Vicki's Work of Heart (27 page)

Why did I have such bad judgement?  I must remember to write a checklist of all the good things to look out for in future, and all the warning signs. Never again would I let my heart rule my head.

I started the car and revved it unnecessarily hard. I lurched out onto the road and drove, with tunnel vision, deliberately turning away from the
château. Several miles later, when I found myself driving down a rapidly narrowing lane, I realised I had no idea where I was going. A quick glance at the petrol gauge told me, ‘not far’. I pulled up, closed my eyes and counted to ten.

There was a funny side, after all – this was turning into a farce. I’d be laughing soon.

It made sense to leave the car and conserve petrol, while I headed off on foot to find someone and ask for directions to a filling station. Had I passed any houses recently?

After walking for twenty minutes and not seeing a single house, roof or chimneypot to give me encouragement, I stopped and considered my only realistic option – to phone Christophe and ask for help. I flipped open my phone and wondered whether I might be interrupting an intimate moment…well, not such a bad idea after all, then. I selected his number, took a deep breath and pressed the connect button.

Nothing. No signal. No little bars on my screen. As the French would say,
Rien
.

I snapped it closed and cast an accusatory look at the heavens for their lack of support. Although, I couldn’t be absolutely sure the heavens had finished with me yet. What had been a glorious blue was fast being replaced by something further along the spectrum. By the time I had walked back to within two hundred metres of the car, rain began falling in big, fat drops onto my head; by the time I’d halved the distance, thick painful pellets, yes – pellets, of water were smacking against my body and urging me to beat my own land-speed record. By the time I stood struggling with the antique Citroen lock, I could feel water seeping into my underwear.

Slamming the car door, I checked my phone again. One bar. One glorious little bar. Surely I was due a break?

Once again, I selected his number and waited.

Quelle surprise. Voicemail.

There was nothing left to do, but to turn the car round and hope I had enough petrol to get me to the
château – or at least to someone who could help me. I started the engine and consoled myself that it was often the case that cars had more in their tanks than the petrol gauge suggested. The empty mark was like a cautionary tale; designed to teach slack drivers like me, a lesson. Well, thank you Citroen, I’d learned my lesson and I wouldn’t be doing this again.

Apparently, that just wasn’t enough.

Tom coughed and struggled to clear his tubes but, just at the point in the road where I’d given the heavens my dirty look, he shuddered, croaked and trundled to a stop.

I dropped my head onto the wheel and bellowed in defeat.

After a few minutes’ silent meditation, interjected with the odd swear word, I switched the ignition off, took my sandwich out and began nibbling at it. If only I were a poet, I could probably write a very moving stanza or two from this experience. Clutching at creative straws, I swapped the lens on my camera and snapped a few shots through the streaming wet windows. You never know, I thought.

Eventually, the rain relented enough for me to set off again on foot. On and on I walked. Could there really be this much uninhabited countryside? I spotted a well-trodden footpath to my right. That bode well for fellow walkers who might just be able to send me in the right direction or, better still, give me a lift. I walked quickly down the path until it came to a stile. Over it I went, intermittently studying my phone for a signal. Two bars. Maybe there were enough microwaves or whatever was required to connect me to the satellites so I could turn on the mapping program. I made all the right connections and hit the location button. Yes, there I was, a little pulsing blue button in the middle of a field. It knew where I was, I just needed to work it out for myself now. I zoomed out and disappeared into a mesh of gridlines. ‘Come on!’ I yelled at the thing. ‘Give me a break!’

As if in response to my cry, I heard the unmistakable, ‘gerdunk, gerdunk, gerdunk’ of a horse’s footfall on damp turf. Could this be Christophe?

I looked up and a handsome, large, brown beast was thundering my way; head bobbing, mane bouncing, teeth shining…actually, I couldn’t see his teeth but I knew they were in there somewhere. ‘Nice pony,’ I muttered, backing up towards the stile. It seemed wise not to run. ‘Lovely boy,’ I said in a soothing but wobbly voice. In reverse, my foot hit a soggy patch of mud and went sideways. I teetered, over-corrected and toppled to the ground. Four strong legs were heading my way, and they didn’t belong to a pair of knights in shining armour. I watched, mesmerised. The horse slowed to a trot and then a walk before coming to a standstill in front of me. I stared at his knees, uncertain whether eye contact was advisable. His breath snorted through his nostrils. I felt like a prisoner, waiting to learn my fate. I saw a foot move closer. Then his head dropped towards mine, his hot breath shifting my hair. My body was paralysed but I could still feel my backside chilling from the soggy soil beneath it. And then…then his large, warm head slid gently down and up the side of mine. I could feel the restrained weight of it; the firm, flat cheek grazing mine with its fine, bristly hairs.

