Vicki's Work of Heart (17 page)

The following day, I returned to my painting of the market stall with renewed energy. Christophe and I seemed to have buried the hatchet over my drunken pass plus, I had more pictures to work on and this latest canvas was taking shape really well.

I was on fire.

What’s more, Daniel was very keen to see my work in progress. I managed to buy a few days until the composition was really taking shape, before I allowed him over the threshold. Part of me was super anxious at what he might think, but the larger part of me was enjoying his investment of time, his interest and his encouragement. He stood back to scan the image before him. He nodded. He smiled. ‘You have a talent for capturing the moment; for fixing the mood of a place on canvas. There’s a nod to Toulouse Lautrec and Renoir in this.’

‘Toulouse-Lautrec is my hero,’ I gasped as my ego inflated. I’d fallen in love with him when I was fifteen, on a school trip to Paris. He may have been a bit on the short side – not to mention, dead – but his paintings drew me right into his world.

Daniel placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it as he said, ‘Thank you, so much, for letting me see your work. I realise it’s not always easy to share a work in progress. And knowing how critical I can be, I imagine it might even be quite daunting. Good on you for having the balls to show me.’ He smiled straight into my eyes, then. It was a heady feeling – a boosted ego. ‘You’re going to have to put your work out there, one day, and it’s not just the
art world that can be critical. You’ll need to grow a thick skin for all those people who won’t like what you do. And you can bet there’ll be some.’

He was right but, at that moment, all I could think about was the satisfaction of seeing my work hanging in a gallery, and people like Daniel – well Daniel, chiefly – saying positive things about it, which would make the sacrifices worthwhile. If I never had another exhibition, I at least had a fighting chance of hitting this year’s target. My life with Marc Morrison was history. I smiled to myself. I had a lot to thank Marc for. If he’d done the decent thing, I’d still be answering plaintive cries of, ‘Miss, how do you make brown?’ and going home to wash Marc’s socks. It was in this state of self-congratulation and gratitude that I said, ‘Listen…’ Daniel’s eyebrows flexed, a bit like Boz’s did when I talked to him, ‘I know you said you didn’t need to see Colette Dubois’ collection of
art, but you know, I think she’d be thrilled if you showed an interest. Why don’t I ask her if we can go over, some time?’

‘I certainly wouldn’t
refuse the opportunity. Thank you.’

‘No problem.’

We went back downstairs to find my phone. Daniel crouched down to fuss the dogs, pulling biscuits from his pockets to make them sit. ‘You old softie,’ I said.

‘Love dogs. We always had at least three at home. I find the odd biscuit is a great ice-breaker.’

‘You’ll be their new best friend.’ I said, touched by his thoughtfulness.

My mobile was dead, so I made the call from the phone in Christophe’s study. It was one of the nicest rooms in the house – possibly because he had to spend so much time in there. A set of bookshelves filled one wall; a contemporary desk stood in the centre of the room and behind it was an old fireplace, which had been bricked up. There were a couple of pencil drawings on another wall. While I waited for the call to connect, Daniel wandered over to view them more closely. ‘Anyone you know?’ I asked.

He shook his head.

Just when I was about to hang up, Colette answered. As ever, she was oozing charm and energy. Eventually, I broached the subject of taking Daniel to see her collection. She was absolutely delighted and suggested we go over the following day. I turned to Daniel, who was by the bookcase and browsing through a large, leather-bound volume. ‘Are you free to go tomorrow afternoon?’ I asked
.

He smiled and nodded. So we arranged to be at the
château for three o’clock.

‘Thank you for organising that, Vicki,’ he said, slipping the book back onto the end of the shelf.

‘My pleasure.’

He sniffed the air. ‘What can I smell? It reminds me of Sundays at my grandmother’s house. She always baked while she was preparing the roast – too mean to put the oven on any other time.’

‘Wow! You’ve got one helluva sense of smell. I made nutty flapjack, this morning. It’s my attempt at keeping Christophe sweet, he’s been a bit grumpy lately.’

