Vicki's Work of Heart (28 page)

I was up to my wrists in paint as I attempted to kick-start my creativity with finger-painting. The muse had abandoned me – again. Occasionally, I would scroll through my growing archive of photographs for inspiration, but always ended up loitering over the wonderful picture of Christophe riding Léopard. Then I would torture myself by clicking forward to the shot of him with Sylvie. Each time, I could feel my pulse increase before I reached it and each time I felt sick as I looked at it, knowing how close I’d come to falling for him – big time. I returned to the one of him riding. I really wanted to paint this. I didn’t know if I could capture the sense of power and speed but I was more turned on by this image – creatively of course – than anything else.

What the heck. I needed to get it out of my system. I was an artist, after all, and this was how artists worked – through their emotions. Removing the practice canvas and securing a new one, I settled in front of it to draw it out.

On Thursday, Colette arrived for lunch in a haze of expensive fragrance – and late. I had vacillated between leaving the incomplete picture of Christophe on the easel or concealing it. Coward that I was, I stuck it behind the empty canvases. Artist or no artist, I didn’t want to subject myself to more speculation from Colette. She clapped her hands at my first painting of the fishermen. ‘C’est magnifique! I love it. Will you sell it to me?’

I was taken aback. ‘I haven’t even thought about selling any paintings yet.’

‘When you do decide to sell it, please, think of me first.’

The restaurant she took me to in Limoges was in an old part of the city, with dark panelled wood and stained-glass windows. I chose onion soup, followed by soft scallops with lavender cream, while Colette chose garlic prawns and stuffed breast of pheasant. Once the waitress had departed with our order, Colette placed her elbow on the table, rested her chin on her hand and said discreetly, ‘I must tell you – Alain has finally accepted the marriage between Gerard and Sylvie.’

I smiled. ‘How lovely.’ I nodded. My thoughts were replaying our lunch at the
château, when I’d detected an atmosphere between Alain and Christophe. Alain had been the first to discover Sylvie with Gerard. Had he also discovered she was screwing Christophe behind Gerard’s back? Why not continue a family tradition, now she had married into it?

Colette nodded. ‘It has been difficult. Of course, you know Alain strongly believed Sylvie was only after the Dubois fortune?’

I didn’t but it certainly matched Jeanne’s opinion.

She stroked a large tear-drop of gold, hanging from her earlobe. ‘Christophe has had to work very hard to change Alain’s point of view.’

Wow! I thought. That was pretty magnanimous of him, not to mention, creative, bearing in mind he was rogering her in the woods.

Colette continued. ‘So now it looks as if I shall have my party after all. We’re celebrating their wedding, next weekend.  I can’t wait! And you, chérie, must be there.’

I forced a smile. Deep joy. My first wedding party since my own. Another opportunity to pretend all was well in my world.

I cleared my throat. ‘Do you think Christophe has got over Sylvie?’

Colette had just raised her wine glass but put it down again. ‘Of course. She was not right for him. Too cool – very much like Marie and François. Oh, I’m sure they would have managed, but Gerard is a far better match for her. Christophe is too sensitive.’

I was surprised Colette believed she knew her son so well, especially since she had been absent for most of his childhood.

Colette continued, ‘He takes after my mother. She was a wonderful lady.’

I frowned, as Colette continued
, ‘I’m afraid I take after my father,’ she laughed heartily, shaking back her rich, auburn hair, and winking at me over her wine glass.

‘Christophe told me about his grandmother. He was very fond of her.’

‘And not so fond of my father. He disapproved of all his infidelities. Mind you, so did half of France, at one time. The other half were jealous.’ Colette laughed again.

Her glee was infectious, I laughed too.

‘My dear, my father and I chose to have fun. Unfortunately, as we have discovered, he was also something of a rogue. On the other hand, Christophe’s own father was a very good man but also very serious. I think I found that attractive at first, he was so different from me I was sure we would have a wonderful, passionate marriage but…’ she stopped for a moment and considered. ‘We were much too different. Eh bien.’ She shrugged before raising her wine glass. ‘To life’s pleasures!’

