Vicki's Work of Heart (3 page)

He peered at me in concern, his hand touching my arm, ‘I’m sorry, are you okay?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

His mouth lifted in a half smile and I saw the beginnings of fine lines radiating from his eyes. Nice eyes. ‘Good,’ he said, before lifting my bags and heading up the stairs. I followed him up and across the landing to a large room at the back of the house which was kitted out with heavy wooden furniture. He placed my bags on the floor and walked over to a door in the far corner. ‘Your bathroom.’

I nodded. Despite having doubled my body weight with rainwater, I still couldn’t wait to marinate in a hot bath.

‘I hope you will be comfortable. If you need anything, just ask.’

The curtains and matching bedspread, in apple blossom print, reminded me of an old B&B I’d stayed in with Marc, at Ilfracombe, during a rare hot week when we were on a tight budget and fancied some sand, sea and sex. ‘Thank you. It’s lovely.’

‘Now, you need to get out of those wet clothes and dry off so I will leave you.’ He moved over to the door. ‘Unfortunately, I have an evening appointment, so you will have to settle in on your own.’

Not only had he failed to meet me, he was now abandoning me for the evening. My resentment seeped out through a very blunt, ‘Oh.’

He ran a hand through his damp hair, forcing a stray lock back from his forehead. ‘I had hoped to spend a little time with you, but one of my horses had an accident.’

‘Oh.’ I said again. This time, a breeze of guilt drifted across my heart. ‘Is it going to be okay?’

‘Yes. Unfortunately, he won’t race again but I can still breed from him.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Now, I’m afraid I really have to get ready.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Vicki Marchant.’ He pronounced my surname with a soft ‘ch’ like the French word for walking.

I smiled and shook his hand, which was so much warmer than mine. ‘Pleased to meet you, too. Thank you for letting me stay.’

He nodded and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘Please, find your way around the house. There is a room upstairs that I think you might like to use for your studio. I hope you will be comfortable here and, of course, productive.’

‘Me too. I mean, I’m sure I will be. Comfortable. And productive. Thank you.’

There was that half smile again. Not quite the full blown Vicki-you’re-very-welcome-here kind of smile, more an it-would-be-rude-of-me-not-to smile, before he walked out.

I wandered over to the window to peer out into the darkness and saw…well…darkness. I’d explore the neighbourhood tomorrow. Right now, I desperately needed a hot bath.

In the bathroom, I was met by my reflection in the mirror. ‘Aaargh!’ The sight was as ghastly as Munch’s Scream. My hair had been plastered to my head by the rain; splatters of mascara streaked my cheeks and my skin was as pale as cream. I checked my teeth. Thank God; no green debris. I swung away from my reflection, turned on the bath taps and watched the water gush out. I leaned over and inserted the plug and dispensed shower gel from an industrial-sized bottle into the flowing water. I stripped off and hung my wet clothes over the shower rail.

My first moment of bliss, in a very long time, came as I lowered my chilled backside into the spicily hot water, letting out a series of Ooh-ahs as I did so. I lay back and closed my eyes and mentally flagged this moment as a key memory in the start of my new life.

Downstairs, I could hear Hercules and Boz fussing round Christophe. I heard the low rumble of his voice. Then, there was the sound of him mounting the stairs, two at a time, and the slam of a door, followed shortly by the hum of his shower. I slunk lower in the water and wondered what his evening appointment might entail. My best guess was a woman; he’d hardly be sprucing up for a night in the cow-shed.

When my body started to poach and beads of perspiration trickled over my temples, I sat up and washed my hair, rinsing through with cooler water from the shower attachment. On the back of the door I found a heavy bath-robe, which I wrapped around me. It was at least two sizes too big but deliciously snug. I towelled my hair and shook it loose.

There was more than enough room in the wardrobe for the limited selection of clothes I’d brought.  I’d also had to carry paints, brushes and my old, telescopic easel.

There was a knock at my door. I tightened the sash of my robe and raked a hand through my hair. ‘Entrez.’

As he stepped into the room, I have a sneaking suspicion I may have gasped in surprise. He had transformed himself from soggy vet into
Hollywood idol. He wore a white tuxedo, wing collar shirt, black trousers and bow tie – complete with satin cummerbund. His dark, wavy hair – slightly damp – now flicked over his collar and a stray curl flopped over his forehead. He looked even broader and taller than before. I diverted my attention to the wardrobe door, pushed it closed, locked it, unlocked it and pushed it again as it fell open. Was Izzy completely blind?

