Vicki's Work of Heart (7 page)

‘But of course.’

The bathroom mirror revealed a couple of dirty smears on my face and strands of hair had escaped from various parts of my clasp. I washed quickly and changed into a long, cotton skirt and a scoop-necked tee-shirt in raspberry pink. The sun had drawn every last freckle out on my face and the tip of my nose matched my tee-shirt. I’d always been a great believer in coordinated accessories.

So, frittata on the menu tonight. Nice and simple. Simplicity was good. From what Christophe had said, I was guessing simplicity was something he was hoping for just now, too. But what, I wondered, was the difficult situation he was dealing with?

Christophe felt the wine easing into his system and releasing the tension as he sat on the kitchen table, resting his feet on the seat of a chair. He would take time to savour the second glass. The last twenty-four hours had been quite an ordeal. Why did life have to be so complicated – especially where women were concerned? Oh for the simplicity of a few casual affairs. It had been so easy when he was younger; lots of pretty girls and so much fun with no strings attached. Last year, he had changed the pattern and what a mistake that had been. Now he was dealing with the fallout.

He heard Vicki running down the stairs and looked up as she came into the kitchen. At least she brightened his day a little. She smiled at him. He poured another glass of wine and offered it to her. As she clinked her glass against his, she said, ‘So, what would you like in your frittata? Onions, mushrooms, tomato, peppers?’

‘Anything. I’m sure it will be delicious.’

‘Okay.’ She sipped her wine. ‘Hmm, that’s lovely.’ She raised her glass to him and placed it down on the counter.

Beside him on the table was a small vase containing a bunch of twigs and feathers which Vicki had arranged. He took another slug of his wine and pulled one of the feathers out, turning it between his fingers as he watched Vicki move about the kitchen.

Cute.

He clenched his teeth, reminding himself not to complicate things. Their set-up was nice and simple. She had come here to paint. The last thing he needed was another emotional complication.

*

I don’t usually mind people watching while I’m preparing food, it was no different from teaching, really, but right then, I was acutely aware of everything I did. Not because I thought Christophe was judging me but because I wondered if he might be – and that was unnerving.

I glanced round and saw him sitting on the table, looking broodily into his glass and twirling one of the feathers from the vase. Heathcliffe in Armani.

I threw chopped onions into the frying pan and stepped back as they sizzled. Suddenly, I became aware of a change in temperature – not in front of me but behind. Christophe spoke so close to my ear, I swear I must have flinched.

‘Perhaps I should watch you and learn to cook, myself, huh?’

I pulled a smile. ‘Happy to teach you, if you want to learn.’

‘Do you know what?’ he said, smoothly. ‘Standing this close…’

Er…yes?

‘…I close my eyes and I think François is here.’

I turned and looked at up him. ‘What?’

‘It is the Gauloises. Yesterday you smelled of lemon and mint.’ He moved round and leaned against the counter next to me. ‘François smokes more than he breathes. He is not a healthy man but…he is an interesting one. My father was very fond of him – even though he had an affair with my mother.’

My mind buzzed. First I was insulted by his practically saying I smelled like an old ashtray, then the lemon and mint comment and now, now he was telling me personal details about his mother’s infidelities. How disturbing was this man? He was so close it was verging on intimate…he must be getting quite a lungful of my smoky hair, which was now absorbing tincture of allium as I stirred the onions unnecessarily. ‘That was very magnanimous of your father. He must have loved her very much.’

‘You think? Or perhaps he just wanted a quiet life. He was very preoccupied with his horses and racing. In many other ways she was an excellent wife. She was a superb hostess and brought many good contacts to him. You see, my father was a quiet man, he needed her social skills to further his business.’

‘That’s awful. You make it sound like a corporate merger.’

‘This is often the case in marriage.’

‘It won’t be for me.’ I said defiantly, then coloured at the irony of what I was saying. My own choice of husband had been seriously flawed and yet there I was, passing judgement on his parents’ marriage.

‘So, Vicki, you believe in love and marriage?’