‘Well, if he doesn’t like your nutty flapjack, I’ll happily take it off your hands,’ he said, wiggling his eyebrows in a mischievous way.

‘Of course you can have some.’

‘Don’t suppose you’ve got any hot chocolate, too? It’s the best way to eat flapjack – if you don’t mind me dunking?’

‘I think I can rustle up some hot chocolate.’

We moved back into the kitchen and while I was watching the pan of milk, he said, ‘I’ve just remembered, I’ve got a book in the car for you. Won’t be a minute.’

I don’t mind admitting, there may have been a modicum of self-interest in my arranging for Daniel to see Colette’s art collection. Yes, I did feel under some slight obligation, after his interest and efforts on my behalf. However, against my better judgement, I was also beginning to feel a need to see him again and this seemed like an excellent way to guarantee it would happen. I certainly didn’t imagine he’d want to come over for a weekly update on my work. He must be a busy man, with his book and his articles to write. I was busy, too. The sands were steadily slipping through my sabbatical-timer. I was already into my second month. A year had seemed so daunting when I set out, yet I was hurtling towards Halloween with only one completed canvas. Could I improve on one painting a month? Was it realistic? What number of paintings would be considered a reasonable output?

Daniel returned just as the milk came up to the boil. He handed me a book he’d written called Art College Graduates. He looked a little apologetic. ‘Please forgive the self promotion,’ he said, ‘but I thought you might find it interesting. I wrote it a few years ago; it was funded by The Arts Programme. I had the joy of trekking round a load of
final year shows, selecting up-and-coming artists to feature on the programme. We produced this little catalogue as a memento for them and the colleges. Look,’ he opened the book at a page where he’d stuck a small post-it note, ‘This is one of the guys who’s actually doing quite well. He’s exhibited in Liverpool, twice, since he graduated. I like his stuff.’

The work was graphical rather than emotional and left me cold. It was the kind of work I imagined would sell well to corporates. ‘Neatly executed,’ I said.

He laughed. ‘Oh dear. You don’t like it, then?’

‘I wouldn’t want to spend hours meditating on it.’

He studied me with a lopsided smile and for a moment, I really wished I could read his mind. I sensed I might have enjoyed what it was saying. And, just in case he could read my mind, I said, ‘Hot chocolate and flapjack, coming up!’ and set about whipping the milk into froth.

I’d had a feeling Colette and Daniel would hit it off straight away; what with his impeccable English manners and her irresistible French charm. I was right. You could say her flame fully blazed, fanned as it was by the attention of Daniel Keane. Boy, he was knowledgeable. I confess, art history had never been my strong point. I was an artist. I knew about the painters I liked, because I’d studied them, so I was agog with interest as Daniel trotted out fact after anecdote relating to different painters. He was especially keen on three paintings by a Russian artist I’d never heard of, and whose name now escapes me, who had been a student of the famous artist Briullov – I’d not heard of him, either – but Daniel was clearly thrilled by the find.

‘So much of his work disappeared during the Russian Revolution. I’ve often anticipated discovering such gems in private collections.’

Colette, like me, was hanging on his every word and looked at him wide-eyed. ‘I’m afraid I have no idea where they came from. My father travelled such a lot. I do hope this isn’t a case for Interpol!’ Her warm and husky laugh suggested she wasn’t remotely worried. I’d almost go as far as to say there was a frisson of something decidedly saucy rippling between them but that might just have been paranoia, born out of my realisation that I now fancied the moleskin pants off Daniel. Yes. There was something unquestionably attractive about a man who knows his stuff and shares it without sounding like a pompous prat.

But there I was – again – checking out some man’s mating potential. Would I never focus on the key purpose of my life?

Eventually, Colette turned to me. ‘Vicki, how opportune for you – meeting Daniel. Sometimes, these things are meant to be.’ She caught my hand in hers. ‘Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a Martini.’

