Vicki's Work of Heart (14 page)

Alain and Anne joined us for a lunch of salade Niçoise and tarte aux pommes. Despite Colette’s relentless cheerfulness, the air between Alain and Christophe was so glacial you could have seen your breath in it. Neither met the other’s eye and both said very little when spoken to. Anne was as quiet as a Carmelite nun, so the onus was on me
, Louise and Colette to maintain the conversation. I plugged away with my interest in the château and its history. Colette seized on this by suggesting I spend a few days with her. ‘There is a beautiful room overlooking the garden – well, you’ve seen it – I would love to have you here with me.’

Her offer was mighty tempting, in light of last night’s little soap opera.

She continued. ‘We could fly down to Nice for a few days – what do you think? I have some very good friends there…’

‘Maman!’ Christophe interrupted. ‘Vicki is here to concentrate on her painting. She doesn’t need you distracting her with shopping trips and soirées with your friends in Nice.’

I was surprised at the edge in his voice; surprised and somewhat miffed that he should be speaking for me. What was he – my manager? On the other hand, we did have a deal of sorts, and it would seem impolite and ungrateful if I cleared off to live it up with Colette – particularly when he’d gone to the trouble of setting up my studio.

Colette also raised her eyebrows at his reaction and looked over at me before saying, ‘Everyone needs a little recreation, chéri.’

I imagined Colette could be wonderful and diverting company but Christophe was right – even if I did resent him speaking for me. I would tell him so later but, for now, I was possessed by pure devilment. ‘Actually,’ I said, looking from Colette to Christophe – who appeared to be fascinated by his empty plate – ‘I’d really like to take you up on the offer…’ I heard his deep intake of breath and saw the smile twinkle in his mother’s eyes. ‘It’s so lovely here, with lots of stimulating scenery – and Nice. Wow! I’m very tempted…but could we leave it for a few weeks? Only I do need to get my head down and work. I’m sure there’ll come a point where I’ll be desperate for a diversion and when I do, I’ll be over like a shot.’

Colette raised her glass. ‘Good. I shall look forward to it.’

I stole another glance at Christophe, who had sunk back in his chair. As he looked up at me, I raised my eyebrows over a benign smile. He merely narrowed his eyes and returned to studying his plate.

During the journey home, I said, ‘I’m curious, Christophe, since when did you take responsibility for my painting?’

He looked across at me. ‘I don’t.’

‘You told your mother I needed to concentrate on my painting – what are you, my agent?’

He briefly raised both hands off the wheel in exasperation. ‘No. But you do want to concentrate on your painting, don’t you? I thought I was helping. My mother can be quite formidable when she sets her mind on something. I didn’t want to see you pushed into a corner by her.’

‘I can speak up for myself – and have been doing for some time.’

‘Yes, I can see that.’

I had the advantage of watching him while he concentrated on the road. He ran a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to keep the weight of it off his brow. Why did I have the distinct impression he didn’t want me to stay at the
château? Maybe he didn’t like his mother cutting in on his territory – after all, he had quite a nice little arrangement with me being his resident cook. And then, of course, there would be Sylvie. If I went to stay at the château, I would get to know Sylvie and he probably didn’t feel too good about that either.

In fairness, I did rather like staying at his house. Last week, when he was away, I’d been left to my own devices. If things continued in the same vein, I could be bashing out paintings at an
impressive rate. A memory of last night shivered through my body. Or…was it the chance of more shared intimacy that I didn’t want to give up…and was he feeling the same? I swallowed and opened my window for air.

Christophe spoke. ‘I apologise.’

‘Oh.’

He continued. ‘You’re right. It was not my place to interfere. Perhaps you would do better at the
château. You will have more stimulation there, more space, more inspiration. And you will have more company than you will at the surgery. The room at the top of my house is probably not suitable for a studio, anyway.’

‘I like the studio at the top of your house.’

‘You do?’ he looked over at me.

‘The wheels of my ambition started rolling in that room, I feel quite attached to it now. And as for company – you’re absolutely right; I don’t need any distractions if I’m going to paint.’ I hoped he took the hint vis-à-vis last night’s little aberration, too. ‘So I’ll stay put, if that’s okay with you?’

He nodded in acceptance. ‘Good.’ Gradually, his frown lifted – as did the atmosphere in the car.

