Vicki's Work of Heart (18 page)

He glanced across at Vicki, who was nodding pensively. He wondered whether, perhaps, he’d overstepped the mark. He didn’t want her to think him petty and small-minded.

Finally, she said, ‘It can still hurt, though; if he really loved her. Having a legacy of deception in his own family still wouldn’t ease the feeling of betrayal. And even now…now he knows the kind of woman she is, it won’t necessarily make him feel he had a lucky escape. He’ll probably be questioning his judgement. Wondering how he could have been so stupid to get taken in by her.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I think you’re right about his grumpiness. He’s feeling like a proper chump and hurting into the bargain. Poor guy.’

Poor guy? He wanted to say, save your pity. Instead, he said, ‘Vicki. I never had you down as the armchair psychologist.’

‘No? Well, stick around!’ She winked at him then; a cheeky, matey gesture.

And she was clearly pleased with herself for setting up their meeting with Colette. He liked that about her. She was repaying his kindness. It showed a commendable sense of integrity, which is just how he’d imagined she’d be. These were all very good signs.

Christophe returned to his mother’s salon an hour after Vicki and Daniel had departed. He slumped onto the sofa opposite where she sat, and let out a heavy sigh.

‘Chéri, have you been working too hard? You’re so out of sorts, today.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Being sorry is no explanation.’

‘No.’ He leaned forward, moved a magazine along the coffee table and sat up straight again. ‘So, Maman, how was your visit from our English friends? You seemed to be enjoying yourself.’

‘It was fascinating.’ She proceeded to tell him about the Russian paintings. ‘It looks like we may be playing host to some illicitly acquired artwork.’

‘Did you ever doubt it?’

‘To be honest, I never gave it a thought. Wouldn’t you love to know the story behind them, how they got here?’

‘Not particularly. But I have a feeling Mr Keane will soon be able to tell us. You know he’s a journalist, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then don’t be taken in by him.’

‘Oh, chéri, have no fear. He may be charming and knowledgeable but he has the manner of someone not to be trusted.’

Christophe’s eyebrows dropped. ‘Really? Why do you say that?’

‘He speaks too evenly. You can’t trust a man who measures every word that comes out of his mouth. Give me a man who speaks quickly, passionately – he hasn’t time to fabricate lies.’

‘Then I suggest you keep him at arm’s length. Assuming no damage has already been done.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Journalists never let up on a good story. Before you know it, we’ll be the subject of some vile documentary exposing another chapter of my grandfather’s shameful past.’

‘Enough! My father may have led a colourful life…’ Christophe suppressed a snort, ‘…but he was a hard-working man. You wouldn’t have what you have now, without his work ethic. Show some respect for that, at least!’ Colette’s red hair might, these days, owe its brilliance to Wella technology but her temper could still flare in an instant.

Christophe felt a rare stabbing of something inside; the result of a maternal reprimand finding its mark. ‘I apologise. You’re right. He had some fine and admirable qualities. And I will always be grateful for what I have inherited.’ All the same, Christophe hated the legacy of the man’s disloyalties, and the prurient interest his peccadilloes generated for the masses. He’d hoped the notoriety attached to the name de Castillon was fading but Daniel Keane could stir it all up in an instant.

When he returned home, Vicki was wiping down the kitchen work surface, singing along to a Celine Dion track, in French. She called it developing her language skills. Her voice was soft, sweet and occasionally she dipped into a perfect harmony. Judging by the smell of things, fish was on the menu – again. He’d eaten more fish since Vicki had arrived than he had all year. She cooked it well, though. Beyond grilling, roasting and frying, she used Thai and South American recipes, bringing new and interesting flavours to his palate. ‘It’s smelling good. What do we have, tonight?’ he asked.

Vicki barely glanced at him and ran the cloth under the tap. ‘Tilapia with lime, coriander and garlic, and peppers stuffed with savoury rice.’

‘Sounds and smells delicious,’ he said cheerfully, hoping to lighten the atmosphere.

‘Yes, it’s one of my favourites,’ she replied, wringing the cloth out with alarming force.

Whilst driving home, he’d speculated on whether his behaviour at the
château might have bothered her – clearly it had. Why, he wondered for the hundredth time in his life, could he not be more diplomatic? Why had he not inherited his mother’s skill for tact when faced with individuals like Keane?