‘I’m sorry. I forgot to offer you a drink. Very rude of me. Would you like a glass of wine, or maybe a cup of English tea? I got some in especially.’

‘I’d love a glass of wine, thank you,’ I croaked, that way you do when unexpected lust thickens your throat. That or lack of wine.

He nodded and headed off downstairs.

I turned to my reflection in the mirror, a gape of amazement on my face. I gave my cheeks a Scarlet O’Hara pinch, and ruffled my damp hair. ‘Of course, I’m not interested in him,’ I whispered to myself, ‘but any self-respecting woman wants to look at least presentable.’

Moments later, he reappeared in the doorway, holding a large glass of white wine towards me. As I took it, I noticed the eau-de-manure had been replaced by shampoo and spicy cologne. ‘Thank you,’ I smiled and saw a tiny crop of stubble in the dimple of his chin, which in his haste to shave had been missed. 

‘Welcome to my home. Please, treat it as your own. There’s a little food in the kitchen. And I promise, tomorrow, we will have time to talk.’

‘Looks like you’re going somewhere special.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s a horse racing dinner. Now, I’m afraid, I must go.’

As he turned away, I said, ‘I hope you have a lovely evening.’

He looked back then and smiled, finally at full wattage, and another dimple appeared in his right cheek. ‘I’m afraid I’m now keeping another woman waiting. Goodnight, Vicki, and sleep well.’

I watched him as he ran down the stairs, grabbed his car keys from the hallstand and disappeared from view. I stood, sipping my wine as I listened to the revving of his car and the crunch of tyres on gravel. I heard the drop of engine tone as he changed gear before roaring off into the night. And then it became very quiet – just the ticking of the hall clock and the occasional snuffle from one of the dogs. I shook my head and sighed. ‘Just my luck. I’ve sworn off men for a year and he’s drop dead gorgeous.’

I began my tour of the house, taking my bag of art materials up to the top floor. There were three rooms: a bathroom, a small room cluttered with boxes and old chairs, and the last was a large room with dormer windows on either side. It smelled like a dusty old attic but it was clean and tidy. There was a table, a huge and ancient mirror on the end wall, an old dining chair and an empty chest of drawers. Placing my bag on the table I looked around, nodding my head in appreciation. I tested out a little shimmy of the hips. ‘This is my studio.’ I announced to the four walls. ‘Oh, lovely garret. Thou shalt be the platform for my talent to take wing...’ I threw my arms out evangelically and pumped my hips. ‘Vicki’s back.’

Later, as I wandered from room to room, Hercules and Boz fussed around me, Hercules ramming his snout into my hand and Boz scuttling behind. I couldn’t work out why a house with such old family charm could be so sparsely decorated, unless Christophe’s former lover had legged it with half the contents. I should introduce her to Marc, it might be a match made in heaven. In the corner of the sitting room stood a piano, on which there was a group of framed photographs. All but one showed Christophe in the winner’s circle, receiving trophies with different horses. Izzy had told me his family had bred race horses for years. Christophe specialised in equine vet work. Another photo was altogether more interesting; it showed him holding a red-haired woman in his arms who he’d evidently just swept off her feet. She was clutching a huge Ascot-style hat on her head and kicking a very shapely leg in the air. After close scrutiny, I put the picture down and headed off to the kitchen – the room where I would earn my keep.

Old cupboards had been painted in duck-egg blue; a large American style fridge-freezer stood in the corner and a stainless-steel, five-burner hob was better than I’d hoped for. Despite these impressive facilities, I stuck a potato in the microwave and chopped some tomato and onion. I was too tired for anything fancy and I had nobody to impress tonight.

After supper I went back upstairs, where I couldn’t resist taking a sneaky peek into Christophe’s bedroom. It was decorated in blues and greens. A large dresser stood between two windows. On it were a couple of bottles of cologne, some loose change and a small, bronze sculpture of a horse. The doors of a large wooden wardrobe hung open, exposing a neat selection of clothes; sweaters in shades of bottle green, blue and deep pink hung beside an orderly row of trousers. European men were much braver in their choice of colour –
I wondered if their Mediterranean colouring helped. I thought about Marc’s haphazard wardrobe, dull with khaki and navy, most of which would be spilling from the shelves like there’d been an earthquake.