‘Bonjour,’ I croaked.

Despite such intimacy, I still couldn’t bring myself to look at him. He indicated his objection with a nudge.

I weighed up the situation: I was beneath him and he was above me. Aside from nuzzling my ear, he wasn’t taking advantage; I posed no threat to him in this position and he didn’t appear to be threatening me; finally, I reminded myself, horses were not carnivores.

I turned my head slowly. Jeez! Those nostrils were huge. His breath wasn’t too fragrant either. He flexed his upper lip, which I hoped wasn’t a come-on. When I finally made eye contact, he blinked, bowed politely and stepped back.

I remained still, watching for any intent to charge and trample. After a moment, I spoke quietly, ‘If it’s okay with you, I’m going to get up v-e-r-y slowly.’

He bowed again.

Putting my hand into the mud, I gradually levered myself out, fully expecting a squishy popping sound as my bum left the pocket of sludge it had been sucked into. I kept a watchful eye on my equine buddy until I was upright. He gave me a look of grudging approval, nodded again and made a quarter turn away, which I took to be my dismissal. It was either that or the pre-cursor to a new move on me.

‘Thank you, kindly,’ I said, inclining my head deferentially, like we were performing a scene from Pride and Prejudice.

Then, with apparent indifference, he wandered several feet away and chomped some grass. I took the opportunity to side-step my way to the stile and whipped my legs over it as fast as a gymnast. Safely on the other side, I slumped against it and drew fresh air into my lungs. ‘Darcy’ and I exchanged another look and, like Elizabeth Bennett, I began to re-evaluate my opinion of him and acknowledged that this had been a significant moment in my life. I smiled and said, ‘A pleasure meeting you, sir.’ I’d like to say he raised his head in acknowledgement but he carried on grazing, which shows just how fickle these creatures can be.

I tugged at my damp trouser-seat which was clinging to my newly-chilled buttocks. ‘Yuk!’ I stepped away from the stile and headed back to the road.

Just as I was contemplating a night under the stars, my phone rang. It was Christophe.

‘Hello!’ I said with some enthusiasm.

‘I see that you called me?’ his voice was as mellow as you might expect after a grapple with his lover.

I glanced at the time – that was well over an hour ago. ‘Yes, look, I really didn’t want to bother you, but the thing is – I’ve run out of petrol.’

‘Where are you?’

It was a relief he was neither angry nor amused. ‘Umm…’ oh dear, this was going to sound as wet as I was. ‘I’m not exactly sure. But I think it’s quite near the
château.’

‘If you were on your way here, there’s only two roads you could be on. Don’t worry, I’ll come and find you.’

‘Wait!’ I realised he would drive down the road back to his house – and I was nowhere near there. ‘I really don’t know where I am. I was driving around, looking for nice pictures to take and I saw the château in the distance. But that was ages ago.’

‘Can you describe where you are?’

I turned slowly through 360°. ‘Trees, hedges, fields, one large, brown horse. Sound familiar?’ I managed a weak, laugh. I heard him let out a sigh of exasperation. Of course, this was absolutely the last thing he needed. ‘Listen, Christophe, I’ve been walking for a little while, I’m bound to find a house soon and then they can tell me where I am. Why don’t I call you later?’

‘Don’t do that. You might walk for a long time. Do you remember how you got there?’

I swallowed. I had no idea but I described where I was when I looked down on the château and the direction I’d headed off in.

Finally, he asked, ‘Did you pass an old house – a ruin?’

‘Yes! Yes! It was on my right. All beams and old stone.’

‘Good. The road forks after that, which way did you go?’

My heart sank. I had no idea. What an idiot. I tried to think but shook my head.

‘Vicki?’

‘Sorry, I can’t remember.’

‘If you wait in the car, I’ll come and find you. We can keep in touch by phone, okay?’

I pulled a face. ‘The car’s miles away, I’ve been walking for ages.’

‘How far?’

‘Five kilometres – maybe more.’

‘Then stay where you are.’ He sounded tired. ‘I’ll ask Alain to help me. He can take a different route.’