After lunch, we wandered around the older part of
Limoges, stopping at a créperie close to the St Aurelien chapel, for dessert. As I tucked into my crépe with crème de marron and Chantilly cream, she confided, ‘I shall never be thin again but I don’t care. It’s so important to live life, eat life, for tomorrow…who knows?’

I leaned forward. ‘But Colette, you have a great figure.’

‘That’s because I keep active.’ She winked as she closed her mouth on another spoonful.

Returning full but refreshed from my trip into Limoges, I contemplated my work with renewed enthusiasm even though I was painting it in the shadow of my own disappointment. Colette had reminded me that it was important to make the most of the here and now. And right now, I was producing my fourth painting – that alone was a joy.

I worked right through the weekend investing all my energy into the new painting. Sometimes I missed Christophe. I saw him briefly, when he visited the surgery and passed through the house to collect something but most of the time I was so absorbed that the hours flew by. All the same, on Sunday evening, while I was cleaning my brushes, I found myself pining for a cosy chat over a bottle of wine.

Instead, I rang Isabelle, who was very pleased to hear I was still painting. ‘Fantastic! And what about men – have you set up a force field to deflect them?’

‘Of course. I’m through with men.’

‘What a pity. I was so looking forward to your next wedding. The last one was such fun. You do weddings so well.’

‘Thanks. I’m going to a wedding party next weekend.’

‘With Christophe?’

‘He’ll be there. It’s to celebrate his cousin’s marriage to the ex – Sylvie.’ And a complete hypocrisy, I was tempted to add but didn’t want my gossip getting back to the family, and I certainly didn’t want to be responsible for triggering another family drama. I would leave that to Christophe and Sylvie.

‘Oooh!’ Isabelle was intrigued. ‘That will be interesting. Make sure you take lots of pictures.’

I hadn’t even thought about it. The party was low on my list of priorities. Every time the subject came up, I pushed it back down again. Isabelle asked me what I was going to wear.

‘No idea.’

‘Wonderful! You can go shopping. Don’t forget: shoes, handbag, ear-rings, manicure. You must do everything properly.’

‘On my budget? I’ll just go for the essentials.’

‘Whatever you buy – make it a real
clou du spectacle
!’

‘What’s that?’

‘A showstopper.’

Friday was, possibly, leaving it late to buy an outfit but shopping under pressure seemed to suit me. Isabelle’s advice had driven me to write a list of everything I needed, from leg-waxing strips to nail varnish. Limoges was alight with Christmas decorations and heaving with shoppers.

I had a few euros in my pocket. Mum and Dad had finally sold Marc’s electronic keyboard. I’d held on to it out of some misguided sense of loyalty – possibly even hope that he might return – but Dad had persuaded me he wouldn’t be back and, even if he tried, I was fully within my rights to sell it. So
I toured the fashion shops in search of something special.

I knew,
the minute I fastened the zip on a truly scrumptious dress, and saw every seam fit beautifully, that I’d found the perfect thing. It was full-length. Exactly the length Marc had hated on me but which I’d secretly wanted to wear for my wedding. The soft, crimson chiffon over satin was sprinkled with tiny sequins across the bodice. It was an absolute knockout. I’d show Christophe and Sylvie I was not beaten.

More practically, it would match my wedding shoes.

*

Christophe drove over to the house, on Friday, to collect his tuxedo. As he turned into the drive, he realised Vicki wasn’t home. Wandering around the house, he noticed small Vicki touches – an arrangement of ivy leaves and wild heather in the hall; fruit salad in the fridge; a discarded magazine on the armchair. He walked upstairs to his room, pulled his suit from the wardrobe and carried it back onto the landing. He listened. Vicki was definitely not home. He loitered. He draped his suit over the banister and walked to the bottom of the second flight of stairs. Had she been painting?

He carried on up to the studio to look at the painting of the fisherman – he’d not seen it completed. As he stepped into the room, he stopped dead in his tracks. On the easel, was an unfinished, but unmistakable painting of him on Léopard. He stood, frowning, studying it, taking in the accuracy of her depiction. Her style avoided fine detail, but she had still captured movement and energy.