On the bedside table was a biography of Jules Verne.

The light was still on in the en-suite and, as I approached it, I picked up the subtle, amber fragrance of his cologne. Guiltily, I turned away and my eyes drifted back over to the wide bed with its heavy blue bedspread.

Oh boy, I could just imagine the fun that might be had on there with Christophe. Maybe I’d tug his bow-tie loose with my teeth…then again, maybe he’d do it himself – though not with his teeth, of course – in that confident way a true Hollywood idol would. Followed by the snapping open of tiny white buttons…

‘Don’t even think about it!’ I screeched, and headed out of the room, clicking off the light and closing the door. ‘Focus, Vicki! Focus!’

The following morning, I woke with an ache across my shoulders. I sat on the side of the bed and wind-milled my arms to loosen the muscles. It was only six-thirty but I’d always been an early riser. Well…always since the first week of my first teaching term. I’d quickly learnt it didn’t pay to face marauding year nines with the hang-over from Hades and a seat-of-the-pants lesson plan. They were experts at spotting weakness. It was a kind of jungle cunning. They might not all be destined to make eye-watering GCSE grades, but they were onto a fledgling teacher faster than a mean cat on a sickly sparrow. By getting an hour’s head start, fuelled by a pint of coffee, I could just about keep on top of the little blighters.

Yawning, I wandered over to the window, lifted the curtain and looked out at the hazy morning light playing on the courtyard. There were buildings either side, which I assumed to be part of the veterinary practice. Beyond this, fields stretched into shallow hills dotted with trees. ‘Heaven,’ I said, thankful not to be looking out over a collage of rooftops, washing lines and satellite dishes.

Okay, this was it. I was embarking on an exciting journey into the unknown – my future. All I had to worry about was preparing regular, edible meals and unleashing my creative energy. With a rush of enthusiasm, I pulled on a pair of old jeans, a blue sweatshirt and a pair of sandals. I twisted my hair into a knot on the back of my head and fixed it with a clip. At least I had more colour in my cheeks this morning. I rubbed in some moisturiser. No reason for any make-up.

Well…maybe just a slick of lip-gloss.

As I descended the stairs, Hercules and Boz stepped from their beds, stretching and wagging their tails. I crouched down to give them some attention, before heading to the kitchen. The sun shone through the old windows, casting shafts of light onto the pale blue cupboards. I had no idea what Christophe would eat but thought a pot of coffee would be a good start. I also decided to make fruit salad and later, when I’d had time to go shopping, I would mix some home-made muesli.

By the time the fruit salad was in the fridge, and the coffee brewed, I heard the dogs on the move – a hint that Christophe was heading our way. I’m good, I thought. Sorted. The central, wooden table was set for breakfast, the fruit salad was colourful and nutritious, the smell of coffee was inviting…

Dear Doris! What was I turning into? Just pass me the twin-set and frilly apron.

Rebelliously, I slopped coffee into a mug and leaned against the work surface, just as Christophe sauntered in. He was wearing battered jeans and a loose-fitting, dark blue shirt. Yowser! He was still hot. Suddenly, I remembered how Marc could make an entrance – one flash of his boyish good looks, lit up by a dazzling smile and female heads would turn, knees weaken and pudenda would…

Oh no. I’m sooo not going there, I thought, gritting my teeth.

‘Good morning, Vicki. Did you sleep well?’ His brown eyes were almost black surrounded, as they were, by lashes the colour of tar.

‘Like a baby,’ I smiled. ‘A good baby. Not a colicky one. I mean, it’s so quiet here. Very peaceful. I had a long day yesterday. Long and tiring.’ Oh crap. I was rambling, so I slurped some too-hot coffee and scalded my tongue.

‘And getting soaked to the skin on my doorstep didn’t help, huh?’ Something about the way he said ‘huh’ at the end of his sentences was so very…French.

He leaned against the worktop, hanging his head over the coffee pot and sniffing. ‘Mmm. Smells good.’ He looked down at me. ‘What a treat to come down to hot coffee. C’est merveillieux.’

The heat of his body was coming off him in wafts of shower gel and amber cologne. I lifted the coffee pot and carried it to the table. Realising his mug was still on the worktop, I carried it back and poured it out.

‘How was your racing dinner?’

‘Very good. But also tiring.’

‘Was it a nice meal?’

