by Rosie Dean
She must have taken the picture the day she ran out of petrol.
He closed his eyes, shook his head and let out a big sigh. ‘Ah, non!’ Then, he clicked on to the original picture and, with a last look at the painting, headed downstairs to pick up his tuxedo.
*
The night before the wedding party, I had the worst night’s sleep. I could feel a whole can of emotionally charged worms stirring up – not least because it was the first wedding celebration since my own. It brought back memories of what I’d thought would be my last-night-as-a-single-girl. I shed a tear for the heart-to-heart I’d had, first with Mum and then with Dad; both of them being so positive about a future that would never happen.
‘Stop being wet!’ I told myself as I turned over. ‘You’ve moved on. Live in the moment.’ I plumped the pillow vigorously.
How exactly, I wondered, was Christophe going to behave around Sylvie – and would I be able to resist watching them all night, looking for flaws in their performance? I turned onto my back, bashed the pillow with my head a couple of times for comfort and closed my eyes.
Late on Saturday afternoon, as I applied the first coat of nail varnish, Colette phoned. ‘Vicki, darling, I’m sending a car to pick you up this evening.’
‘You don’t have to do that. I’m quite happy to drive.’ In any case, it would give me an incentive to stay sober and in control.
‘Not at all. You must relax and enjoy the evening. I absolutely insist. It will be there for seven-thirty.’
‘Thank you.’
Just before seven-thirty, I checked my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. My hair was loose over my shoulders. The dress hung beautifully, the hem drifting as I moved. I smiled. I might not cut such a striking figure as Sylvie – but I could definitely give her a run for her money.
What was I thinking? And why on earth did I feel like I was preparing to go into battle against Sylvie?
A flush crept up my cheeks. Oh, nuts! I still wanted him. How could that be possible? I was truly hell-bent on self-destruction and deserved all the pain coming my way. Was insanity an artist’s natural state? Think: Gauguin, Van Gogh, Dali…
Outside I heard the low rumble of an engine and the scuffle of excited dog paws on the hall floor. I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. ‘Just enjoy the party,’ I muttered as I left my bedroom.
As I was halfway down the stairs, Christophe walked through the front door and looked up. What was he doing here and how dare he look so gorgeous in his tuxedo? I paused for a split second and then overcompensated by quickening my pace and almost fell off the bottom step. He held out a hand to steady me.
‘Sorry. It’s the shoes.’ I gasped, mentally clouting myself.
He bent and kissed me on both cheeks. He smelled delicious. ‘You look beautiful,’ he said.
‘Really?’ I asked, breathily, wondering who’d stolen the oxygen.
He studied me for a little longer. ‘Very beautiful.’
The oxygen thief had also turned the boiler up. I shook my head and croaked, ‘Thank you.’
He stepped away and lifted my coat from where it hung by the door. As I shrugged my arms into the sleeves, I felt a random shudder as he held the collar a fraction too long.
His deep voice was close to my ear. ‘I hope you like the car – it took me an hour to get it started.’
‘You’re driving me?’
‘Of course. Didn’t Colette say?’
‘No. She just said she was sending a car.’
‘Well, it is a very special car.’
Outside was a gleaming vintage Rolls Royce. I loved it. It was big and boxy, in black and burgundy, with a fabulously long bonnet and huge, shiny headlamps. ‘Oh, wow!’ I said. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s a 1930 Phantom.’
‘You didn’t fancy lending me this one, then?’
He smiled and opened the passenger door. As I sat inside, I noticed the smell of old leather and felt the resonance of history in its fabric. The door made a satisfying ‘clunk’ as it closed. I studied the dials and switches on the dashboard, walnut and chrome gleaming from years of care.
I sank back into the seat and felt the throb of the engine as it started up. ‘Has this always been in the family?’ I asked.
‘Not from new. My grandmère, Dorothea, brought it over from England when she married my grandpère. It was a wedding present from her father.’
‘She didn’t take it back with her, then?’
‘She left in haste. I don’t think it was important to her.’
