Vicki's Work of Heart (24 page)

‘And don’t forget the sex; sex to exorcise the spectre of Marc. It’s good for the soul and very good for the complexion – you do look better for it, you know.’

I peered at my reflection. My hair was out of the clip and messy around my flushed face. The expensive lipstick had stained my lips. ‘Yes, quite gorgeous. Any man would, don’t you think?’

There was a knock at the door. ‘And here’s one now,’ Izzy said, winking at my reflection.

I got up and opened the door. A young waiter entered, wheeling a food trolley. He set out some cutlery on the table and opened the wine. At his polite bow, we thanked him and watched him go.

‘Too young,’ I said after the door closed.

‘You’re too choosy.’

‘I do hope so – at least, I hope I’m getting better. Right,’ I moved over to the trolley. ‘Tomato soup?’

Under pressure from me, she consumed most of the soup, all of the salad and half of the casserole. I, on the other hand, ate everything else. Some people lose their appetites when stressed, I usually find one belonging to an athlete.

As I tidied up the plates, Izzy said, ‘I need to call a taxi.’

‘No you don’t. You’re staying here.’

‘No. I’ll be coughing all night. You won’t get any sleep.’

‘I’ll be absolutely fine. I’m so tired I could sleep through a hurricane.’

‘No,’ she said, swinging her legs out of bed, displaying a spine not unlike that of a stegosaurus. ‘I’ll go.’

‘Isabelle Masson. Get back into bed. Now!’ She cast me a baleful look over her bony shoulder. ‘Do as you’re told. I’ll sleep on the couch.’

‘But my clothes…’

‘I can lend you some clean knickers, and…’ I said, peering into the wardrobe for the ironing board, ‘…I’ll iron your dress.’

She didn’t need a second telling. ‘Vicki, you’re a star. We’re doing ten till four, tomorrow.’

‘Oh, good. I’m really looking forward to it,’ I said, exercising my charming smile before opening up the ironing board. What I really wanted to say was, Oh crap. 

On Monday evening, Christophe walked around the kitchen in his house by the surgery, looking for any food Vicki might have made before the bombshell had dropped. There was flapjack in a tin and fruit salad starting to ferment in the fridge. He threw it out. There was cheese, bread and some pâté too. It was sitting next to another helping of the chicken casserole Vicki had made him. He put the radio on to fill the silence.

He’d moved back to the surgery after handing all the material over to his lawyers. There was no point in trying to cover up what had gone before. Once his shock at the
news had faded, he’d acknowledged there were times when you just had to face the music. And that stood for Daniel, too. He didn’t see why he should get off scot-free after snooping around and stealing private documents. So he’d called in Captain Mathis.

Colette had known all about Albina. She’d even visited her on the few occasions she went to
England. It irked him that he’d been kept in the dark for so long. ‘Why?’ he’d asked her.

‘Chéri, neither mother nor I knew about her until the scandal broke over my father’s Italian affair. During a row, he threw some spiteful comments at her about her own affair with Jacques and it all came out. She packed her bags and returned to
England to care for Albina. I was happily married by then and you were barely six.’

He remembered how, while other grandmothers were off playing golf or going on cruises, his had been performing acts of altruism at the ‘special hospital’, where she volunteered. It was one of the things he’d most admired about her. He shook his head.

‘Christophe, darling, there was nothing to gain by telling you, it kept things simpler.’

‘And where is Albina now?’

‘It was very sad. She died from pneumonia, four years later.’

He
was trying to remember anything significant from that time, which might be evidence of his grandmother’s grief, but nothing stood out. He would still have been at prep school then. His grandmother had kept her secret well.

Hercules and Boz became alert, jumping from their beds and barking at the door. Christophe peered into the hall as a silhouette formed behind the frosted glass. The doorbell chimed. More barking. ‘Taissez-vous!’ he snapped at the dogs and signalled them back to their beds. He drew a deep breath before opening the door.

Jeanne stood frowning on the doorstep and clutching a bottle of expensive brandy. ‘Christophe, I am so very sorry to have brought Daniel Keane into your circle. I had absolutely no idea he was such a despicable man. Please,’ she said, thrusting the bottle towards him, ‘will you accept this as a very small gesture of apology?’

Christophe managed a smile. ‘Come in, Jeanne. We’ve been friends long enough for me to know you wouldn’t have set me up on purpose.’ As she stepped over the threshold, he welcomed her into a warm embrace, and inhaled the heady, musky fragrance of her perfume.