‘It was delicious – and should have been, the tickets were expensive.’

‘Talking of food, what do you like to eat and where do you suggest I do the shopping?’

He shrugged. ‘I eat most things. I will be happy with anything you make. We have some shops here, and you can borrow the car to go into
Limoges. I will take you, some time, and show you round.’

‘And…um…shall I buy the food and let you know what your share is?’ He looked puzzled. ‘I assume we’re splitting the food bill fifty-fifty.’

‘I know what you are saying. But, you do the cooking, I do the paying.’

He was a caveman. ‘But I’m cooking in return for staying here. You can’t pay for my food as well.’

‘Vicki, I am perfectly happy to pay for the food.’

I shook my head. I had always paid my own way – not to mention Marc’s. I appreciated his hospitality but this was taking it too far. ‘That’s very kind of you, but I really must pay for mine. I may not be working at the moment, but I do have money.’ Not much, admittedly but there was a little spare each month from the rent on my flat.

He held out his hands in disbelief. ‘But you don’t have to. You are in my house and Isabelle tells me you are a very good cook. I shall eat well, non?’

‘I hope so.’ That really wasn’t the point. ‘But it still doesn’t mean you can pay for my food. You won’t even let me pay for my accommodation; I have to make some contribution.’ There was something about being in debt, to anybody, which caused a clenching in the core of my being. I’d finally paid my dues for Marc’s decadence, I wasn’t about to put myself in a position where I was beholden to somebody else. I’d work for my rooms but I’d pay for my food.

For an absolute age he stared at me before saying, ‘I’ll tell you what…I’ll give you some money each week and if it runs out, you can add to it. There, decision made.’ He bent to sip his coffee.

I stared at the top of his head, where the dark hair swirled in textured waves.  ‘While we’re on the subject, what do you usually have for breakfast?’ I asked.

He held up his mug. ‘Just this. I don’t usually have time for breakfast.’

‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Let me guess, you take care of all those animals but don’t look after yourself, am I right?’

He shrugged ‘I have survived to thirty-four quite well, I think. Don’t you?’

Oh. My. God. One of Marc’s favourite phrases sprang to mind, You gotta love me, you know you do. My eyes dropped from his face to his tanned chest above the open neck of his shirt. I shrugged, ‘You look…okay. But I still say, breakfast is crucial and, if I prepare it, all you’ll have to do is eat it. Now then,’ I said, picking up a spoon and pointing to the bowl of fruit salad. ‘Do you like fruit?’

He looked at it and up at me. I noticed a smile playing at the corners of his eyes as he asked, ‘Do I have a choice?’

‘Of course you have a choice. It’ll keep in the fridge for days and I’ll eat it myself.’

He held my gaze for a long moment before nodding at the bowl. ‘Thank you. It looks delicious,’ he said and watched while I attempted to serve the fruit graciously but my co-ordination was a little out of whack.

Unsettled by the silence as we sat eating, I said, ‘Izzy told me you went to school in
England, why was that?’

‘My maternal grandmother was English. I was sent to school in
Surrey for four years.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Seven.’

I coughed on a piece of banana that nearly choked me. ‘You were sent away at seven? To a different country?’

He shrugged. ‘It wasn’t so bad. I had good times and some nice teachers.’ He grinned. ‘You remind me of one of them.’

‘I do?’

‘Mrs Stafford. She was always making me eat things that were good for me.’

‘Oh. Well, I’m sure she did it with the best of intentions. Children can be very picky.’

‘This is true. And remember, I was used to French cuisine – steak and kidney pie with cabbage was a whole different thing for me. I’m afraid I still don’t like cabbage.’

‘If it’s school cabbage, I don’t blame you. There are much better ways of preparing it.’

‘Then perhaps you will convert me.’ He smiled that half smile again, the one that promises the full beam. ‘So, Vicki, how is it you became such a competent cook, huh?’

‘My nan taught me. She had a little restaurant in Clevedon – it’s a holiday resort – I used to work there in the school holidays.’

He nodded but didn’t say anything, he just appeared to be analysing my response. Then he looked at his watch. ‘Excuse me. I have to walk the dogs before work. Thank you for breakfast.’

Standing up, he whistled. Immediately the dogs leapt to his side. As he stood in the doorway, he turned to me. ‘I will leave you keys and some money. Abientôt.’ he said; see you later.