Oh dear. That was another person’s Sunday afternoon ruined. ‘Thank you. I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t worry.’

My misfortune continued, as the rain returned. I sheltered under a tree until, eventually, Alain’s four-by-four came into view. My relief at being discovered was only slightly marred by my irrational disappointment that it wasn’t Christophe. How mad was I? Alain immediately handed me a large, heavy jacket to wear and rang Christophe. Then, he drove me back to the little red car and emptied a can of petrol into the tank.

As I mumbled my thanks and apologies he said kindly, ‘It’s something we all do at least once in our lives.’ His weathered face lifted as he smiled, reminding me he was still a handsome man. ‘Colette has told me to bring you back to the
château. She’s worried in case you have a chill.’

‘Oh I couldn’t. Really, I’ll be fine.’ It was the last place I wanted to go now. I’d just caught sight of my soggy reflection in the car window. I looked like a weary scold, fresh off the ducking stool.

‘She feels responsible. Come on, she wants to see you.’

I drove behind Alain, half expecting to see Christophe at every junction but he had returned to the
château ahead of us. Who could blame him?

When we arrived at the château and before getting out of the car, I swivelled the rear-view mirror to remind myself how ghastly I looked. As I scrunched across the gravel with Alain, I spotted Christophe, leaning casually in the back doorway of the château, still wearing his riding gear. Even now, he made my stomach tumble – which was more than he had a right to. I held my head up and walked with as much dignity as I could gather. This really hadn’t been in my plan, at all.

He stepped out to greet me. ‘You had a bad afternoon, huh?’

That was putting it mildly. ‘All part of life’s rich tapestry.’ I said. ‘Sorry for the disruption. I’ll just say hello to Colette and then I’ll go.’ I barely made eye contact as I swept past him into the house, my wet shoes making ghastly squishy noises as I walked, and my stiffening trouser-seat chafing my bottom.

Colette had already run a deep, hot bath for me and wouldn’t hear of me going home. ‘I can’t believe my son gave you a car with no petrol in. This is the least we can do.’

‘It was my fault. I should have checked.’

‘Nonsense. You were unfamiliar with the car.’ Colette draped a Japanese silk kimono over the chair in the bathroom, her gold bangles rattling on her wrist as she did so. Today she looked striking in a jade green trouser suit, with a plunging neckline. ‘Take as long as you like. Now, would you like some herbal tea or maybe a little brandy?’

‘Tea, please.’

‘Darling, I will bring you both.’

The bath was glorious. I almost nodded off twice and only got out when the temperature dropped below body heat. The kimono was a couple of sizes too large for me, but since Colette had taken my damp clothes somewhere to dry, I didn’t have any choice but to wear it.

There was no sign of Christophe when I emerged from the bathroom and padded into the salon. Colette was reading a book, with Amy Winehouse playing quietly in the background. She looked up as soon as I entered. ‘Vicki! Chérie! You look lovely and you have some colour back in your cheeks. Do you feel better?’

‘Much better, thanks.’

She put her book down, kicked off a pair of mules and tucked her feet underneath her. ‘Come and talk to me. How is your painting coming along?’

I sat next to her and related the story of the latest picture’s progress. I covered my early frustrations and how Christophe had encouraged me to continue, but I skipped over our little disagreement and hurdled the part with the romantic clinch. But like a counter-melody, the scene of the two horse-riders kept playing in my head.

Colette was fascinated to learn how the mirror had come to the rescue. ‘Then you must always use a mirror from now on. Although, perhaps you won’t lose your inspiration again.’ She leaned forward and covered my hand with her own. ‘I know how deeply involved you artists can become. I once had an affair with François, you know.’

I did know. Half of France knew. I’m surprised the sexual shenanigans of the Dubois clan didn’t have a reality TV show all of its own.

Colette continued, ‘He used to become so worked up if a piece wasn’t going well. Of course, he handles it with…’ she raised her hand as if drinking from a bottle. ‘Such a dangerous combination – talent and addiction. Marie is talented too – but so much more controlled. And rather cool,’ she added, as an afterthought.

‘I like her,’ I responded, honestly.

Colette picked up my hand in both of
hers. ‘Chérie, I love Marie. She’s a wonderful woman,’ she smiled warmly and whispered, ‘but you know, some men need more warmth in their lovers – more passion, do you understand me?’

