Vicki's Work of Heart (16 page)

I tried to catch Daniel’s eye. Raimond’s sales patter was as brazen as the scarlet and black, hand-stitched cowboy boots on his feet.

The artwork though, I had to admit, was impressive. In contrast to the gloomy work of
Florin, these were vivid and bold, full of rhythm and sharp points of light. I loved them. I glanced at the price-list; lower than Florin’s. If I’d been flush I might have been tempted to buy one of the smaller pieces. Just as with François’ work, this artist attacked his canvases like a man possessed. I thought of my own work, idling on the easel; how would it match up? I felt a buzz of excitement travel through my spine. Now was my time. I was finally mixing with professionals in the art world. Wasn’t this what I’d always wanted? I was here and now, and I intended to make the most of it. Those canvases up in my studio wouldn’t know what had hit them.

After gazing at the paintings and making positive noises, Daniel finally turned the spotlight on me and my plans. ‘So, Raimond, I thought you might consider Vicki for an exhibition, next summer? Be the first to introduce her work to the world.’

I swallowed. Just a few months away. How could they possibly take me seriously?

Raimond stroked a finger across his eyebrow and looked at me. ‘Do you have anything to show me?’

‘No. My early work is back in England. I’m starting fresh over here.’

He didn’t look impressed, and who could blame him? ‘Do you have a website?’

‘No.’

‘You need one. It’s the best way to promote yourself.’

‘Good idea.’

‘Then you can send me a link and I’ll take a look at your work.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I might take a couple of pieces for a mixed exhibition. Give them a try. If I think you have something to offer.’

‘Great. I’d appreciate that.’ I was smiling back at him but honestly felt he didn’t like me. I was sure he had absolutely no interest in my work and everything he said was to keep Daniel sweet.

I took his business card and before leaving, made a last, wistful tour of the exhibition. When I came back to the entrance, the two men were nodding and shaking hands – Raimond beaming like a schoolgirl at her latest crush.

I was tempted to mention this to Daniel, as we drove away, but since I currently had no data on his own sexuality, thought it prudent to keep schtum. However, before we’d passed through the gates, he said, ‘I really don’t mean to trifle with old Raimond’s affections, but…’ he sighed, ‘how shall I put it?’

I chipped in, ‘He’s better a friend than an enemy?’

‘Ha! No. Although, you may be right. No, I actually think the guy has good judgement.’

I laughed. ‘And that’s why you don’t mind him finding you so attractive.’

Daniel laughed even harder. ‘Well, there is that, of course. But I was going to say, it doesn’t worry me if he fancies me. I should be flattered. The important thing is to keep the professional relationship ticking along nicely.’

‘I thought you made a lovely couple,’ I teased. ‘He only had eyes for you.’

‘Behave yourself, Vicki, or that’s the last gallery I’m taking you to,’ he joked. As we drew up at a junction, his sidelong glance, teamed with a half smile, did surprising and unsettling things to my insides. Wow! I hadn’t expected that. I smiled back, whilst silently realigning my chakras, which seemed to have been knocked sideways by this astonishing reaction to one simple look from Daniel.

*

Daniel loved boosting Vicki’s confidence; it had quite a kick. When Jeanne had suggested they meet, he’d agreed purely on the basis of building his network. Contacts were everything, especially in his world. He certainly hadn’t pictured himself becoming a mentor. True, he’d helped artists before; steered them in one direction or stopped them taking another. He liked using his knowledge. Why keep it all to himself? But he’d never really considered how he might benefit his protégée – until now. Vicki was like an open book. She was fresh, unadulterated by the current art scene, keen to develop and grow.

‘Daniel,’ he said to himself as he drove away, ‘this girl is an absolute bloody gift, so don’t screw it up!’

Lying in bed that night – alone – I checked the clock. One-thirty and I didn’t feel remotely close to sleep. Daniel had latched onto a part of my brain or possibly my heart, and I couldn’t budge him. I wasn’t used to my emotions being captured by stealth. I was used to a more Wham! Bam! approach to selecting a mate, which was possibly where I’d been going wrong. Christophe had charm and looks but being around him seemed to upset my equilibrium. Whereas Daniel was steady, supportive and made me feel at home…or had done until that look in the car had knocked my senses off balance. Since then, his lopsided smile had been playing on a loop inside my head.

I scrambled out of bed and pulled a thick sweater on, stuffed my feet into my slippers and crept downstairs to fix some hot milk and honey. Taking it back up to the attic, I turned the light on and studied my painting. I really was pleased with it. Was it okay to feel good about my own work, I wondered, or did it show arrogance and complete lack of objectivity?