When had she taken the picture? Goodness knows he’d ridden Léopard more in the last couple of weeks than he had for months.

Finally, he found the impetus to move from the doorway and towards the easel, peering closely at the thousands of brushstrokes that went into creating the image. He backed away and leaned against the table, jolting the laptop out of screensaver mode. There, on the screen, was the photograph she’d been using for inspiration. He pressed the arrow key to look through more pictures of him riding away from the château. He clicked on again and stopped at a picture of him with Sylvie, and then another. Within the frame, there was not much to see of the horses, just a powerful close-up of the two of them.

She must have taken the picture the day she ran out of petrol.

He closed his eyes, shook his head and let out a big sigh. ‘Ah, non!’ Then, he clicked on to the original picture and, with a last look at the painting, headed downstairs to pick up his tuxedo.

*

The night before the wedding party, I had the worst night’s sleep. I could feel a whole can of emotionally charged worms stirring up – not least because it was the first wedding celebration since my own. It brought back memories of what I’d thought would be my last-night-as-a-single-girl. I shed a tear for the heart-to-heart I’d had, first with Mum and then with Dad; both of them being so positive about a future that would never happen.

‘Stop being wet!’ I told myself as I turned over. ‘You’ve moved on. Live in the moment.’ I plumped the pillow vigorously.

How exactly, I wondered, was Christophe going to behave around Sylvie – and would I be able to resist watching them all night, looking for flaws in their performance? I turned onto my back, bashed the pillow with my head a couple of times for comfort and closed my eyes.

Late on Saturday afternoon, as I applied the first coat of nail varnish, C
olette phoned. ‘Vicki, darling, I’m sending a car to pick you up this evening.’

‘
You don’t have to do that. I’m quite happy to drive.’ In any case, it would give me an incentive to stay sober and in control.

‘
Not at all. You must relax and enjoy the evening. I absolutely insist. It will be there for seven-thirty.’

‘Thank you.’

Just before seven-thirty, I checked my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. My hair was loose over my shoulders. The dress hung beautifully, the hem drifting as I moved. I smiled. I might not cut such a striking figure as Sylvie – but I could definitely give her a run for her money.

What was I thinking? And why on earth did I feel like I was preparing to go into battle against Sylvie?

A flush crept up my cheeks. Oh, nuts! I still wanted him. How could that be possible? I was truly hell-bent on self-destruction and deserved all the pain coming my way. Was insanity an artist’s natural state? Think: Gauguin, Van Gogh, Dali…

Outside I heard the low rumble of an engine and the scuffle of excited dog paws on the hall floor. I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. ‘Just enjoy the party,’ I muttered as I left my bedroom.

As I was halfway down the stairs, Christophe walked through the front door and looked up.
What was he doing here and how dare he look so gorgeous in his tuxedo? I paused for a split second and then overcompensated by quickening my pace and almost fell off the bottom step. He held out a hand to steady me.

‘Sorry. It’s the shoes.’ I gasped, mentally clouting myself.

He bent and kissed me on both cheeks. He smelled delicious. ‘You look beautiful,’ he said.

‘Really?’ I asked, breathily, wondering who’d stolen the oxygen.

He studied me for a little longer. ‘Very beautiful.’

The oxygen thief had also turned the boiler up. I shook my head and croaked
, ‘Thank you.’

He stepped away and lifted my coat from where it hung by the door. As I shrugged my arms into the sleeves, I felt a random shudder as he held the collar a fraction too long.

His deep voice was close to my ear. ‘I hope you like the car – it took me an hour to get it started.’

‘You’re driving me?’

‘Of course. Didn’t Colette say?’

‘No. She just said she was sending a car.’

‘Well, it is a very special car.’

Outside was a gleaming vintage Rolls Royce.
I loved it. It was big and boxy, in black and burgundy, with a fabulously long bonnet and huge, shiny headlamps. ‘Oh, wow!’ I said. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s a 1930 Phantom.’

‘You didn’t fancy lending me this one, then?’

