ She winked as she closed her mouth on another spoonful.
Returning full but refreshed from my trip into Limoges, I contemplated my work with renewed enthusiasm even though I was painting it in the shadow of my own disappointment. Colette had reminded me that it was important to make the most of the here and now. And right now, I was producing my fourth painting – that alone was a joy.
I worked right through the weekend investing all my energy into the new painting. Sometimes I missed Christophe. I saw him briefly, when he visited the surgery and passed through the house to collect something but most of the time I was so absorbed that the hours flew by. All the same, on Sunday evening, while I was cleaning my brushes, I found myself pining for a cosy chat over a bottle of wine.
Instead, I rang Isabelle, who was very pleased to hear I was still painting. ‘Fantastic! And what about men – have you set up a force field to deflect them?’
‘Of course. I’m through with men.’
‘What a pity. I was so looking forward to your next wedding. The last one was such fun. You do weddings so well.’
‘Thanks. I’m going to a wedding party next weekend.’
‘With Christophe?’
‘He’ll be there. It’s to celebrate his cousin’s marriage to the ex – Sylvie.’ And a complete hypocrisy, I was tempted to add but didn’t want my gossip getting back to the family, and I certainly didn’t want to be responsible for triggering another family drama. I would leave that to Christophe and Sylvie.
‘Oooh!’ Isabelle was intrigued. ‘That will be interesting. Make sure you take lots of pictures.’
I hadn’t even thought about it. The party was low on my list of priorities. Every time the subject came up, I pushed it back down again. Isabelle asked me what I was going to wear.
‘No idea.’
‘Wonderful! You can go shopping. Don’t forget: shoes, handbag, ear-rings, manicure. You must do everything properly.’
‘On my budget? I’ll just go for the essentials.’
‘Whatever you buy – make it a real clou du spectacle!’
‘What’s that?’
‘A showstopper.’
CHAPTER 30
Friday was, possibly, leaving it late to buy an outfit but shopping under pressure seemed to suit me. Isabelle’s advice had driven me to write a list of everything I needed, from leg-waxing strips to nail varnish. Limoges was alight with Christmas decorations and heaving with shoppers.
I had a few euros
in my pocket. Mum and Dad had finally sold Marc’s electronic keyboard. I’d held on to it out of some misguided sense of loyalty – possibly even hope that he might return – but Dad had persuaded me he wouldn’t be back and, even if he tried, I was fully within my rights to sell it. So I toured the fashion shops in search of something special.
I knew, the minute I fastened the zip on a truly scrumptious dress, and saw every seam fit beautifully, that I’d found the perfect thing. It was full-length. Exactly the length Marc had hated on me but which I’d secretly wanted to wear for my wedding. The soft, crimson chiffon over satin was sprinkled with tiny sequins across the bodice. It was an absolute knockout. I’d show Christophe and Sylvie I was not beaten.
More practically, it would match my wedding shoes.
*
Christophe drove over to the house, on Friday, to collect his tuxedo. As he turned into the drive, he realised Vicki wasn’t home. Wandering around the house, he noticed small Vicki touches – an arrangement of ivy leaves and wild heather in the hall; fruit salad in the fridge; a discarded magazine on the armchair. He walked upstairs to his room, pulled his suit from the wardrobe and carried it back onto the landing. He listened. Vicki was definitely not home. He loitered. He draped his suit over the banister and walked to the bottom of the second flight of stairs. Had she been painting?
He carried on up to the studio to look at the painting of the fisherman – he’d not seen it completed. As he stepped into the room, he stopped dead in his tracks. On the easel, was an unfinished, but unmistakable painting of him on Léopard. He stood, frowning, studying it, taking in the accuracy of her depiction. Her style avoided fine detail, but she had still captured movement and energy.
When had she taken the picture? Goodness knows he’d ridden Léopard more in the last couple of weeks than he had for months.
Finally, he found the impetus to move from the doorway and towards the easel, peering closely at the thousands of brushstrokes that went into creating the image. He backed away and leaned against the table, jolting the laptop out of screensaver mode. There, on the screen, was the photograph she’d been using for inspiration. He pressed the arrow key to look through more pictures of him riding away from the château. He clicked on again and stopped at a picture of him with Sylvie, and then another. Within the frame, there was not much to see of the horses, just a powerful close-up of the two of them.