I turned my back on it, bent over and viewed it upside down, through my legs. No. It had balance, it had structure. I really liked it. And what was the point of creating something I hated?

I’d allowed Daniel to view it when he’d brought me home. He’d nodded for a few moments, and finally declared, ‘You’ve captured a moment in time. Well done!’ And then he’d stood next to me and put a companionable arm around my shoulder and hugged me against him. ‘It’s fabulous, Vicki. I can’t wait to see more from you.’

I also
felt like I wanted to see more of him. Who’d have thought buckets of praise could be such an aphrodisiac? Despite the pheromones multiplying through my body, I had thanked him graciously and offered him a cup of tea.

Tea? Oh, how I cringed.

As we’d sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea and eating home-made ginger biscuits, Christophe had picked that very moment to come home. I’d thought he looked a tad preposterous, standing there all cool and arrogant in his smelly waxed jacket, and boots coated in layers of farmyard excrement. ‘Bon soir,’ he’d said allowing his eyes to scan the scene before calling the dogs, and heading out for a walk.

‘He can be so rude,’ I muttered to his departing back.

‘Forget it. The guy’s probably just tired after a long day,’ said Daniel. ‘And that, I think, is a good cue for me to leave.’

I’d held my breath as he’d kissed me on both cheeks, and watched, almost dewy-eyed as he’d driven away.

Wow! I needed to get a grip.

I unscrewed the clamp on the easel,
took my completed canvas down and placed it by the wall. ‘Next!’ I declared, sounding like the nit nurse on a busy day.

So…what to paint…

I fired up my laptop and flicked through the images I’d taken in the market that cold morning. I’d never imagined Limousin could be so chilly in winter. Surely, that was the preserve of my mother’s homeland – Aberdeen – not central France, over a thousand miles further south?

Before deciding which to paint, I found myself on Google and typing in Daniel Keane Art Critic. There were several listings under the Modern Cultural Review website. I clicked through and read a couple. His mug shot wasn’t exactly flattering; he appeared older and his eyes looked a bit shifty. Odd how some people were amazingly photogenic but a bit ugly in the flesh, while others had great appeal with a pulse beating through them yet looked decidedly dodgy when frozen in two dimensions. Hmm…maybe I could suggest taking a more up-to-date shot. I closed the laptop, picked up my mug, and went back to bed.

The following afternoon, having elected to paint the fruit stall and its well-weathered owner, I was just blocking in the green for the pears when I heard Christophe jogging up the stairs. He was home early.

‘Vicki,’ he called up to my attic. ‘Would you like to visit a farm with me?’

I moved over to the landing and looked down the stairs at him. He was leaning against the banister, waxed jacket over muddy jeans and boots. ‘D’you mean, right now?’

‘Yes. I’m on my way to a pig farm. Do you want to come too? I know you’re always looking for subjects for your painting. We need to leave in the next five minutes.’

I looked at my filthy hands. ‘Okay. I’m on my way.’ I plunged my brushes into a bucket of water, and rinsed them through, grabbed my camera and belted downstairs.

‘Why are you visiting this farm?’ I asked.

‘It sounds like I’ll have to treat some of the sows for mastitis.’

‘Ouch!’

‘Yes. Not good for the sow, and even worse for the piglets – they’ll be hungry and squealing. They could even die.’

My excitement dulled. ‘So…you’re actually taking me to witness something really distressing?’

He glanced across, his expression opening up. ‘No. No, not at all. I’m taking you because some of the sows are still farrowing – giving birth – that’s the part I thought you’d be interested in. I’m sure we’ll be able to do something for the sick ones. Please, don’t worry.’

Easier said than done. He was inviting me, a vegetarian with a conscience, to a pig farm, to see diddy little piglets coming into the world, while there was the spectre of life-threatening mastitis hanging over them.

It’s a pity nostrils can’t be closed voluntarily. The pig shed had a whiff you couldn’t and shouldn’t bottle. At least it wasn’t as noisy as I expected. The pigs were in pens, some containing sows and pups, others just sows. When Christophe asked if there were any sows actually in labour, the farmer – Monsieur Blanc – pointed over to pen number twelve. With a flick of his hand, he gestured me to go and see for myself. I looked at Christophe. He nodded. ‘Monsieur Blanc and I are going to see the sick ones. You go ahead.’