He
smiled and opened the passenger door. As I sat inside, I noticed the smell of old leather and felt the resonance of history in its fabric. The door made a satisfying ‘clunk’ as it closed. I studied the dials and switches on the dashboard, walnut and chrome gleaming from years of care.

I sank back into the seat and felt the throb of the
engine as it started up. ‘Has this always been in the family?’ I asked.

‘Not from new. My grandmère, Dorothea, brought it over from
England when she married my grandpère. It was a wedding present from her father.’

‘She didn’t take it back with her, then?’

‘She left in haste. I don’t think it was important to her.’

We
pulled up in front of the château, where ranks of candle-stands lit the entrance. As I moved to open my door, a footman came forward and opened it for me. ‘
Bon soir, mam'selle
,’ he said as I stepped out.

Straight away, Christophe came round and was offering his arm to escort me into the house. I took it, still drawn to him by some perverse, cosmic force despite my brain computing the irony that we were about to celebrate the marriage of his lover to the cousin who had pinched her from him. I felt like a character walking into a Jilly Cooper novel.

The grand entrance hall was festooned with cream and apricot roses. We could hear the strains of a band playing in the ballroom. Alain and Anne were politely greeting guests in the hall, while Colette sashayed in and out of the ballroom to check who was arriving. She wore a midnight blue gown, slashed to the thigh and glittering with beads. I hope I look that sensational at her age, I thought as she wrapped me in a fragrant embrace.

‘Now, you beautiful darlings,’ Colette began, as she stood between us, ‘I want a picture,’ and summoned the photographer. After posing like a professional, she stepped back and steered us together. ‘Have some champagne, lots of it, and enjoy yourselves!’

As she headed off to capture another couple, the bride and groom appeared at the top of the staircase. Sylvie was wearing a plain ivory dress, with gold detail around the neckline. She looked beautiful – classically beautiful.

I
suddenly felt vivid and cheap, like a Christmas bauble.

Christophe’s
arm settled easily around my waist. This time, instead of my tummy flipping with desire, it sank with disappointment. If only it were for real, I thought, when I knew he was just putting on a show to maintain a pretence. Well, he’d got a nerve. I wasn’t prepared to be an accomplice in his crumby deception.

I lifted his hand from my hip. ‘Excuse me.’ I said, moving away from him to greet the bride and groom. Gerard was a similar build to Christophe, but less toned. His short hair was fair and styled neatly with a side parting. When he smiled, his cool blue eyes glinted with a roguish charm – so in that respect, he was clearly family.

Sylvie held out her hand to me, ‘I am pleased to meet you again, Vicki,’ she said. ‘This is my husband, Gerard.’

Gerard’s hand was hotter and sweatier than Sylvie’s. ‘Congratulations. I hope you had a lovely honeymoon,’ I said, smiling up at him.

Gerard beamed back at me, revealing perfect white teeth but the twitch of his lip and a glance at Sylvie suggested he was far less confident than his wife. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said.

As I asked Gerard about
Madrid, Christophe stepped forward to embrace Sylvie – completely throwing me into confusion and mucking up my attempt at polite conversation. Gerard seemed not to notice and held out his hand to Christophe and hugged him.

A distasteful lump formed in my throat at Christophe’s treachery. I backed away and headed for the ballroom. Nobody was dancing, apart from Colette, who was swaying rhythmically inside the huge double doors. ‘Chérie, isn’t it a bore, Alain says we can’t start dancing until after dinner. Who ever heard anything so ridiculous!’ She put her arm through mine. ‘Vicki, you look adorable tonight.’ I smiled and sipped my champagne. ‘I think my son will have to fight off a few opponents, don’t you?’

My sip became a gulp. Eventually, I said, ‘I doubt it.’

Colette leaned in to me and whispered. ‘You must let him fight a little. Men like that.’

I swallowed. Every indication suggested Christophe did, indeed, want me – just not in the right way. It might be his family’s practice to pursue several relationships at once, like some people hold down different jobs, but it wasn’t mine. I managed a smile for Colette just as the great bulk of François appeared with Marie on his arm. Colette threw out her arms in greeting, and we were all indulging in cheek-kisses as dinner was announced.