Vicki's Work of Heart (12 page)

I felt a little shiver. There were two faint grooves between his brows as he turned back to look at me. Just what exactly did he mean by demons?

His brows lifted and the lines evened out. ‘But if I just want to relax, I take Belle.’

We heard the gate open behind us. An older man was approaching, clearly well known by the dogs. Christophe introduced him as his uncle, Alain. There was a strong family resemblance in their build; Alain was tall, like Christophe, but had grey hair and the weathered face of a man who spent his time in the open air. For an older guy, he was still quite handsome. I could picture Christophe in another thirty years.

Alain greeted us cordially enough but I detected a glacial breeze pass between them. ‘Colette saw you arrive. I believe she is making preparations to receive you.’

‘Then we’d better not keep her waiting.’ They nodded briefly at each other and we left the two dogs with Alain.

I fell into step beside Christophe. ‘Colette is your aunt?’

‘Non. Colette is my mother.’

Aha. The great beauty who’d had the affair with François. This would be interesting. I imagined a tall, elegant brunette with beautiful eyes like her son – a French Catherine Zeta Jones. I considered my own appearance – best jeans, thin navy sweater and toffee-coloured, woollen jacket – more tourist class than supermodel. Add to that my large canvas camera bag, and one might be forgiven for thinking I was carrying a flask and sandwiches. Oh well. I lifted my chin and straightened my back as Christophe led me through a side door, down a stone floored corridor and through a heavy wooden door into a grand hallway. The walls were adorned with paintings, old and new; heavy drapes hung beside tall windows and somebody, somewhere, was playing the Bee Gees – loudly.

‘Please excuse the interior styling. My mother is a woman of impulse. If she likes something, she buys it, never mind if it does not suit the rest.’

‘Interesting though.’

He headed off up the wide staircase. The carpet, which was a deep pink, had seen better days. We were heading in the direction of the music. He stopped by a white panelled door, on which the detail had been picked out in gold. He tapped before pushing it open.

Shock horror! If I had expected a sophisticated brunette, I couldn’t have been more surprised. Shimmying round the large room, in a knee-length, rust-coloured dress, tailored to an impressive hour-glass figure, was a ravishing redhead. We stood in the doorway, waiting until she noticed us, when she paused, flashed us a traffic-stopping smile and gestured for us to join her. Then, she side-stepped to the CD player and turned the volume down. ‘Christophe, chéri,’ she crooned in a voice like crème de marron. She held out one hand to her son and another to me, before switching to flawless English. She spoke slowly, her voice caressing the words with just the hint of a French accent, which I imagined would set any red-blooded man’s pulse racing. ‘You must be our new English artist, Vicki. Welcome. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ She air-kissed me, and then her son. ‘Sorry, you caught me doing my exercises. Far better to dance in the comfort of one’s own salon than put on hideous clothes and go to the gym, don’t you think?’

‘Absolutely.’ I beamed back at her, recognising her as the woman I’d seen in Christophe’s arms, in the photograph on his piano. ‘And I’m sure this is a much better view, as well. Who wants to look at rows of sweaty bodies and pink faces?’

Colette took hold of my other hand and looked at her son. ‘What did I tell you, Chéri? Only a woman could understand.’ She turned her attention to me. ‘In any case, carpet is much kinder to the knees and ankles, wouldn’t you agree?’

Christophe
’s eyes creased softly at the corners. ‘Maman, I need to talk to Alain. I think Vicki might like a coffee and then, perhaps, you can show her round.’

‘I would love to show you round, Vicki. Tell me, is that short for
Victoria?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah. Victoria is such a beautiful name. But your Queen Victoria was so plain and yet, I read somewhere, she was sex mad, non?’

Christophe
rolled his eyes, placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder and said, ‘I will leave you to your conversation.’

‘Apparently, I am an embarrassing mother.’

Christophe gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Not at all.’ He turned and gave me an apologetic nod before leaving.

