Vicki's Work of Heart (15 page)

Having left the table set for dinner, I returned to my studio and began flicking through the pictures on my screen, rocking back and forth between the ones of the young fisherman and his father. I chose one of the images taken with the telephoto lens and started working out my composition on paper, before placing a new blank canvas on the easel. Within an hour, I had my principal structure and colours blocked in. There wasn’t much to see but I was bouncing again. I would use misty colours to suggest the autumn light and sharp focus on the main characters. I was humming to myself and jumped when Christophe tapped on the open door. I looked up and grinned. ‘Hi.’

‘Good afternoon. You have been busy, I see. May I come in?’

‘Of course.’ I stepped back from my canvas.

He studied it for a moment. ‘I see it is not the château.’

‘No. Daniel took me down to the river, this morning. I saw a father and son, fishing. This is the start of that picture.’

‘Very good,’ he said. ‘You are inspired, non?’

‘I am. And it’s very exciting.’

He nodded. ‘So, were the pictures of the château not up to standard?’

‘Aha…yes. They were very good but I want to study them and decide which scenes I want to revisit. The
château is such a beautiful building but…it’s really what goes on there that interests me.’

Christophe rolled his eyes. ‘Mon Dieu! I doubt that would make an attractive image.’ He turned abruptly. ‘I will leave you to your work.’

I shrugged and focussed again on my canvas. He didn’t leave, instead he said, more quietly, ‘Would you like something to drink – red, white?’

‘Red. Thank you.’

He returned with a glass and the bowl of fruit from the kitchen. ‘I don’t want you forgetting to eat,’ he teased, flashing his most practised and spine-tingling smile.

Nice one, I thought. But I’m an artist, now. I’m immune.

The following morning, keen to top up my bank of images, I took advantage of the crisp, bright morning to visit the weekly market. It really was an uplifting kaleidoscope of colour as it meandered through the small town. I thought back to the vast market I went to in
Bristol – all noisy vendors and cheap clothes, the kind a girl might wear on a Hen Weekend in Magaluf.

There were neat rows of fruit and veg in a patchwork of texture and earthy colours. An elderly stall-holder nodded and mumbled ‘bonjour’ in a deep, gruff voice as I wandered towards him. His face was so lined from a life in the outdoors, he looked shockingly like one of his
Savoy cabbages.

Moving on, I smelt the unmistakable and, frankly, repellent smell of raw meat. I scanned the chiller cabinet displaying butchered birds and animals: duck hearts, rabbits complete with their own offal, great shiny slabs of muscle and bone. Yuk! I dragged my eyes away settled on a stall festooned with lush scarves and shawls.

I raised my camera and clicked. A woman, layered up in grey wool, stepped out to promote her merchandise with an encouraging smile, so I was drawn in to touch the sumptuous fabrics. Tempted by a cerise, chenille shawl with tiny blue birds embroidered along the edge, I lifted it, felt its weight and absolutely knew it would drape perfectly.

It would look great with jeans and with my Best Winter Coat. But I’d left the Best Winter Coat in
England. Would I really wear this out here? Reluctantly, I let it go and watched if fall back. I smiled, thanked the woman and moved away.

A cat was dozing beneath the fish stall, cunningly opening one eye, now and again – ever the opportunist. I bought a couple of red mullet and some huge, glossy grey prawns.

The next stall was Italian, with hunks of parmesan – like Cotswold stones – piled on the top of the stand over racks of polenta, gnocchi and domed panettone. I bought some fresh pasta – it would be great with the prawns.

At the end of the market when I turned and looked back, there was a sudden burst of winter sunshine warming the canopies. I clicked away – thrilled by the potential for another painting.

I had done my shopping so I could concentrate on snapping more pictures. I say ‘done my shopping’ but truth was, I’d not quite finished. Drawn – as I knew I would be – back to the cerise shawl. It’s not as if I’d treated myself to much, recently. Well…apart from the rail ticket to France, new brushes, canvases and paint. But, without my Best Winter Coat I might freeze to death. This shawl was an investment. An absolute bloody necessity. ‘Oui,’ I said to the woman. ‘Je voudrais ceci,’ I would like this.