‘Oh, Christophe, I don’t know which is stronger – my embarrassment or my anger.’

‘I think you should concentrate on the anger, it will probably be more useful,’ he said, as they stepped apart.

‘I’ve just heard, Keane’s not staying at Connor Kennedy’s any more. Nobody knows where he is.’

‘I’m not surprised. Even though I informed the police, I doubt they’ll consider it a serious enough offence to involve the border police. After all, I got my photographs back and, as far as I can see, nothing else has gone missing.’

‘Good. I’ve told all my contacts in the International Federation of Journalists about it, and I spoke to a friend who’s a member of the NUJ in England. Unfortunately, Keane has some good contacts of his own, so he’ll be well protected.’

‘In fairness, you did say he might not be a very principled character and, when I met him, I got the same feeling.’

‘I know. I wish I’d followed my gut instinct. But with you having an artist coming to stay…’

‘Of course. And I really appreciated the introduction…at the time.’

‘According to my contact in England, there’s some British gagging order on a story Keane was pursuing. He was planning to dish the dirt on an English businessman – drove the poor guy to suicide. The family’s taken legal action to prevent publication of any material he’d unearthed but rumours are still churning.’

‘What an odious little snake.’

She shrugged and pulled an apologetic smile. ‘I’m so sorry, Christophe.’

He put a hand to her elbow. ‘Come on. Let’s go and discuss this in the salon. That brandy looks too good not to be opened.’

He was pleased to see Jeanne’s face soften, at last.

*

Once the show was over, and we returned to Izzy’s apartment, it was clear she had passed the worst of her illness. I knew this because she was starting to boss me around. ‘So, when are you going to make a decision about your future, Vicki? Are you going to stay here and carry on painting or give up and go home?’

I didn’t like the words give up, and she knew it. ‘Of course I’ll stay,’ I replied, although I wasn’t convinced I would be welcome. I’d had two brief phone conversations with Christophe over the weekend. He’d told me that the Daniel situation was in hand, and that I didn’t need to worry about it. Fat chance. He wanted me to enjoy my stay in
Paris. In fact, he assured me I didn’t need to rush back on his account. Whilst that was very magnanimous of him, I couldn’t help seeing it as a form of rejection. Particularly when he said Jeanne was helping him to repair the damage. ‘Like you, she feels responsible for the situation – having brought Daniel into our lives.’

Of course. Bloody Jeanne. I wondered whether she planned on being as helpful to me.

‘Oh good,’ I said. ‘How is she helping?’

‘She has first-class journalistic connections. Which is probably why Daniel contacted her to start with.’

‘So they’re not life-long friends, then?’

Christophe had let out a harsh laugh. ‘No. Jeanne is my friend. It was she who warned me Daniel might not strictly be on the up and up. But she had no idea what his true motivations were.’

Pity she hadn’t warned me. Once again, I wondered if her sole reason for fobbing me off onto Daniel was to annexe Christophe for herself.

‘If it’s okay with you, I’d like to come back on Friday,’ I said. That gave me three more days in
Paris to recharge my creative batteries.

‘Of course. Let me know when your train gets in, and I’ll pick you up.’

I’d heard that one before. ‘Thank you,’ I said, all the while wondering if it might actually be Jeanne waiting for me the Bénédictins railway station.

I had, up my sleeve, the vague possibility that I could decamp to Bergerac and work for Bruno. I’d phoned him when I was on the train to
Paris. It would be menial, cleaning work in exchange for a bit of studio space and the chance to run his painting workshops. There were only six residential courses over Easter and Summer but the fees for those would cover my accommodation and food. I say vague possibility, because he had yet to sign up enough delegates for the courses and, more importantly, he needed to discuss it with his business partner – aka his wife.

Now that Izzy appeared to be on the mend, I thought it was safe to ask about her future plans. ‘You said you were thinking of making a career change. What did you have in mind?’

She looked over at the bookcase beside her for a moment.

Writing? I thought. Publishing, perhaps?

Finally, she said, ‘Charity work. Helping get medical aid to Africa, something like that.’

‘Oh,’ was all I could say. Izzy – sharp-suited, silky-haired, uber-efficient, corporate dynamo – was thinking of swapping it all for loose linen, mud huts and amoebic dysentery.

‘I expend all this energy, but what for? Money. Money for me, money for The Suits. I could be working just as hard but for a more worthy cause. Charities need PR just as much as any other business.’

‘Then I think you should do it.’

She nodded, thoughtfully.