We pulled up in front of the château, where ranks of candle-stands lit the entrance. As I moved to open my door, a footman came forward and opened it for me. ‘Bon soir, mam'selle,’ he said as I stepped out.
Straight away, Christophe came round and was offering his arm to escort me into the house. I took it, still drawn to him by some perverse, cosmic force despite my brain computing the irony that we were about to celebrate the marriage of his lover to the cousin who had pinched her from him. I felt like a character walking into a Jilly Cooper novel.
The grand entrance hall was festooned with cream and apricot roses. We could hear the strains of a band playing in the ballroom. Alain and Anne were politely greeting guests in the hall, while Colette sashayed in and out of the ballroom to check who was arriving. She wore a midnight blue gown, slashed to the thigh and glittering with beads. I hope I look that sensational at her age, I thought as she wrapped me in a fragrant embrace.
‘Now, you beautiful darlings,’ Colette began, as she stood between us, ‘I want a picture,’ and summoned the photographer. After posing like a professional, she stepped back and steered us together. ‘Have some champagne, lots of it, and enjoy yourselves!’
As she headed off to capture another couple, the bride and groom appeared at the top of the staircase. Sylvie was wearing a plain ivory dress, with gold detail around the neckline. She looked beautiful – classically beautiful.
I suddenly felt vivid and cheap, like a Christmas bauble.
Christophe’s arm settled easily around my waist. This time, instead of my tummy flipping with desire, it sank with disappointment. If only it were for real, I thought, when I knew he was just putting on a show to maintain a pretence. Well, he’d got a nerve. I wasn’t prepared to be an accomplice in his crumby deception.
I lifted his hand from my hip. ‘Excuse me.’ I said, moving away from him to greet the bride and groom. Gerard was a similar build to Christophe, but less toned. His short hair was fair and styled neatly with a side parting. When he smiled, his cool blue eyes glinted with a roguish charm – so in that respect, he was clearly family.
Sylvie held out her hand to me, ‘I am pleased to meet you again, Vicki,’ she said. ‘This is my husband, Gerard.’
Gerard’s hand was hotter and sweatier than Sylvie’s. ‘Congratulations. I hope you had a lovely honeymoon,’ I said, smiling up at him.
Gerard beamed back at me, revealing perfect white teeth but the twitch of his lip and a glance at Sylvie suggested he was far less confident than his wife. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said.
As I asked Gerard about Madrid, Christophe stepped forward to embrace Sylvie – completely throwing me into confusion and mucking up my attempt at polite conversation. Gerard seemed not to notice and held out his hand to Christophe and hugged him.
A distasteful lump formed in my throat at Christophe’s treachery. I backed away and headed for the ballroom. Nobody was dancing, apart from Colette, who was swaying rhythmically inside the huge double doors. ‘Chérie, isn’t it a bore, Alain says we can’t start dancing until after dinner. Who ever heard anything so ridiculous!’ She put her arm through mine. ‘Vicki, you look adorable tonight.’ I smiled and sipped my champagne. ‘I think my son will have to fight off a few opponents, don’t you?’
My sip became a gulp. Eventually, I said, ‘I doubt it.’
Colette leaned in to me and whispered. ‘You must let him fight a little. Men like that.’
> I swallowed. Every indication suggested Christophe did, indeed, want me – just not in the right way. It might be his family’s practice to pursue several relationships at once, like some people hold down different jobs, but it wasn’t mine. I managed a smile for Colette just as the great bulk of François appeared with Marie on his arm. Colette threw out her arms in greeting, and we were all indulging in cheek-kisses as dinner was announced.
CHAPTER 31
Lucky me – I was seated between Christophe and Louise, with François and Marie opposite. There were two narrow tables running the length of the dining room, with the bride and groom seated at the centre of theirs. And, for once, there was no Jeanne.
The food was presented in spectacular fashion, and I had been specially catered for with a seafood risotto.
François was, of course, most interested to hear how my painting was progressing, raving generously about the ones he’d seen. ‘And what are you working on at the moment,’ he asked.
‘Well,’ I began, instantly aware of Christophe turning towards me to hear what I had to say. ‘It’s in your field of work, François – a horse and rider.’