In pen twelve, a farm hand had crouched down to watch the process from a safe distance. I’d heard pigs could be pretty aggressive when riled; from the little I knew about childbirth, I’m guessing a sow in labour wouldn’t take kindly to being messed with. No gas and air for her, or the choice of a birthing pool. Yet she was lying there, with very little drama, as two piglets were already suckling. Down at the business end, a little head popped out, followed very quickly by two legs. After some wiggling around, it scrambled out – like a prisoner tunnelling out of Stalag Luft – then it flopped down on the floor to take a breather. The farm hand kept watch, and moments later, the little thing started trying to stand until, very soon, it was shoved out of the way by the arrival of another one. The farm hand, slowly moved across and lifted the first one, rubbed it with a cloth and positioned it alongside its siblings. Then the process continued.

It wasn’t until another appeared that it dawned on me I hadn’t taken a photo. I dropped to my knees, lifted out my camera, and began snapping away.

Some time later, Christophe came to find me. He crouched down next to me and looked through the bars of the pen. ‘Pretty amazing, huh?’

‘Yes.’ It was lovely and bittersweet. It was an experience tainted by the certainty these little creatures were only here because they were destined for the table. I was squirming from the guilty memory of bacon and egg sandwiches I’d so relished in my earlier life. ‘But I think I’ve seen enough, now,’ I said, returning my camera to its case.

‘More of your little friends, huh?’

‘Something like that.’

We both stood up. ‘Well, you’ll be pleased to know that they’re going to foster out some of the undernourished piglets, and we can treat the sows for mastitis.’

‘So nobody died today?’

He smiled. ‘No. Not today.’

‘Good. Then that’s something to celebrate.’

Monsieur Blanc joined us and asked me, in a very strong accent, if I’d enjoyed watching the birth.

‘Oui. Magnifique.’ I replied. ‘Merci beaucoup.’

Monsieur Blanc frowned and nodded. Christophe smiled, which I took as approval, and we said our goodbyes. As we headed towards the car he said, ‘I’m afraid you’ve just told the farmer you’d quite like having ten babies at a time, and thanked him for the suggestion.’

‘You’re kidding?’

He chuckled. ‘No. Why would I make it up?’

‘I guess I need more practice with my French.’

So he called my bluff and insisted on no more English for the rest of the day, which was great but exhausting. We lasted until after dinner, when he took pity on me and lifted the ban on my native language. ‘You’ve done very well,’ he said, raising his wine glass to me.

‘So have you. I must have really tested your patience.’

‘Don’t forget, I went to an English boarding school. When I arrived, my English language skills were pretty basic.’

‘Of course.’ I remembered how François had suggested Christophe had been lonely. ‘I would have hated being away from home at that age. Was it awful?’

‘To begin with, they teased me about my accent and using the wrong words. But I was quite used to being without my parents.’

‘Really?’

‘You’ve met Colette.’ He shook his head but there was a smile softening the corners of his eyes. ‘She often went away on little vacations without my father – who couldn’t or wouldn’t leave the stables. Her trips offered wonderful opportunities for her infidelities. But, of course, it also meant she couldn’t be around for me.’

‘That’s why she sent you to school in
England.’

‘Sometimes she wasn’t even there in the school holidays. By the time my beloved grandmère died, I was twelve and my mother felt I was old enough to come back to
France to be looked after by my father and the housekeeper, so she was still free to take her trips whenever she wished. Which was often.’

‘Did you hate her for going away?’ I asked.

‘I didn’t like the situation but I didn’t hate her. I was as much under her spell as everyone else. I adored her.’

I watched him as he rotated his glass, his eyes focusing somewhere in his past.

After a moment he continued, ‘You’ve seen what she’s like – so colourful and lively. I missed her. I used to go into her empty room, just to smell her fragrance.’ He looked up. ‘Can you believe I would even swap her pillow with mine, when she went away, so I could feel her a little bit closer? I would lie there and imagine her kissing me goodnight and telling me her fanciful stories.’

I found it painfully easy to picture a young, dark-eyed boy, curled up in bed, cuddling his mother’s pillow.

Christophe lined up the salt and pepper pot beside his glass. ‘Sometimes, I used to imagine she would send for me. When she telephoned and spoke to my father, I would hold my breath, waiting to hear him say, “Yes, I will send Christophe to join you.” But, of course, that never happened. I wanted to visit the pyramids and ride on a camel with her – she made it sound so exciting – but…’ He let out a little chuckle before looking back at me, just as my eyes began to fill. He tilted his head and he smiled. ‘Vicki. Please don’t be upset.’

I blinked, spilling a tear and wiped it away quickly. ‘Sorry.’

His smile broadened. ‘Don’t worry. I got over it.’

I guessed he might think he had, but I thought it explained a lot.