As I opened my mouth to answer, Christophe appeared in the doorway, wearing a black sweater over black chinos, accentuating his Mediterranean colouring. The impact was as troubling for me as had been the sight of him in the tuxedo, on my first night. The difference being, I now knew the kind of man I was dealing with. I straightened my back and continued, ‘Yes, I understand you.’

Colette gave my hand a little squeeze and turned to her son. ‘Vicki tells me she has finished another painting.’

‘That is good news.’ He crossed the room and sat on the other sofa. ‘And you are pleased with it?’

I nodded, forcing myself to look at him but focusing on the line of his jaw. ‘I am.’ I tugged at the front of my kimono. Another thought occurred to me as I battled with my feelings. I lifted my head a little higher to make my point. ‘Although, I’m sure I can do better.’ I punctuated my statement with a direct look into his eyes.

Of course, he couldn’t possibly read my meaning. Annoyingly, he smiled back at me. ‘Isn’t that the way every artist feels?’

I shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’

Colette was watching our interchange like a spectator at
Wimbledon. ‘Please excuse me for a moment.’ She released my hand and slipped the mules back on her feet. ‘I promised Anne I would do something.’ She left the room, closing the door behind her.

Both Christophe and I knew a set-up when we saw one. Trouble is, he didn’t look half as awkward or pissed off as he should have done. That was my role. ‘So,’ he said, with a smile lighting up his face, ‘you completed your picture – I think you must be feeling good, yes?’

‘Good’ was a very inappropriate word for how I was feeling, right then; confused and disappointed but above all, angry. I stared at the closed door, repeatedly smoothing the silky belt of the kimono between my finger and thumb. I wanted to confront him, find out what was going on with Sylvie, even though I was pretty sure he probably just couldn’t resist her any more than he could resist flirting with every other woman who crossed his path. He was a serial philanderer. I forced a smile and stuck my chin out saying, brightly, ‘Yes. I’ve proved to myself I can do it. And now that I’m really fired up – I feel I could do anything.’ I fixed him with my eyes. Yes, I thought, Vicki’s on her way back.

‘Anything?’ he asked, quietly – one edge of a double-entendre nudging its way forward.

I closed my eyes in exasperation. ‘Don’t go there, Christophe!’ I fixed my eyes back on him. ‘Stop looking on me as just one more girl in a long line of romantic conquests.’

His mouth dropped with surprise and then he clenched his jaw before saying, ‘It didn’t seem to bother you
the other night. I thought you were quite enthusiastic, until you decided you weren’t ready to get involved.’

I opened my eyes and stood up. ‘Maybe I was taken in by you.’ A dramatic exit was on my mind, but where would I go? As I hesitated, he had moved to within inches of me.

‘Taken in? I’m not trying to fool you. I…I am attracted to you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But it would seem that you don’t have any good feelings for me. Clearly, you were right – you are not ready.’

He had a nerve. ‘And you think you are?’ I said through gritted teeth.

‘What?’ he asked. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

It was on the tip of my tongue to say, I’ve seen you. I have the photographs to prove it. But in light of his opinion on journalists and photographers, I knew how unwelcome that would be. No, I had the upper hand. I didn’t need to tell him. ‘Nothing. Forget it.’ I said.

‘You’re talking about Jeanne, aren’t you?’

Oh, and there was her
too. ‘Isn’t she important in your life?’

He looked at me for a moment and then his voice became very soft, ‘She’s a friend, an old friend.
I admit she may have wanted to be something more but, I assure you, Jeanne is only a friend.’

At least I’d been right on that score. But I doubt my face registered much relief, since he was barking up the wrong tree.

‘Hey…’ he put a hand up as if to touch me but stopped before he made contact. ‘Let’s not be enemies.’

His hand was hovering within inches of m
ine. My treacherous body tingled in anticipation but I stepped back and folded my arms. ‘Of course we’re not enemies,’ I said, equally quietly.

‘Then, don’t run away.’

I took another step back and bumped against the sofa. ‘You’re crowding me.’

‘Sorry.’ He stepped back too, and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Okay.’ He looked around the room and pointed distractedly towards the coffee table. ‘Why don’t you relax with a magazine and wait for Colette. I have a feeling she will be back as soon as I’m gone.’

At the door he turned back. ‘I must apologise for not telling you where to find petrol. There is one garage on the Limoges side of the town but nothing else for about twenty kilometres.’

‘Thanks.’

He nodded and left.