‘Bien sur,’ she replied with a knowing wink.

Back at the house, I could see Christophe in his dove grey vet’s scrubs walking across the courtyard towards the house. It was the first time I’d seen him in uniform. It didn’t exactly have the impact of the military but it had a certain appeal. I plonked my shopping on the table and reached for the kettle, just as he came through the back door.

‘Coffee?’ I asked.

‘Thanks, but I have one going cold at the surgery,’ he said, with a polite smile, as he carried on through to his study.

Fair enough.

I packed the food away in the fridge and opened a tin of nutty flapjack I’d made the day before. It was one of those delicious winter treats that always reminded me of home. As I leaned against the counter, chomping on a sweet, buttery mouthful of oats and toffee, Christophe reappeared. His eyes did a quick flick in my direction. He stopped, sidled over to see what I was eating and raised an eyebrow.

I held the open tin towards him. ‘Nutty Flapjack. Packed with calories and hazardous to teeth but really scrummy.’

‘Mmm,’ he murmured in anticipation, as he dipped his hand into the tin and pulled a piece out. He studied it for a second and took a bite. It wasn’t easy; the texture of my nutty flapjack has been likened to concrete. He frowned and then a piece snapped off into his mouth. As his jaws worked a little harder, the taste delivered its magic, and his face relaxed. ‘Mmm,’ he repeated.

‘Sure you don’t want a hot coffee to dunk it in?’ I asked.

He shook his head, jaws still working on the flapjack. Finally, he said. ‘You had the description about right, I think.’

‘Do you want to take the tin with you – share it with your colleagues?’

He looked at the tin and he looked at me. ‘Probably safer I don’t, huh?’ He went to move away then paused, turned back and smiled. ‘Oh…maybe I will. We have a long day ahead of us.’

As he walked out of the door with the tin under his arm, I’m pretty sure he said, ‘Scrummy.’

Days later, to say I was pleased with my first, proper painting of the new season would be an understatement. It was singing to me. If my painting had a voice, it would be belting out Stayin’ Alive. Okay, so I’d had to repaint the boy’s face a couple of times to get it right, but in the preceding years, I’d been so bogged down with educational admin and wedding plans, I wouldn’t have been surprised if all I could muster was a psychedelic spreadsheet in the style of Mondrian. I bounced around the attic like Tigger. ‘Go girl!’

My mobile rang.

‘Daniel,’ I yelped into the phone. ‘You’ve called me just at the right time.’

‘Delighted to hear it. Why’s that?’

‘I’ve finished my first painting and I’m really pleased with it.’

‘There you go. I’m sure it’ll be the first of many.’

‘I do hope so.’

‘How do you fancy coming with me to see a small gallery?’

‘Yes, please. That
’s just what I could do with – more stimulation.’

‘Truth is, the gallery owner’s a bit of a bore – obsessive over his artistic choices yet always has his eye on business. With me, of course, he knows he’s unlikely to make a sale but he labours under the illusion I have some influence in getting others to buy.’

‘Oh dear, I hope he won’t think I’ve got that kind of money.’

‘Ha, no. I was thinking more along the lines of you getting to know him; preparing the ground for your future exhibition, while I check out the exhibits. I happen to know, he doesn’t have a full calendar for next year.’

I raised my eyes to heaven in silent thanks. ‘Brilliant! Count me in. You’re an absolute star.’

‘Oh, God, yes,’ he said with mock emphasis, ‘I’m a regular bloody saint.’

I started pacing a small circle. ‘Daniel, are you sure it’s not too soon?’

‘It’s never too soon to put your plans in motion.’

‘No, of course. You’re absolutely right.’

‘Good. I’ll set up an appointment with Raimond and let you know.’

I heard the slow rumble of a car engine, followed by the excited barks of the dogs as Christophe pulled onto the drive. I ran downstairs, arriving in the hall just as he entered. ‘Guess what?’

‘I don’t know, tell me.’

So I did.

‘Very good,’ he replied. ‘Daniel is proving to be quite a useful contact, non?’

‘It’s serendipity.’

