Vicki's Work of Heart (6 page)

I coughed to dislodge the rice sticking in my throat. ‘How about you? Is it all horses and work?’

He nodded slowly and smiled. ‘I have a lot of pleasure riding my horses.’

‘Lovely. I can only imagine how wonderful it must be to gallop across the open countryside. I’ve never been on a horse in my life,’ and there was a very good reason for that – horses terrified me.

‘Really? Then you must learn while you’re here.’

Not bloody likely. ‘To be honest, I don’t think I’d be very good at it. But thanks for the offer.’ I chased the last of my risotto around the plate. ‘What else do you do?’

‘I go to watch my horses race. Now, that is a fantastic thrill and also a little tense. Have you ever been to the races?’ I shook my head. He adjusted his position to face me fully as he began to describe the scene. ‘But you can imagine the build up before the race, non? Everyone is excited and expectant; the traps go up and the adrenalin is pumping while you watch your horse charging round the course – ahead a little, then back, then ahead again. It’s very intense and it’s exhilarating. Then, when it finally crosses the finishing line – its head just in front of the rest – ah, it’s like…’ He leaned forward and his eyes narrowed as he looked for the words. I waited. ‘…it is the second best thing to making love.’

I just knew he was going to say that. I was toying with the idea of coming back at him with, ‘You’ve clearly never skied down a red run, at dawn, stark naked,’ but his phone rang again. He let out a groan and dragged his eyes away from mine but not quickly enough, I suspect, to miss the tell-tale heat scorching my flesh. ‘Excuse me,’ he smiled, before flicking open his phone.

I sipped at my wine as he sat back in the chair to take the call, saying very little, other than the odd ‘oui’ or ‘non’. I could hear the caller’s voice. It was a woman and, by the sound of it, an emotional one. I risked a glance in his direction but the strain on his face was so intense, I looked away quickly and gathered the plates together.

He snapped his phone shut. ‘My apologies, Vicki. I must go,’ he said, stood up and headed to the door, stopping briefly to say, ‘Thank you for dinner.’

I sat for a moment and pondered…could that have been the woman he used to live with? Was she still on the scene and raising the roof over my arrival? What news could affect him so strongly he had to rush off without trying my fabulous lemon mousse?

I let out a huge sigh and ran a cooling hand round the back of my neck.

My host didn’t come home that night or the following morning. I finally cleared the breakfast away at ten, tossing Hercules and Boz a small chunk of bread each. I took a mug of coffee out into the courtyard and sat on a wooden bench in the sunshine. I’d spent the morning reviewing my photographs and sketching ideas for my first canvas. The chances of Christophe having called his artist friend were pretty remote so I chewed over the idea of getting a taxi into Limoges. It would be pretty costly, though. I’d already shelled out on a taxi from the station.

Through one of the surgery windows, I could see Christophe’s partner, Philippe, talking to Louise. Philippe was heavy-set, with a face like a young Gerard Depardieu, but without the 1970’s hairstyle. Perhaps they knew where Christophe was. Not that it was important. He wasn’t obliged to be around to eat every meal with me. But it would be nice to know if he was planning on coming home for dinner. I sipped at my coffee, mulling over my morning’s work. There was no denying it – my sketches were stilted and dull. That’s what comes of spending three years teaching the effect of viewpoint on elipses,  or shading technique and reflected light…I’d completely lost spontaneity in my own work.

I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes. Thoughts of Marc and what he might be doing snuck into my brain. I’d heard he’d moved on from Barbados to Miami. And guess who lived there – Maxine Dewar – she of the double tongue piercing. That really niggled me. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to invite her to the wedding. He’d said she wasn’t ‘into weddings’ so why bother? She definitely wasn’t into my wedding, any more than he was. Maxine did sculpture. She’d always been the wild one in our group. By the time she completed her degree, she’d had twenty-two piercings. I supposed they might come in handy for hanging her tools on.

I still didn’t know whether Marc had made his decision to leave at the last minute, or planned it months ahead. Word had filtered through he’d felt pressured into the wedding; he would have been happy staying as we were. Oh, really? I thought. If that were true, where was he now? He could have talked it over with me and not taken the coward’s way out. But that was Marc – never one to confront anything. He’d duck around a problem, sweep it under the carpet, never see anything to a conclusion. Where as I…I what?