Colette picked up a telephone, pressed a button, and ordered coffee – like she was at The Savoy. I observed her – taking in the thick auburn hair, skilfully layered so it had height and movement. She wore several gold bracelets that slid up and down her wrist as she moved, and a necklace of amber, jade and gold. For a woman who was probably in her late fifties, she looked a good ten years younger. She gestured for me to join her on one of the sofas; old sofas, in a heavy chintz design of pink and cream roses on a saffron yellow background were positioned opposite each other at right-angles to the window. A low, carved coffee table stood between them. She crossed her long legs, one foot still tapping to the music, and smiled encouragingly. ‘It’s so lovely to have female company. I always seem to be surrounded by men.’ She gave a little chuckle. ‘Not that I’m complaining but a woman needs the society of other women, don’t you think?’

‘Definitely. Girlfriends offer something a man never could.’

‘This is so true. I do, of course have the company of Sylvie here, but I find her very much more like a man in her attitudes – very cool. She’s away at the moment and I find I really don’t miss her at all. You’ve heard of Sylvie, of course.’

My brain was pedalling fast to come up to speed on this one. Sylvie – the phone call to Christophe and the person I’d heard Jeanne mention, several times last night in the same breath as Christophe. ‘Um…Sylvie…no, I don’t think so.’

‘My son’s ex-lover. She used to live with him. So surprising. He had always remained resolutely single.’ She tutted. ‘But it didn’t work out.’

So that’s what Louise had meant when she said his ex was still around. Dear old Christophe – what a guy. He even kept his ex-girlfriends simmering in the family château. I wondered if he had the name Lothario tattooed across his chest, and summoned up the vision, just for the hell of it.

‘Christophe thought it was time to settle down but personally, I always thought he’d picked the wrong girl. A mother can tell, you know.’

I nodded, taking it all in and rapidly assessing the situation. Christophe had wanted to settle down, then. So he must have felt a lot for Sylvie. Possibly still did. Louise had said things were complicated.

Colette ran both hands through her thick hair, bracelets jingling as she did so. ‘Of course, it was devastating for him when she was discovered with Gerard.’

‘Gerard…that’s his cousin, isn’t it?’

‘Oui.’

I swallowed as I digested this revelation. First, we had Colette’s affaire with François and now Christophe’s girlfriend had been cheating on him with his cousin. I wondered if he had been as magnanimous and forgiving of her infidelity as his father had of Colette’s.

She shrugged. ‘Oh well. Now Sylvie is married to Gerard, I will have to spend more time with her, I expect.’

What?! ‘So, Christophe’s girlfriend married his cousin, Gerard?’

‘It’s far more exciting than that, my dear. They eloped! Who would expect it these days? Unfortunately, Alain was very much against the marriage. It only happened a few days ago and threw everyone into turmoil.’ She glanced across as an elderly woman appeared in the doorway. ‘Ah, coffee.’

That could account why Louise had been crying and for the tense phone calls Christophe had been having. Not only had his relationship failed but now his ex had married his own cousin, and was living under the same roof as his mother. But what, I wondered, had Sylvie been doing phoning Christophe only two nights ago?

Still, it certainly threw my own position into more favourable perspective. At least Marc had the decency to move continents.

I was itching to know more, but waited until the coffee had been served before I asked, ‘Why was Alain so against the marriage?’

Colette was perched on the edge of the sofa, holding her coffee cup and saucer. ‘Gerard is a very passive man. Sylvie is a strong and determined woman. We all feel that, perhaps…well, no.’ She turned the cup on her saucer. ‘It’s not fair to judge, is it? Alain believes that the marriage will fail. We will leave it at that.’

I stirred my coffee, even though I didn’t take sugar.

Colette changed the subject. ‘So, how did you come to be in
France – and painting? Christophe tells me you gave up your job – that’s a brave thing to do.’

‘Not really. It was more an act of survival.’ I wasn’t exaggerating; a few more years at the mercy of Darwin High pupils and who knew what state I’d be in
?

‘And would I be correct in assuming you have no man in your life, at present?’

‘There was one but we had a parting of the ways. He went to Barbados, I came to France.’