I added peppers to the pan. ‘Well…’ what did I believe? He was looking at me expectantly. ‘…Marriage works for some people…’ Just not me, I thought.

‘And it worked for my parents.’

‘Okay, point taken.’

‘But…?’

I shrugged. ‘Marriage should be about two people really wanting to share their life. About commitment to a joint future. It’s about teamwork.’

‘So, if you’re not a team player, you shouldn’t get married, huh?’

‘Exactly.’

‘And are you a team player, Vicki?’

‘Yes. But right now, I prefer a singles game.’

‘You are impatient to paint, huh? What age are you, twenty-six?’

‘Twenty-eight.’

‘Interesting. Most women your age are starting to look around – they’re like Meerkats.’

I shrugged. ‘Then I guess I’m not like most women.’ I jiggled the spatula vigorously through the onions and peppers.

‘I guess not.’ He heaved himself up to sit on the work surface next to the chopping board. I lifted the board, moved it to the opposite side of the hob, and set about quartering mushrooms. He sat, sipping his wine and watching me. I threw the mushrooms into the pan. As sizzling vegetables filled the weighty silence, I took a long, cool hit of white wine, he said, ‘Some people rush into marriage, don’t you think?’

‘Possibly.’ What was his obsession with marriage? Was he talking about mine? I was bloody sure Isabelle hadn’t said anything, but maybe Louise had. ‘Look, do you mind if we change the subject?’

He shrugged. ‘Okay.’ Good.

I went over to the fridge for the eggs.

‘It smells delicious,’ he said quietly as I came back to the hob.

Now he’s being nice, I thought with a pang of guilt. I lowered the heat. ‘It’s not much, really,’ I said, before looking up to meet the deep brown, unblinking gaze of his eyes.

‘Since you’re keen on a singles game, it’s quite a compromise to worry about cooking for me, non?’

‘No. I’m happy cooking.’

‘But maybe that’s why this subject bothers you – I’m thinking you’d rather not have to…’

‘No. Not at all,’ I said turning the heat down and stepping back. Before I knew it, some latent, Catholic desire for confession pulled an invisible chord in my back so I was spewing my story in bite-sized phrases, like a walky-talky doll. ‘Izzy hasn’t told you, has she? About my wedding day. Or rather, non-wedding day. My fiancé stood me up. He made off with my life’s savings. He gambled money he didn’t have. He used money I didn’t have. There. Now you know why I’m here. It’s a fresh start. Something for me. Nothing and nobody is going to screw it up. Not this time.’ I drew a deep breath. ‘That’s it.’ I took a gulp of wine, picked up the spatula and batted mushrooms from one side of the pan to the other.

‘I’m very sorry to hear that. It must have been difficult.’ His voice had dropped to a cosy, comforting level. I’d heard him muttering words of affection to his dogs in the same tone.

There was a tingle in the back of my nose. I lined up the bowl and whisk, ready for the eggs.

‘Good for you, Vicki. You’re making a change, you’re moving forward.’

I walked across the kitchen to find something, anything, so I could blink the tears away before he saw them. I opened the napkin drawer. ‘Well, I don’t much fancy the alternatives. He’s done me a favour, really.’

‘I guess it didn’t feel like that at the time.’

‘No. And I could have done without the debts he left behind, too.’ I slapped the napkins down on the table. By the time I’d put the cutlery out, I was back under control.

‘Did he actually leave you waiting at the church?’ he asked.

I looked across and was consoled to see his eyebrows dipped in a frown of concern rather than
in that arched, are-you-shitting-me? way that so many others had adopted.

‘Yes. Dad and I were shivering under a brolly in a horse and trap outside. His best man came up to us with this terrified look on his face, poor guy, and I knew.’

He shook his head. ‘The man’s a coward, huh?’

‘Yes.’ I had formed quite a list of other adjectives but coward was definitely on it.

‘So, I’m guessing you don’t trust men now. All of them are bastards, non?’

There was a twinkle in his eye so I guessed he was trying to lift the mood rather than flirt with me. ‘Well…after my recent and, it has to be said, most disastrous attempt at choosing a partner, I’ll take my time and wait until I can identify someone with all the right qualities.’