As they sat to eat, Vicki leaned forward in her chair and said quietly, ‘Do you think I was out of line, asking Colette to show Daniel her collection?’

She wasn’t out of line, exactly, but he hadn’t liked finding Daniel so cosily ensconced in his mother’s salon. In fact, he wished she’d at least told him of her intention. Whilst Vicki wasn’t answerable to him, he couldn’t shake the feeling she’d taken advantage of her situation. After all, it was he who had made room for her in his house, and he who had introduced her to his mother. If he’d known she’d infiltrate his family home with bloody journalists, he’d have at least advised her against it. ‘No.’

‘But I got the distinct feeling you didn’t like us being there.’

Christophe filtered his thoughts. ‘I have no problem with you visiting my mother.’

‘But you do have a problem with Daniel, right? Because he’s a journalist.’

He drew a deep breath. ‘Journalist or not – I don’t trust him.’

Vicki recoiled. ‘What?’

‘You did ask.’

‘How can you not trust him? What’s he done to make you feel that way – other than being a journalist? It makes no sense.’

He drew a deep breath. ‘Fine. Well, you clearly do trust him, and that’s your prerogative. But for my part, and for my family’s part, I choose not to. If you want my honest opinion, I think you should be cautious in your dealings with him.’

He watched Vicki frown as she considered her response. ‘Look, I can’t see that I have anything to fear from Daniel. He’s done nothing but help and support me since I met him. However…’ She slid her plate away and smoothed her hands over the painted pine table. ‘Out of respect for you and your family, I promise I won’t invite him to the
château again. Although, I can’t speak for your mother – she seemed quite taken with him.’

‘Don’t worry about my mother. She feels as I do.’

‘What? She doesn’t trust Daniel either?’

Christophe shrugged in response. He really wasn’t enjoying this debate over Daniel’s virtue.

Vicki shook her head. ‘Okay. You have your opinions, I can’t argue with that. But right now, I’m finding his input useful and stimulating. So…’ she pulled a taut smile and shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I can’t agree with you.’

She stood then, gathered up their plates and carried them to the dishwasher. There was
an unnecessary clatter as she loaded the plates into the machine. He hadn’t wanted to upset her but, equally, he did want her to know his feelings about Daniel. ‘Of course, Daniel moves in your artistic world, I wouldn’t expect you to ignore him. But…’

Vicki spun round. ‘It’s okay. I get the picture – pardon the pun. But I hope you won’t be upset if, occasionally, I bring him to my studio to see my work. I don’t want to have to carry my canvases out to the car to show him my progress.’

Christophe didn’t want Daniel anywhere near the house but he knew, in the circumstances, such a request would be unreasonable. ‘Fine.’

Vicki pulled open the oven door and said politely, ‘I’ve made an apple tart for pudding, would you like some?’

He brightened his voice. ‘Bien sur. That will be very nice.’

She carved a slice out and planted it onto a plate, before carrying it over to the table. ‘Enjoy!’ she said, with a forced smile. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m having an early night.’

He closed his eyes as she strode out of the kitchen and wondered why he was getting so uptight about it.

I was barely out of the kitchen before tears were welling up. And that annoyed me even more. Why was I letting Christophe’s obsession over journalists upset me? And what about Colette – she didn’t trust Daniel either? Well, you could have fooled me!

I flopped onto my bed and hurled a few sobs of frustration into my pillow before thumping it hard. Then I sat up, blew my nose and threw the balled up tissue at the waste paper bin. Bang on target.

How could Colette have been so enthusiastic, so charming – not to mention charmed – with Daniel and then declare him untrustworthy? I couldn’t believe it.

My breathing was starting to calm but my mind was still racing. For the first time, in a long time, I
recognised that grim old feeling of homesickness. When had I last felt that…the first week at college, maybe? I was in a foreign country, accepting hospitality from a man who was laying down the law over my selection of friends, and I couldn’t even be sure his mother wasn’t two-faced, into the bargain. Did she even like me? Did it matter? I was only here for another ten months. It wasn’t essential to bond with my landlord and his family. I looked at my watch. It would be just after seven at home, Mum and Dad would have finished their dinner. I snatched up my phone from the bedside table and dialled.