‘Christophe...’ My shoulder flexed in surprise – it was the first time I’d called him by his name. ‘Do I need to feed the dogs?’

He looked down at them and grinned. ‘They will tell you “yes – all the time” but they only have one meal a day, at six o’clock. When I am not here, Louise comes in from the surgery to feed them. They will tell you when it’s time. They are very good clock watchers.’

‘Do you have surgery today?’

‘Non. Today, I have three farm visits. But please, feel free to go in and say hello to Louise. She is a lovely girl. You will like her.’

I hoped so. I could do with a friend nearby. Isabelle was in Paris, 250 miles away. There would be no dropping in on her to share experiences and a bottle of wine. I’d called her last night, once I’d settled in.

‘I told you Christophe would arrive,’ she’d said. ‘What do you think?’

‘Great. It’s a lovely old house and my studio is fabulous. I’d have been happy in an old shed.’

‘And Christophe?’

The vision of him in his tuxedo had flashed before me. ‘He seems nice. But we haven’t really had time to talk and now he’s gone out for the evening.’

‘I hate to say it, chérie, I don’t have time to talk either. Jean-Claude is here, we’re watching 2001 A Space Odyssey, have you seen it?’

‘Yes, I fell asleep after ten minutes and woke up when all the alarm clocks went off.’

‘Oh Vicki, you’re so funny. You must watch it some time, it’s fascinating.’

‘No, honestly. I’d rather watch paint dry.’ And often did.

‘Bye, honey. Love you.’

Just occasionally, I wondered how on earth Isabelle and I had become so close. Sixteen years ago, our friendship had an unusual beginning. Bristol had been twinned with Bordeaux for years, and my dad used to be very active in the city’s twinning association. So, despite my hesitation to venture into another country alone – especially since I’d just had dental braces fitted – I’d been set up for an exchange. I’d arrived at Bordeaux airport, the youngest of fifteen Bristolean students, trembling in my short, lavender tartan kilt, lavender sweater, black tights and chunky black shoes – the height of fashion in the late nineties or so I thought – and waited with anxiety churning in my stomach. When the group leader began calling out names to partner us up, out of the crowd stepped a tall girl with short dark hair. She was wearing a bottle-green sweater over jeans and trainers but looked unutterably chic to my young eye. Isabelle Masson grinned in my direction and I was overjoyed to see her teeth were adorned with a comprehensive set of dental braces identical to mine. I hadn’t smiled properly since I’d had the horrible things fitted but I beamed back at her with relief.

She’d made me a card, showing a hand-drawn, vaguely recognisable image of
Bristol Suspension Bridge with the letters – V I C K I – hanging beneath. Inside the card was another bridge, that I later learned was Pont Pierre in Bordeaux, with the letters – I S A B E L L E – hanging beneath.

‘We are the same,’ she said in her best English.

‘Yes,’ I replied, delighted to think this girl would align herself with me. ‘Oui.’

Our friendship confirmed, she hugged me and took hold of my hand before leading me to her parents. As I’d never had a brother or sister – and coming from an English society where hugging was reserved for close family – the intimacy of this made me feel weirdly alien and yet totally accepted.

As if in anticipation of her future career, Isabelle already showed a knack for getting alongside others and gaining their confidence.

She was confident too, for a teenager. She had three brothers and read everything she could lay her hands on. I, on the other hand, was still finding my social feet, was an only child and read magazines – occasionally. While she would astonish me with her burgeoning philosophies of life, I would impress her with my drawing ability and early skills in the kitchen. My Somerset Apple Cake still remains a favourite with her family.

So, despite the miles which separated our homes, we became ‘Sisters Under the Sun’.

*

As Christophe walked up the hill with his dogs, he used the time to think about the newcomer in their household. ‘What do you think, boys?’ he asked them. ‘Did I do the right thing, huh? Do you like having company around the house?’ Hercules looked back at him, tongue flopping out of his mouth in a lazy, doggy smile. ‘I did it for you, you know.’ Although, he could see there were some benefits for him too.

He thought how vehemently Vicki had argued with him over the purchase of food. He smiled to himself as he remembered how her cheeks had flushed pink and her round eyes seemed to grow larger as she made her point. The girl certainly had spirit. Perhaps it was her artistic temperament coming out. The truth was, she probably didn’t eat more than a mouse. She was tiny – that sweatshirt swamped her. Beautiful eyes though – were they blue or violet?