‘So you wouldn’t have him back?’

‘Marc?’ I thought for a moment. Marc’s mercurial character had fascinated me. No run-of-the-mill dependability there. Oh no. How had I described him? Enigmatic. Yes, well, it was a quality that didn’t pay the bills and didn’t turn up at church. But he’d probably love it here in
France, with the new me. I wondered just how boring I had become; always banging on about school, or trawling through solid wood flooring brochures – not to mention adjusting seating plans for the wedding a hundred times. Maybe I’d moved so far from the girl he’d fallen in love with, he couldn’t face the thought of spending the rest of his life with who I’d become. ‘No. I don’t want him back.’ I cracked the eggs into the bowl with one hand and stirred vegetables with the other.

‘So, you have come here to paint and to cook for me.’

‘Yes.’

‘And after that…how are you going to set about finding your perfect man?’

‘I have no idea. I’m off men. For now,’ I added out of self-respect. No woman wanted to be thought of as perpetually frigid.

‘When was this wedding?’

‘Last year. August.’

‘Really? How long a break are you going to take?’

I stopped multi-tasking and stepped back to look at him. ‘I don’t feel the need to set a schedule.’

‘No, but you seem like a woman who wouldn’t wait around for too long.’

‘Do I?’ I asked, putting my hand out to adjust the heat, without taking my eyes from his.

‘Well, you got impatient when I was delayed picking you up…’

‘I was soaking wet.’

‘…You’re eager to see me eating a healthy diet…’

‘I know – Mrs Stafford.’

‘…You put your heartbreak behind you and travel to another country to pursue your ambitions; you get to work straight away on your paintings…’

He had a point. I picked up the whisk and began beating the eggs furiously.

He continued, ‘I don’t believe a woman with such passion can be fulfilled by work alone.’

I took a deep breath and slowed down on the egg-beating front. I turned and looked him in the eye. ‘Is that so?’ I poured the eggs into the pan so they filled the gaps between the vegetables. ‘Well, I am also a very determined woman.’

He looked back at me, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. Then he leaned forward, gently stroked the feather down my cheek and whispered, ‘I believe you,’ before slipping off the work surface to go and pour himself more wine.

I stirred mechanically, as my insides liquefied and my head span. The guy’s charm was lethal. And I was pretty sure he knew it. Well, he might find that kind of trick worked in his bachelor world – and good luck to him – but I didn’t have to fall for it.

Christophe headed out of the kitchen to put some music on, and
I completed the frittata without further discussion. We sat at the kitchen table and, in my determination to act naturally, I brightly rattled on about how beautiful the countryside was in the Limousin region, ‘It’s so rural, it reminds me of England.’

‘Then you should feel at home.’ He refilled my glass. ‘Tell me, how many paintings do you think you’ll paint this year?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You have no target?’

‘It’s not that simple. It depends whether I’m swept away on a wave of inspiration…or not.’ I lifted my glass and gestured to him. ‘But what about your ambitions, Christophe? Is there a cup you haven’t won or an operation you haven’t performed?’

‘Oh, many.’

‘What are you goals?’

‘Hah! There’s always something more to be achieved. It’s what keeps mankind going, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, probably, although that’s very non-specific. Are you avoiding the question?’

‘What do you want to know?’

Who is the woman in your life – or are there many? Why is your house so sparsely furnished and am I imagining it, or are you flirting with me? And, if I succumbed, do you think we could just be physical without getting involved?

I cleared my throat. ‘You’re how old, thirty-four?’

He nodded.

‘You live here, all alone with your two dogs…’

‘And you.’

‘Okay, and me, at present. What does the next five years hold for you?’

‘What you really want to know is, do I want to get married, non?’

‘No.’ I ran a hand over my hair. ‘Although, it’s a perfectly reasonable question – but I wasn’t exactly asking that.’

‘True, you were being non-specific.’

‘And the answer is?’

He smiled. ‘I guess I’ve decided I like things the way they are.’