‘
Barbados... I once had a marvellous trip to Antigua, so beautiful – the colours. Why didn’t you go with him? It is an artist’s paradise.’

I pulled a face. ‘I wasn’t invited.’

Colette gasped. ‘Non! He just went? You didn’t know?’

And so, I spilled the whole story.

Colette was enthralled. ‘And you still went ahead with the wedding reception – good for you.’

‘Obviously, they thought I was mad but I’m a great believer in making the most of a situation.’

‘Wasn’t it awkward?’

‘God, yes. Although in a funny way, everyone covered it up. There was a kind of hysteria took over. Most of it mine, probably. Lots of alcohol consumption. Also mine, I expect, and wall-to-wall jocularity.’

‘What about his family – weren’t they ashamed?’

‘Well, his father had disappeared when Marc was a baby.’

Colette leaned across and touched my arm. ‘Like father, like son, you see. You had a lucky escape. And his mother?’

‘Embarrassed, naturally. Although I got the impression she was more miffed that he hadn’t told her first, and saved her the humiliation of turning up at church. She stayed long enough to be polite.’ About twenty minutes as I recalled.

‘But you’re here now. And it’s wonderful.’

‘Thank you. I’m very happy to be here.’

Colette leaned forward and took my hand as she said, sotto voce, ‘And what do you think of my son?’

‘Erm…’ I fought down the memory of his arms around me, and the sensation of his kisses.

Colette winked. ‘He’s adorable, non?’

I was trying to catch a rational thought. Finally, sounding as breezy as a holiday rep in the first week of the season, I said, ‘Well, he’s been very kind to give me a room in his house. I’m really grateful, and my studio is perfect.’

‘Of course, as his mother, I adore him – but I think I should warn you, he has littered half of Limousin with broken hearts.’

No surprises there, then. ‘Don’t worry. I have absolutely no intention of losing my heart to anyone. I’m here to paint. I’m taking a sabbatical from men, too.’

Colette squeezed my hand. ‘But chérie, make room for a little fun.’

I smiled back at her. ‘I’m already having fun. I haven’t felt this positive for ages. It’s like I’ve been handed a second chance and the world is my oyster.’

‘Bien. I feel I know you so much better, Vicki. I really look forward to spending more time with you. Now, you want to see the château. Let’s go.’

Generations of French families had knocked the
château about a bit, and now it was divided into five apartments; one for Colette, another for Alain and his wife, two for the cousins, Gerard and Louise and the other was Christophe’s. It was the French equivalent of Southfork Ranch and almost as riddled with scandal. Colette had no access to Gerard’s apartment but Alain’s wife, Anne, showed us theirs. She was the polar opposite of Colette – very quiet and with seriously conservative taste, reflected in her furnishings of beige, sage and cream. Colette, on the other hand, worked with a more opulent palette. Paintings and sketches hung in every room alongside an eclectic mix of ceramics and sculptures. I was certain I saw two sketches by Picasso.

Louise’s apartment was more of a bed-sit. Being the youngest, I guess she drew the short straw. Mind you, at her age, I’d have been pretty glad to have a huge room with en-suite and kitchenette to take my friends to.

Christophe’s apartment was a big surprise. In contrast to the homely, somewhat sparsely furnished house by the surgery, there was a glorious, modern spaciousness to the place. Sand-coloured carpet had been laid throughout. In the sitting room, huge squashy sofas in dark brown sat at right-angles, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows. There were big cushions in the same teal and brown fabric as the curtains and in the centre of the ceiling hung a massive multiple light in stainless steel. It was a very manly room – but comfortable. The bathroom was, possibly, the most luxurious I’d ever seen; with his-and-hers basins and the biggest bath you might find outside of a rugby changing room. The master bedroom had modern, dark brown and steel furnishings, cream and rust coloured fabrics and a bed wide enough to host half of said rugby team.

I was itching to have a good nosey around but Colette swept me out and back to her own salon, which pulsed to the beat of Jive Talkin’. ‘This is one of my favourites,’ I confessed.