As soon as I heard Mum’s voice, I knew I’d made a mistake. Calling in such a fragile state was asking for trouble. I didn’t want her to worry about me now – as she surely would – any more than I’d wanted her worrying about me after my aborted wedding. So I was forced to put on a brave face and brazen it out. I majored on the good fortune of meeting Daniel and went into raptures over the possibility of a future exhibition.

‘How marvellous,’ she said. ‘Let me put you on speaker-phone so you can tell your dad. Don, listen to this.’

I heard a click and the atmospherics of Mum and Dad hutching up together on the sofa to share the call.

‘Hi, Dad.’

‘Has my girl sold a painting?’ he asked. I could hear the smile in his voice, and the prickle in the back of my nose threatened more tears.

‘Nooo!’ I exclaimed loudly, thinking if I made a lot of noise I could disguise the emotion in my voice, and went on to tell him about Daniel. ‘It means I don’t feel quite so isolated. To be honest, it’s given me a bit of a boost.’

‘I am pleased,’ he said. ‘And are you still happy where you’re living – are you getting on okay?’

‘Yesss! All’s fine there, too,’ I lied. ‘What about you two? What am I missing in sunny Bristol?’

At last
they took up the conversational baton so I was able to listen and smile and dab the odd stray tear from my cheek until, finally, Mum signed off with, ‘We’re so happy you’ve put all that misery behind you and are following your heart. You know we only want the best for you, love.’

Oh boy, how I kept myself together through the final farewells was a miracle. The minute my thumb hit the OFF button, my face crumpled again and homed in on the pillow.

Through my snuffles, I heard Christophe coming up the stairs. I gulped and held my breath. I may have imagined he was hovering on the landing, it was hard to tell. It only creaked in two places, outside his door and at the bottom of the second flight of stairs. There was a long gap before I heard the creak outside his room and the low thud as he closed his door.

In a shameful act of avoidance, I shut myself in the bathroom, ran the shower at full blast and spent a good five minutes leaning against the wall, watching the water gush and gurgle down the plughole. Finally, I undressed, stepped under the stinging jets and allowed the water to flow over me.

My weekend picked up with a totally-out-of-the-blue visit from Isabelle. We’d planned on getting together nearer to Christmas, so I was thrilled she’d found time, in her manic schedule, to leave the throb of
Paris to slum it with the peasants in Limousin. She heralded her arrival with a text message on Friday morning, asking if I was around over the weekend and, if so, she’d be with me by 21:00hrs. Did I have anywhere else to go? Gratitude poured into my return text.

I had a strong suspicion Christophe had secretly invited her down. Relations had been cool and cordial between us since the Daniel thing. Maybe it was his way of making amends. François had said he was thoughtful. If I wasn’t so pissed off at his high and mighty attitude, my feelings might have thawed towards him. Truth was, I was more inclined to think he was hoping to get Isabelle onside; a sort of French solidarity against the English journalist.

Whatever the reason, I was stoked that she’d decided to come.

She arrived, dressed for the weekend – all boho-chic, in layered shirt, vest, draping cardigan, paisley skirt, scarf and fringed boots – and I cried; I was so pleased to see a friendly face. I hugged her until the boulder of her Tiger Eye pendant bruised my sternum. I wondered the weight of it didn’t give her backache.

‘Vicki!’ she exclaimed, ‘Don’t cry – are you unhappy?’

‘No,’ I said, fanning away my tears and laughing. ‘Come on, have a drink, I’m already two V&Ts ahead of you.’

‘Then that’s why you’re crying.’

She handed over a bottle of brandy she’d brought with her.

‘Brandy? It’s not Christmas,’ I said.

‘No, but I feel like I’ve been battling a cold for the last week, so it might as well be. I always get sick over Christmas.’

‘Here, let me put hot water and honey in your brandy.’

She shrugged and leaned against the fridge while I boiled some water. She did look pale.

As Christophe was still not back from Toulouse, we settled down in his salon, curled up together on the sofa.

I hadn’t intended to taint the evening with talk about Christophe’s feelings over Danie
l but since Izzy already knew about Daniel, it wasn’t long before she said, ‘Now, tell me more about Daniel. Is he handsome?’ She wouldn’t be Isabelle if she didn’t consider a member of the opposite sex an eligible partner for me. I imagined it might even have been her motivation in pairing me up with Christophe. Maybe that’s why she’d come down – to safeguard her matchmaking plans.