As the door shut, I slid down onto the sofa and reached out for a magazine. I flipped through its pages unseeingly. I realised staying with Christophe was going to be impossible. He was clearly unable to take the hint for more than twenty-four hours at a time
, and I would never be able to concentrate on my work, living in such an atmosphere. I would have to find somewhere else to live. I would phone chase up Bruno and hope Daniel hadn’t rubbished my chances of working for him. I was damned if I was going to let this drive me back to Bristol. Marc had already bombed one big plan in my life, Daniel had nearly succeeded with this one, no way was I going to let Christophe torpedo it now.

As he had predicted, Colette reappeared with a small tray of canapés. ‘I thought you might be feeling hungry.’ She set the tray down on the coffee table and offered me a plate. It was hours since my sandwich but I wasn’t hungry. Out of politeness, I took a couple of crackers garnished with
fish pâté and dill. Colette perched on the sofa opposite. ‘Where did my son go? I wanted to ask him something.’

‘He didn’t say.’

She was fiddling with her bracelets. ‘I hope you don’t find him too difficult to live with. He’s always been very good-natured – sometimes a little preoccupied, perhaps but who isn’t?’

Colette was fishing. I wondered if she’d make as good a composition as the scene I’d just painted. ‘He’s absolutely fine.’ I said, before pushing a cracker into my mouth and moving it round with a dry tongue.

Colette started drumming her fingers on the cushion beside her. ‘Excuse me for being so direct, Vicki, but I feel that something…’ she gestured with her hands as she sought for the right words. I wasn’t sure where she was going with this. ‘I feel there is a tension between you and my son. If he is a little ill-tempered at the moment, it is because he is dealing with some complicated family issues.’

She could say that again. I swallowed the cracker, which lodged below my windpipe. ‘Yes, I know.’ I swallowed again. ‘The…erm…Albina thing…and the Gerard and Sylvie thing…and the Foundation…thing’ for every instance of thing, insert scandal. ‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t affect me,’ I lied. ‘I’ve just been a bit grumpy with my painting and I probably took it out on him. We had a few words on Friday but everything’s fine.’

‘Good. I’m pleased. Now…’ she clasped her hands together, jangling her bracelets emphatically. ‘Will you stay for dinner? We have a lovely wild salmon from one of the local lakes.’

I shook my head. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I must go back. I need to seal the painting and prepare another canvas for my next one.’

Colette’s head tilted. ‘Are you sure? We would be delighted to have you stay. And I don’t think your clothes are quite dry yet.’

‘Honestly. I wouldn’t be very good company.’

‘But we still have a lunch date for Thursday?’

I slapped a smile on my face. ‘Definitely. And if you come to the house, I’ll show you my painting.’ Assuming I was still there…

‘Wonderful. I shall look forward to it.’

I borrowed a pair of Colette’s navy jogging bottoms, which I doubt had ever been jogging, and a cream sweater. Both were too large, so I turned them up at the ankles and cuffs. As I prepared to leave, there was no sign of Christophe. Despite everything that had happened, I still felt it would be impolite to leave without saying goodbye.

The door to his apartment was on the ground floor. I waited, biting the inside of my lip until he appeared. His smile was slight. ‘Do you want to come in?’

‘No – thank you. I just wanted to say thanks for organising the search party. And…um…I’m going back now.’ Everything about me felt awkward, from my still-damp shoes to my oversized clothing.

He gripped the edge of the door and leaned his head against it. ‘Don’t get lost, huh?’

I smiled. ‘Nooo!’ I wavered in the hallway. ‘Will you…I mean…When…’ I looked at my feet momentarily, before fixing my eyes back on his. ‘Will you be coming back to the house?’

His eyes narrowed a little. ‘Why don’t I give you a bit of space for a while? So you have chance to get involved with your painting.’

‘But that’s your home.’

He shrugged. ‘So is this.’

And much more handy for Sylvie, I thought. ‘Well, that means I’ll be staying under false pretences. So, if I’m not cooking for you, I must pay you rent.’

‘Absolutely not. You are a friend.’ Then his smile broadened. ‘You don’t eat your friends, I don’t take money from mine.’

I really wanted to stop liking him but he made it impossible. ‘Thank you.’

‘De rien.’

I stepped back. ‘See you, whenever?’

He nodded but said nothing. I turned and walked away, an unwelcome stinging sensation prickling at the back of my eyes, and an undignified squelch in my shoes.