I shifted in my seat until I was almost facing him. ‘So, did your mother teach you to dance?’

He glanced at me. ‘Of course. It’s one of the things she does best, that and spending money on travelling and parties.’

‘She taught you well. You’re quite a groovy little mover.’

Now he laughed. ‘A groovy mover. I like that. And you – do you dance?’

‘I love dancing but I’ve never learned to jive. I wish I could.’

‘It’s easy. Maybe I can teach you, sometime.’

I could let him teach me to dance. That would be fun. Just dancing. ‘Maybe.’

‘Of course, you would have to let me take the lead, which might be a problem for you…’

I gaped at him.

He laughed. ‘I’m teasing. It would be a pleasure to teach you to jive.’

‘Thank you.’

Around the next corner, there were half a dozen cyclists taking a break in a lay-by. They looked seriously fit, all lean and sculpted in their skin-tight vests and leggings. I let out a low whistle of appreciation as we passed – a shameful throw-back to my adolescence. A couple of guys looked up and waved.

‘You like, huh?’ Christophe asked.

‘What’s not to like?’ I said, shrugging and settling back into my seat.

Christophe slowed the car, stopped and, to my horror, began a slow reverse back up the road.

‘What?’ I shrieked. ‘What are you doing?’

He looked at me, all wide-eyed and innocent. ‘Well, you seemed pretty keen to show your appreciation. Maybe you’d like an introduction, huh?’

‘Noo! Stop it! Drive on!’

‘What? You don’t want another look? Maybe take a photo for your archive?’

‘Christophe!’

He grinned at me. Stopped reversing, put the car into forward gear and set off again, chuckling at my mortification.

Just as we pulled into our little town, my mobile trilled into life. ‘Excuse me,’ I said to Christophe before answering it. ‘Good afternoon, Daniel, how are you?’

‘Pretty good, thanks,’ he replied in his easy way. ‘What are you up to?’

‘I’ve just been out taking some photographs.’

‘What of?’

‘A château.’

‘Where did you go, Lubersac?’

‘No.’ I didn’t like to say more. I didn’t want Christophe thinking I was a blabber-mouth as well as a loose woman. ‘So, Daniel, why are you calling?’

‘Are you busy, this evening?’

I looked at Christophe whose eyes were fixed on the road. ‘What did you have in mind?’

‘My friend, Connor, has a preview copy of the latest Jim Carrey movie so he can write a review. Wondered if you fancied joining us to watch it?’

‘I do. I love Jim Carrey.’ But I still had to cook dinner. ‘What time?’

‘It’s flexible.’

‘Could you pick me up at eight-thirty?’

‘Of course,’ he said and we ended the conversation.

After a few minutes silence, I said to Christophe, ‘I’d quite like to get dinner finished by eight-fifteen. Is that okay?’

‘Sure. If you love Jim Carrey.’

Daniel looked better tonight. He was wearing navy jeans and an amethyst coloured sweater. He gave me a rueful look just before we entered his friend’s house. ‘I apologise, in advance, for the state of the place. Con considers himself too cerebral to tackle housework.’

Connor reminded me of a typical student, which would have been less disturbing if we’d all been eighteen. Instead, Connor – or Con – was nearer to forty. Born in
Dublin, he’d arrived in France via Repton and Cambridge. They lived in an old farmhouse, once lovingly modernised but now a bit of a tip. An army of cleaners could probably get it up to Homes & Gardens’ standard by Christmas.

A bottle of port had been opened and was sitting on the coffee table with some glasses. It was forming a new, glistening ring on the wooden surface, amongst dozens of similar, wine bottle rings. Con hauled his eighteen stone frame from his armchair as we entered. He smiled, a broad, welcoming smile and shook my hand before leaning forward to kiss my cheeks.

‘Welcome to a Limousin Arts and Reprobates Social Event,’ he said. ‘Or L’ARSE as we like to call it. We’re thinking of giving it official status and filing for government funding, what do you reckon?’

‘Is that to buy the port,’ I asked.

‘Smart girl. Would you like one?’

‘Don’t suppose I could have coffee, could I?’

‘Coffee? Good idea. You and Dan can stay sober and tell me what the film’s all about.’

Daniel raised an eyebrow. ‘Here, sit down,’ he said, plumping a cushion on the sofa. ‘How do you take your coffee?’

‘Just black, please.’