‘How lovely,’ I replied, thinking there was a massive benefit to not driving. I should do it more often when I went back to
Bristol. Bristol – the home of my birth; the setting for my life story, so far, but…was it to be the backdrop for my future? I glanced at Daniel, who was still peering closely at the Tzatziki, Jetski or whatever the artist’s name was. Let’s face it, so far, Daniel had been an enhancement to my plans. He was like a catalyst – the linseed oil making the pigment of my life flow more smoothly. Okay, so I’d told myself I would concentrate on my painting, and I’d promised not to let a man get in the way but…

We sat in Colette’s salon, sipping Martinis from fabulously kitsch Art Deco glasses – with ruby red stems and gold rims, complete with two olives on red cocktail sticks. Daniel drank only one but I had three – just to be sociable. We were roaring with laughter at a story about Daniel’s old
art master, when Christophe walked in. His grim gaze swept the room like the laser beam of a gun sight, and almost as deadly. Spoilsport.

‘Chéri,’ Colette crooned, reaching her hand out to draw him closer. ‘I wasn’t expecting you, today. What a lovely surprise.’

He came forward and dropped a kiss on each of her cheeks.

I found my back straightening in defence of my being there. Although why I felt like I’d been caught rolling a joint in the choir pew was totally unjustified.

He nodded to me and then to Daniel.

‘I have something to discuss with Alain. Now I see you have guests, I will leave you.’

‘No. Stay,’ Colette urged. ‘We’re having a lovely chat. Daniel can tell you all about the wonderful Russian art we have. You know that trio, in the old dining room? It seems they’re quite extraordinarily special.’

Christophe pulled a taut, unfriendly smile. ‘You can tell me later, Maman. Alain is just finishing a conversation with…’ he glanced at his watch and frowned. ‘No matter.’ He looked at me. ‘Vicki, I will be home around seven-thirty, if that is okay with you?’

‘Fine. Absolutely.’

‘Good. I will leave you.’ Having effectively peed on the strawberries of our good humour, he walked out.

Daniel, clearly sensitive to Christophe’s antipathy took the hint, like a true gent would, and instigated our own departure.

In the car, he made no reference to Christophe’s grumpy interruption but I did. Three martinis had loosened my tongue. ‘He’s such a moody beggar. I don’t know why he had to act like he’d got a wasp up his arse.’

‘No?’

‘No,’ I said, although I had an inkling. I suspected Christophe’s mistrust of journalists was so ingrained he couldn’t help himself. Although, the argument didn’t quite hold water when I thought about Jeanne. ‘Do you?’

Daniel shrugged. ‘He’s French?’

‘Daniel, you surprise me. That’s such a blokeish statement to make.’

He laughed. ‘You’re right.’

‘I do know he’s not keen on journalists, which might be the problem.’

He took a deep breath, and I got the impression he was considering whether or not to be indiscreet. ‘I suppose you’re aware his family has quite a history?’

‘Well…’ did I want to be indiscreet? Even after three martinis, I hated to gossip. Despite Christophe being an arrogant, moody sod, I still remembered how upset he’d appeared when relating the infidelities of his grandfather and how it had hurt his grandmother. ‘I know his mother has a bit of a reputation. Is there more in the same vein?’ I ventured, wondering what Daniel might spill.

He threw his head back with a loud, ‘Cuh!’ and tapped the steering wheel with his thumbs. ‘Vein, artery and alimentary canal, darling. You haven’t heard the half of it.’

Did I want to? Could I bear to continue living under the same roof as the most recent in a long line of reprobates? Well, of course I did. ‘Tell me more.’

*

Daniel hadn’t planned on divulging the seedy history of Christophe’s family to Vicki, just yet. But that conceited, self-satisfied bastard had really got up his nose. How dare he look down on them like he had some God-given superiority? Look at those glorious Russian paintings – undoubtedly acquired through some dodgy, black-market dealings during the war. How many more of the family collection had come to them via disreputable routes? Christophe Dubois had absolutely no moral high ground on which to parade his arrogance.

‘Let’s just say, infidelity runs through their genes like curls on a French poodle.’

‘But why would that make him such a misery guts?’

‘Bitterness, I should imagine. His girlfriend – not known to be genetically related – still managed to cuckold him with his own cousin. The biter – bit, one might say. I understand she only recently married the guy.’