‘He has a very engaging smile,’ I answered.

‘Has he?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Are we being just a little bit inscrutable, Miss Marchant?’

Oh boy. Did I launch into a defensive proclamation then; stating my case for the friendship with Daniel, championing the benefits of his connections and eulogising his support for my work.

When, finally, I paused to draw breath, Isabelle nodded, raised her arms and yelled, ‘Hallelujah! Praise be to Daniel!’ which popped the hot air from my evangelical balloon, and we both curled up, snickering with laughter.

‘Don’t mock me,’ I gasped.

Isabelle levelled me with a look only she (and possibly my mother) could give. ‘Tell me, honestly, do you see romance on the cards?’

Isn’t it strange how our minds can compute the whole range of our thoughts and feelings, just as we pause, inhale and open our mouths to answer? ‘I’m not sure,’ I said.

‘Clearly you like him.’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s tolerably good looking?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thinking of him keeps you awake at nights?’

‘Once or twice.’

‘Have you practised your marital signature?’

‘Vicki Keane,’ I offered, grinning at how adolescent we sounded. ‘Noooo.’

‘Have you slept with him?’

Another range of thoughts whipped across the screen of my imagination. ‘Nooo! It’s way too early.’

‘Don’t tell me…Marc’s still the last man you slept with?’

‘Your point being?’

She shrugged. ‘Don’t you want to exorcise him? Wipe the slate clean?’

‘Okay, I do quite fancy a nice healing dose of rumpy-pumpy but I came here to paint – not to screw up my ambition with a bit of reckless mattress gymnastics.’

‘What about Christophe?’

I witnessed an instant replay of my drunken assault on him, and felt a simultaneous rush of blood to my face and sensitive regions.

Isabelle lunged forward. ‘Vicki. You’re blushing. Is it him? You’ve slept with Christophe? I knew it!’

‘Nooo. That’s ridiculous!’

‘Mon Dieu! It had to be. Of course. Fantastic!’

‘I said, no! Forget it, Isabelle. We don’t see eye-to-eye, never mind pelvis to pelvis.’ And out came the story of our differences over Daniel. ‘Although I guess you already knew that. Isn’t it why he asked you to come down here – to talk some sense into me?’

She gave me one of her haughty looks. ‘Vicki, what is this paranoia? I haven’t spoken to him for weeks.’

‘No? I thought…your sudden decision to come down here…’

She rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve arranged a meeting with a client in Limoges on Monday. It seemed like a good opportunity to visit you on company expenses.’

‘Oh. That makes me feel really wanted.’

‘Tch! Now you’re feeling sorry for yourself. I didn’t think I’d see you till Christmas. This is a bonus for me and I thought it would be for you. Was I wrong?’

‘Of course not. I’m sorry.’

We hugged until Isabelle ploughed on with her inquisition. ‘So…what else has been going on between you and Monsieur Dubois? Because I definitely detect something’s going on. And don’t tell me you didn’t react at the mention of his name.’

‘That’s because he’s difficult.’

‘But you still think he cares enough about you to invite me down to help iron out your differences.’

I could feel myself sobering up. ‘I don’t like him passing judgement on Daniel. And he says his mother feels the same way. It’s uncomfortable.’ I focussed on her eyes. ‘So, he definitely hasn’t asked you to press home his point?’

‘Not at all. Don’t worry about it. Remember, “Seize the day!” Ignore what they think.’

‘I intend to.’

‘Good. That’s my Vicki.’ She picked up the brandy. ‘So, are you going to invite this Daniel over so I can meet him?’

Relentless. The woman was relentless. ‘No, this is a girlie weekend.’

She pouted. ‘Indulge me. Take me to see him.’

‘I can’t. He’s away.’

‘Pity.’ After a slurp of brandy, she continued. ‘Okay, let’s suppose, in a year’s time, you’re still in touch with Daniel…could he be the man for you. What’s he like?’

I ran down a list of his qualities, which made me sound like I was weighing up a candidate for a job, so I finished off with, ‘Daniel’s nothing like Marc. He seems like the kind of guy who would put me first. And that is a very good sign.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ she said and winked.

Yes, I thought, it is a very good sign.

My resolve to eschew all intimate dealings with men was wobbling precariously, I realised. All the same, I allowed myself to mull over how and when I might progress things with Daniel Keane. Maybe Easter?