‘Settling in
alright?’ Con asked, thudding back into his armchair.

I perched on the vacant sofa. ‘Yes, thanks.’

‘Always good to meet a kindred spirit in this place – and a Brit. It’s full of agricultural Frogs, of course.’ He picked up the remote control for the TV and brought the set to life. ‘I’ve cued up the DVD. Do you want to watch the trailer; get an idea of what we’re watching?’

‘Okay.’

‘Always best, I think. Then if I nod off, at least I’ll have the gist of it,’ he laughed.

‘Don’t you enjoy reviewing films? I’d have thought it was a great job.’

‘You get to see an awful lot of dross. That’s why I like to share the load. I used to fly solo but, Christ, it was intense.’

Daniel came back with two mugs of coffee and sat next to me. ‘So, this
château you visited – I assume it’s the one belonging to the Dubois family – what was it like?’

‘Fabulous. Big rooms, tall windows. A bit crumbly round the edges, though. It could do with some money spending on it.’

‘That’s the home of the Dubois stables, isn’t it?’ Con asked. I nodded. ‘Bloody loaded, so I’ve heard. See the stables?’

‘Yes, briefly but I’m not a horsey person, so please don’t ask me about them. I don’t know a fetlock from a nosebag.’

‘Colette Dubois has quite a reputation, too. Don’t suppose you met her, did you?’ he asked. 

I wondered if all journalists were chronically nosy. ‘Yes. She was lovely. I liked her.’

‘Bit of a man trap, I’ve heard,’ he said, leaning forward to refill his glass. ‘And an art collector, isn’t she?’

‘Come on, Con,’ Daniel interjected, ‘give the girl a break.’

‘Just curious. Thought you might engineer yourself an invite, Dan. Check out her collection.’

Dan looked at me over his coffee, a smile playing round the corners of his eyes. ‘Can I apologise for all Con’s failings, here and now? Save repeating myself for the rest of the evening?’

I smiled back. ‘Colette might enjoy showing you round. She’s certainly not the shy, retiring kind.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve plenty to keep me occupied.’

‘He’s playing it cool, Vicki. The man’s personal obsession is private collections, isn’t it, Dan?’ Connor knocked back a hefty slug of port.

Daniel rolled his eyes and shook his head. If there were an Olympic sport for stirring up trouble, I reckon Connor would go for gold.

‘I will try. If you’d like me to,’ I said, smiling at Daniel.

‘It’s not important.’ He turned to Connor. ‘Come on, let’s see this film before Con nods off.’

I settled back onto the sofa next to Daniel, feeling a companionable warmth and found I quite liked it. He didn’t exude a dangerous heat like Christophe did. Around Daniel, I didn’t feel that vertiginous threat – no desire to throw myself at him. So later, when he drove me home and suggested we might meet for lunch, the following week, I had no hesitation in accepting.

‘There’s a very pretty river valley near here. While the weather’s still good, it’s worth a visit. You never know, it might inspire you.’

‘Daniel, you realise you could turn into my ancillary muse?’

‘Ha! That’d be a first.’ When he pulled up outside the house, he smiled across at me. ‘Tell me, do you have a series of paintings in mind – a theme?’

‘Absolutely…not.’ I winced. ‘Daniel, I haven’t a clue where I’m going. I’m rusty, I’m…I’m shit-scared, to be honest. I’ve given myself this year but what if I waste it trying to find my creative mojo? What if I’m no better than a high-school art teacher? You know what they say, those who can, do, those who can’t…’

He nudged my arm. ‘Vicki, this is the year to find out. Give it a go. If it’s not your destiny, you can go back to being a great
art teacher and inspire the next generation.’

He made it sound simple, like it didn’t matter whether I succeeded or not. Hell, I wished I could be so easy on myself. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’ll mull that over.’

‘I’ll pick you up on Tuesday, around twelve.’

As Daniel had promised, the river valley was gorgeous. On sight, I thought to myself, if this doesn’t spark something in me, I should jack it in and go home. You’re an artist, I told myself, wake up!

Either side of the valley, a blend of evergreen and deciduous trees made a haphazard patchwork of texture and colour, all reflected in the slow-moving surface of the water. ‘Good shout, Daniel,’ I said, reaching round for my camera bag. ‘This place is beautiful.’