François let out an overloud ‘Aha!’ followed by. ‘I definitely want to see that. I might have some competition, eh?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I smiled, conscious that Christophe was poised to ask a question. I lifted my glass. ‘Could you pour me a little more wine please, François?’
‘So, where did you find your inspiration for the horse and rider?’ Christophe asked.
‘When I went out for a drive, one day.’
‘Really? Where did you find them?’
‘Oh, I can’t remember exactly. You know how terrible my sense of direction is.’
‘Perhaps it was Henri Maigny – was he fat?’
I shook my head.
‘Then I think you must have had a long drive. Maybe you went to St Léonard, huh?’
I stopped rolling the hem of my napkin and gritted my teeth. Sooner or later, he would see it. I took a deep breath and turned part-way towards him. ‘Actually, it was…’ I couldn’t bring myself to say the word, so pointed my finger at his chest instead.
He turned and smiled in what I took to be a rather self-satisfied way, damn him. ‘You painted a picture of me?’
‘Yes.’
He leaned over and his breath brushed my cheek, as he whispered, ‘I know.’
I nearly cricked my neck as my head spun towards him. He was close, very close, his gaze moving from my eyes, to my mouth and back again. Damn him, he was still flirting with me. I frowned. ‘What do you mean, you know?’
‘I came over yesterday to collect my dinner jacket. I was hoping to see you, instead I saw your work.’
My mouth had popped open, so I snapped it shut. ‘That’s despicable,’ I hissed back.
‘What is?’
‘You sneaking around, looking at my work, without telling me.’
‘I’m telling you now.’
I could feel the heat of his leg, and his hand was only a hair’s breadth from mine. ‘Yes but…’
He cut in. ‘You can’t accuse me of sneaking around my own house. If you’d been there, I would still have come to your studio.’
I knew he was right but it didn’t stop me from feeling exposed. ‘You could have said something earlier instead of pretending you didn’t know anything about it. Still, I suppose you’ve become quite accomplished at keeping things quiet.’
Further along the table, Alain stood up and began tapping his glass with a spoon. There was a rumble around the room as everyone turned and settled themselves into position for the speeches. I took the opportunity to move away from Christophe and adjust my chair. He too changed position, turning his chair so he was behind me but practically leaning over my shoulder to see the speakers.
Much of what was said went straight over my head. You could blame my dodgy grasp of the language but more likely, it was the way my skin tingled with the nearness of Christophe. I wanted to move further away, but Louise’s chair was blocking me.
I picked up snippets in the speech about the couple’s deep love for one another and even the announcement of a child to be born in the spring. Wow! They’d moved fast. Of course, one assumed it was Gérard’s baby. A shudder ran through me. I really didn’t need that kind of complication in my life.
As soon as the speeches were over, and it was polite to do so, I stood up to leave the table. Christophe caught my hand and rose to meet me. He was still smiling, God rot him! I looked down at our hands and briefly at him. I was not smiling. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go to the Ladies.’
He let go of my hand and I escaped to one of the bathrooms. By the time I emerged, the band was playing again. As I expected, The Happy Couple were swaying in the middle of the floor and gradually others joined them. I sidled over to Marie and surreptitiously scanned the room for Christophe, but he was nowhere to be seen. As the music changed to something more lively, I said, ‘Come on, Marie. Shall we dance?’
She laughed. ‘Not me. I don’t dance.’
‘No?’ I hated to be at a party and not dancing, so I ventured out on my own, joining Colette, who was as lithe as a serpent on Speed.
Two songs later, I caught sight of Christophe, leaning against the wall watching me. I had no idea how long he’d been there. The next time I looked, Louise was leading him into the throng. I began dancing in retreat, but Louise was determined to join us. Okay, it was a big room, I didn’t have to dance with him or even look at him. All the same, my skin was prickling from his presence and the expert way he was manoeuvring Louise to the music. Colette, beside me, was vamping it up like Tina Turner, and flashing bedroom eyes at a tall, goat of a man, who was wearing a bright green bow-tie, and looked easily two decades younger.