The look he gave me only lacked a curled lip and a snort of scorn.

Miserable bugger! I thought, beaming more broadly as I headed towards the kitchen. ‘Artichoke and mushroom flan – how does that grab you?’ I called over my shoulder, not waiting to hear his reply.

I’d swapped several texts with Izzy during the day but felt a full-on dialogue was essential. So once dinner was over, I excused myself and shot up to my studio to call her. Unfortunately, it was one of those days when my mood was completely at odds with hers. I’m not saying she deliberately deflated the balloon of my excitement but she was definitely straining to match my enthusiasm.

‘Babe, are you not having such a good day?’ I asked, concern for her nudging my euphoria aside.

She sighed. ‘I’m just very tired, and I have a headache. I hope I don’t catch a cold because I have these two big clients who are so demanding, and one of them is promising me more of their brands to represent, if I can get this one right. Miriam is watching me like a hawk – sometimes I think she’s banking on me bringing in more business, and yet she won’t offer me any help. And that makes me think she wants me to fail. It’s so stressful.’

Izzy didn’t do stress like normal mortals. When she was on a deadline you’d be forgiven for thinking she’d inhaled a yard of coke when, in reality, the worst she’d done was drink bottles of the fizzy stuff. However, with her efficiency and attention to detail, I assumed she thrived on it.

Miriam was her boss. There seemed to be a grudging respect between them so it wasn’t the ideal working relationship.

‘Have you asked her for help?’ I edged in, quietly.

‘Non.’

‘Could you?’

Another sigh. ‘I shouldn’t have to. Miriam should be right behind me on this. It’s her business, after all.’

‘Exactly. Work out what you need, then ask her for it. I know you can present the case really well, so she’d be shooting herself in the foot if she refused.’

Silence.

‘You know I’m right, Izzy.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Come on, you’re fantastic at what you do but even you can’t do it all alone. And if you bring these new brands in, surely Miriam will have to promote you, won’t she?’

‘That could be the problem. I’m not sure Miriam wants to.’

‘Oh. That’s a whole other story.’

‘Oui. I think I need a new career.’

‘Such as?’

‘I’m still thinking about that one. But right now, I have a couple of press releases to write. Long ones.’

‘Okay, Izzy, I’ll let you get on with it. Night, babe. Love you.’

‘You too.’

Not for the first time, I wished Izzy lived down the road. Even though she had work to do, I could have been there to make her coffee while she worked; celebrate with a glass of wine when she finished. Maybe, if I decided to stay in France (my heart thrilled at the possibility), I should find myself a pied-à-terre in Paris. And, not for the first time, I settled down to type her a supportive email.

I thought Daniel had rather pulled the stops out with his appearance on Tuesday, when he came to take me to the gallery. He looked more arty than usual, in a black polo-neck sweater and black jeans under his sludge green tweed jacket. Yes, smart and very nearly handsome, I thought, basing my opinion purely on aesthetics.

As we set off, he said, ‘We’re heading towards Angoulême, it’s quite a drive, I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all. I’m very grateful you’re taking me.’

‘This chap we’re going to see, Raimond Fournier, I can’t promise he’ll book you…’

‘No, of course. I have to get there on merit, I know. But you’re doing me a huge favour just making the introduction.’

‘My pleasure. You need contacts in this game.’

I picked at a crust of paint in my thumb cuticle. I was already hatching a plot to ask Colette if Daniel could see her collection. Fair dos – one good turn deserves another and all that. But I wouldn’t mention it to him, yet. Just in case.

Raimond, at over six foot six tall, looked as butch as a Rottweiler on steroids but as camp as a black satin ridge-tent with scarlet guy ropes. He wore a black suit with a red shirt, and each pinkie of his expressive hands was adorned with a signet ring. His dark eyes scanned me swiftly. ‘Enchanté,’ he said, with a twitch of his top lip before turning back to Daniel. ‘The artist I am exhibiting has a wonderful way with colour. He’s quite a find. His next exhibition is in Paris, Daniel. You know what that means; his profile will go up and so will his prices. Here,’ he gestured to the archway into the gallery, ‘come and experience his genius for yourself.’