As we turned along a curve in the path, I stopped abruptly, and Daniel bumped into me. About a hundred metres away, a man and a young boy were fishing from the bank. ‘Shh,’ I put my finger to my lips and whispered, ‘That is a picture.’ I switched to telephoto lens and began to shoot.

When we finally reached the couple fishing, I asked the father if he minded me taking a picture of the boy with his fish. Without hesitation, the youngster handed his rod to his father and lifted his booty into the air, his cheeky grin exposing a large gap between his front teeth. I took a couple of pictures and agreed to send them copies via email – jotting their address in my notepad.

Walking on, Daniel offered to carry the camera case. I realised, as I watched him wrap the strap around his hand and carry the bag over his shoulder, it was a gesture Marc would never have made. Men and women had been equals in our world. So equal, Marc wouldn’t even offer to carry the shopping in from the car; I’d always had to ask.

In the shade of an overhanging willow tree, I quickly flicked back through the images I’d captured. ‘Yes!’ I declared, punching the air and beaming at Daniel.

‘Something there?’ he asked.

‘Something stirring,’ I answered, not missing the flicker of his eyebrows. ‘I feel a little badda-boom, badda-boom just here,’ I said, patting my heart. ‘And up here,’ I pointed to the middle of my forehead, ‘plans…plans for my first picture of the new era. Thank you, Daniel.’ I threw an arm around his neck and hugged him. ‘I think my mo is finally jo-ing.’

He grinned. ‘Hey, happy to oblige.’

I bounced a little on the spot. ‘I can’t wait to get started.’

‘We can forego lunch, if you like. Although the restaurant’s only just at the next bridge.’

‘No. Not at all. Lunch. Excellent. Lunch. Just what I need to set me up for an afternoon’s painting.’ I almost skipped along the river path. ‘What sort of restaurant is it?’

‘Small and traditional, with excellent foie gras.’

I stopped skipping. ‘Ah. Small problem. I’m vegetarian and I’m beginning to realise
France isn’t the ideal destination for veggies, is it?’

‘They do excellent fish dishes, too. And the best Vin de Pays in
Limousin.’

‘Marvellous!’

Over lunch we covered topics as diverse as Daniel’s preference for cats over mine for dogs; if there was a chance society would swing in favour of women being the key breadwinners (bit of a sore point for me); and why whole nations were obsessed with football. ‘If I were running the FA,’ I said, tapping the salt cellar with my finger, ‘I would insist all football shorts had a pocket with a hankie in.’

‘Ah…but would they use it?’

‘They’d bloody well have to, if I was in charge.’

‘And so speaks Miss Marchant, Head of Art and Football.’

I giggled. ‘Once a teacher, always a teacher.’

‘But you can become an artist. I’m sure, if you really want to.’

‘I do.’ I paused. ‘I think.’

He dipped his head and looked at me, over invisible spectacles. ‘Only think?’

I shook myself. ‘It’s self doubt, that’s all.’

‘Don’t waste your time on that. Life’s too short. I’ve told you, go for it and if it doesn’t come off, you can say you tried.’

‘So where does your confidence come from, Daniel?’ I asked, although I had a sneaking suspicion it was down to his privileged upbringing. Who wouldn’t be confident with lofty connections and no financial worries?

He tipped his head to one side. After a moment, he narrowed his eyes and said, ‘Life’s all about survival of the fittest. Show weakness and someone will spot it, they’ll seize their opportunity and rub you out.’

‘Wow. That’s a pretty dark view of the world.’

‘I learned it at an early age. Remember, at boarding school, we had no Mummy and Daddy to fight our battles for us. It was sink or swim, do or die.’

I realised his background wasn’t so different from Christophe’s. However, I’d spent my life in state education but I didn’t recall many parents strolling into school like the Mafia to stick up for their progeny. ‘Are you saying, bully or be bullied?’

He frowned. ‘No. Absolutely not. No. That’s cowardly. No.’

He pushed his empty plate away and signalled to the waiter for the bill.

‘You see,’ he went on, ‘I had an older brother who went through it all before me. I learned from his mistakes.’ He glanced at his watch and grinned up at me. ‘Listen, if I get you home in the next half hour, you’ll have three good hours of daylight to start that painting. What do you think?’

I smiled and nodded. ‘Sure.’

Plucking raw nerves wasn’t the kind of activity I liked to engage in.