When the number ended, I shot off to the bar for a reviving vodka-tonic. As I raised the glass to my lips, I watched as Christophe walked into the room and headed straight for me. Just what I didn’t need. I took a gulp and placed the glass back down on the bar, but kept hold of it for support. He put a hand on my arm and leaned towards me. ‘Vicki, what I’m going to say now, may not change the way you feel about me but I still have to tell you.’
I raised my eyebrows in an if-you-must kind of way.
He went on, ‘I know you saw me with Sylvie because I’ve seen the photographs. And I know how it might have appeared.’
I concentrated on my glass, rather than him.
‘My uncle is a very honourable man. He believed Sylvie had wronged me and had no right to marry his son. He totally misread her motives and has been threatening to disinherit Gerard. But he was wrong. Sylvie is absolutely the right person for Gerard. I knew that, months ago.’
I swallowed.
He continued. ‘I’ve been acting as go-between for them all. On Sunday, I finally made a breakthrough with Alain. When you saw me with Sylvie, she was giving me the good news.’ He loosened his hand on my arm as he said, ‘You accused me of snooping round my own house. How do you think I felt about you spying on me?’ Then he walked away, leaving me shuffling from one foot to the other.
I took my drink and slumped into the nearest chair, my eyes darting from side to side as I chewed over this latest news. Did he really think I’d been spying on him? I wasn’t sure which was worse – his arrogance or how my actions reflected on me. Replaying his words in my mind I let out a little groan. He had been doing the decent thing – thoughtful as ever – and I’d seen the absolute worst in him. I’d very nearly accused him of it to his face, too. I leaned forward and held my head in my hands. It was a natural mistake to make, wasn’t it? I nearly imploded with shame as I imagined how he’d have taken my suggestion the baby might be his.
Sometimes in life you just have to suck up the shame and admit to being wrong.
I may not have been deliberately spying on him but I’d definitely drawn the wrong conclusion.
Yes. The wrong conclusion. A glimmer of light filtered throu
gh the gloom of my mortification. What had he said? What I’m going to say now, may not change the way you feel about me. How did I feel about him?
A kaleidoscope of images flashed across my mind and my heart pitter-pattered in my chest.
Well, I knew the answer to that. The question was, did I have the stomach for the large slice of humble pie I was about to eat?
François strode up to the bar and ordered a bottle of red wine, before spotting me. ‘Aha! my beautiful young friend. What are you doing sitting here, drinking on your own?’
I smiled up at him. ‘Just having a moment of reflection.’
‘You should be dancing.’
I stood up. ‘You know François, you’re absolutely right. And that’s exactly where I’m going.’ I took a deep breath followed by a bracing gulp of V&T and walked as calmly as I could back to the ballroom. I tucked myself against a marble pillar and scanned the room for Christophe, finally spotting him dancing with his aunt, amongst the rest of his family.
I watched him, just like he’d watched me. After a moment he looked up and held my gaze briefly. The tune must have been the longest on record but throughout it, I’m pretty sure my intentions were telegraphed across the room to him. Even though his dance movements compelled him to turn away from me, he looked back every time he had the opportunity. Each time, I was still watching him.
The moment the music ended, he kissed his aunt’s hand and turned to face me. He stood and waited, his head tilted in expectation. It was my big moment. I set off, knees wobbling with each step…each step nearer to those heavenly molten chocolate eyes and a man who’d turned my world topsy turvy – but in a good way. As I reached him, he scanned my face, picking up my apologetic smile, which may also have been a little starry-eyed. It was a good job he caught hold of me, or my legs might have given out. As he pulled me close, and the band started another foot-tapping number, he pressed his mouth close to my ear and said, ‘You wanted to dance jive, huh?’ I leaned into him and he dropped a hot kiss against my temple. In the next moment, he had caught hold of my hand and was moving me round to the music, launching me away from him and drawing me back in. I couldn’t stop giggling, it was the best kind of dancing and he was superb at it, guiding me like a pro. Round we went, close and then apart. I didn’t want to stop.