‘But not,’ I added, ‘till you’re in tip-top condition.’

‘No, well, I need to see this Minerals project through. The contract is up for renewal in March.’

‘So have you started looking?’

She leaned over and pulled her tablet from the top of the bookcase. ‘I started my research today.’ She tapped the screen a couple of times and brought up a charity job website. ‘Some of these are based in London, too.’

‘Really?’ So no risk of dengue fever, then.

‘The PR function is usually run from a central office in a developed country. But I’d still get to travel, and see projects first-hand.’

‘I think that’s really exciting. Scary – but exciting. Good for you!’

She smiled back at me. ‘You know, you’re partly responsible for my decision.’

‘I am?’

‘You took a chance on a different future. And it made me think, maybe I should pursue something that had been in the back of my mind, too.’

Oh wow. ‘So I really do have to see this year in
France through to the end, don’t I?’

‘Yes. Christophe and I spent a whole bloody weekend cleaning that room up for you.’

‘You did?’

‘Yes. Truckloads of stuff. Up and down those stairs. Up, down. Up, down.’ She bounced in her seat, her arms outstretched holding the tablet like a tray.

‘I didn’t know.’

‘Eh bien. You do now.’

My love for Izzy bubbled up and spilled out of my tear ducts. I leaned over and hugged her hard. ‘You’re absolutely right. I should go back. You’re such a good friend.’

She squeezed me tightly. ‘But don’t do it for me, pumpkin, do it for yourself.’

‘Okay.’

‘I don’t want your poxy paintings, anyway,’ she added with a smile.

After six days in
Paris, my waistline was expanding after matching Izzy, carb for carb, calorie for calorie, as she started to put her weight back on. I’d spent a day on the sofa watching old French movies that I almost understood; several hours in galleries gazing wistfully at the works of the Impressionists, and countless hours wondering if I had the strength of character to get back in the artist’s saddle.

I returned to
Limoges with some trepidation. Even though I’d spoken to Christophe on the phone, and he’d said he didn’t blame me for all the trouble I knew I’d caused, I was still anxious about seeing him, face to face.

He’d promised to meet me at the station and this time, he actually did.

Although Daniel was back in the UK, I did wonder if Christophe was still concerned for my safety – or maybe our safety – because he definitely looked relieved to see me. Not ecstatic, of course, it wasn’t exactly the return of the prodigal lodger but his smile was genuinely friendly. He even hugged me in a brotherly kind of way and he’d insisted I put the Daniel problem behind me, which was far more than I deserved. As was the dinner he insisted on taking me out for, that evening.

‘You don’t have to,’ I said as he drove us into the heart of the countryside. ‘I’ve bought you a big piece of steak from a really smart butcher in
Paris.’

‘Thank you. It will keep. You’ve had a long journey and I think, after all the cooking you’ve done for me, you’ve earned a meal out, don’t you?’ He smiled across at me.

‘Well, no, not really. But it’s very kind of you to suggest it.’

‘It’s a Friday night and it’s my favourite restaurant. Indulge me.’

La Chaumière was a small, thatched cottage nestling amongst trees beside a straight, country road. We were guided to a table tucked in beside the fireplace, where a large chunk of wood smouldered in the grate. I looked around – there was space for about eighteen diners. Despite the impressive wine list, I opted to drink water. Based on recent experience, I no longer trusted myself in mixed company with even the whiff of a wine cork.

I studied the menu like I was cramming for Who Wants to be a Millionaire. There were three fish dishes: crab, bream or salmon…crab, bream or salmon. Which should I have? Crab, bream or salmon; how long could I avoid Christophe’s eyes and the inevitable conversation about Daniel? Maybe I should start it, get it over with.

I looked up. He was watching me.

‘Have you decided?’ he asked.

‘Crab.’ I never ate crab. ‘Please.’

‘Good. And I will have the lamb.’

The waitress came back with the drinks and took our order.

I could feel the huge weight of The Daniel Topic pressing against me, like a sweaty commuter on the Tube – really distasteful but unavoidable. Finally, I said, ‘I’m not finding it easy to move on from the Daniel thing. To be honest, I’m mortified.’

‘Don’t be. You aren’t the first and you won’t be the last to be taken in by a journalist.’

‘But the fallout has been…’

He put a hand up to stop me saying any more. ‘Nothing. There is no fallout. All that’s happened is I’ve learned more about my family, that’s all.’

‘But the scandal…’

‘None. It’s old news.’

‘But the whole drug thing…’