It’s not like I’d spotted his reluctance. I sure as hell hadn’t been looking for it. We were a team, I’d thought, with me calling the shots, rallying the troops, saving the cash…

Yes. I was the kind of girl who saw things through to the bitter end. I was not a quitter.

I sighed. After everything Marc had done, I was surprised I couldn’t hate him – not after spending so long in love with him. He’d always had this irresistible charm – even when he was totally in the wrong, he could make me laugh so I’d forgive him. I smiled a watery smile and groaned. ‘May the universe deliver me from charming men.’

As I walked back across the courtyard, I could hear the unmistakable sound of a girl crying. It was coming from the surgery. A client grieving over the demise of a much-loved pet, perhaps? I paused. No, that was definitely Louise’s voice I could hear between the sobs. Curious. Had it been her voice I’d overheard on the phone, last night? But why would she be crying on the phone to Christophe? No, surely it had been the ex calling? This idea nudged another thought into my mind – was Christophe the kind of guy who might use my stay to manipulate the women in his life?

I nodded to myself. Sure, he could be.

That pulled me up short. If my suspicions were right, it did put my sabbatical on a rather shaky footing.

I made myself a sandwich of goat’s cheese and tomato, and tramped slowly back up to my studio, where I stared disconsolately at my sketches. So much for my new life. And it was hard to imagine a ticker-tape welcome on my return to Bristol, as I sloped down Victoria Street, shoulders drooping and an empty portfolio at my side.

I stared at the wall for ages, fighting my doubts with positive affirmations – that tell-tale prickle in the back of my nose threatening tears. Had I been kidding myself I could get over the storm of Marc’s departure so easily?

Downstairs, the dogs began barking.

‘Allo!’ a man’s voice called.

I wiped my face with my hands and sniffed, before running down the first flight of stairs. ‘Hello!’ I called back, sniffing again.

At the bottom of the second flight, I saw a large, sandy-haired man with a thick moustache looking up at me. ‘Ahh!’ he exclaimed. ‘Vicki?’

‘Oui.’ I descended the stairs.

‘I’m François,’ he said, holding out his hand to me. ‘Christophe tells me you want canvases.’

I opened my mouth in surprise. ‘Yes. I do. Pleased to meet you.’ I shook his hand.

He beamed at me. I could see he was a good deal older than Christophe, probably in his early fifties. His eyes were quite sexy in a dissipated way; creased as they were from laughter, and bloodshot, I suspected, from booze but his handshake was warm and strong. I felt like I was in the presence of a true lover of life – I could practically feel his energy recharging mine. ‘I think you have been crying, Vicki.’ he declared, in English; his frankness shocking yet welcome.

I brushed a strand of hair from my face. ‘Just feeling a bit homesick, I suppose. Silly isn’t it?’

‘Nonsense. We are nothing without emotion. Come.’ he embraced me firmly, kissing me on both cheeks, the tang of Gauloises cigarettes assailing my nostrils. ‘I have brought a canvas for you but it may not be the right size. If you like, I can take you to my supplier and you can choose exactly what you want.’

And we’re off, I thought. I will get over Marc’s departure. ‘Absolutely. If you’re happy to take me to your supplier, that would be great. Thank you.’

François, God love him, encouraged me to speak French during our journey. His enthusiasm for my efforts – not to mention his patience – had to be applauded. I watched him as he squinted through the smoke from his cigarette, while he concentrated on what I was trying to say. Whenever I grasped blindly for a missing word, he’d plug the gap.

The art shop was like an Aladdin’s cave. It took all of my self control not to buy yet more paints and brushes – gleaming new brushes were always so tempting and utterly sensuous, especially when I stroked those silky, sable strands across my cheek.

As François closed the van doors on my materials, he said, ‘Why don’t we take all this back to my studio and stretch those canvases for you?’

‘That would be fantastic. Christophe tells me you paint horses. I’d really love to see your work.’

‘Well, I hope you like them. Not everybody does.’

As we set off, I asked, ‘Have you painted Christophe’s horses?’

‘Many times. His father gave me my first com
mission. I was straight out of art school and full of enthusiasm – and angst. Hah! I like to think I’ve improved a little since then.’

‘So you’ve known Christophe a long time?’ I asked, masterminding a conversational path that led directly to the source of the recent drama.

‘Since he was a baby. Always bright. Always thoughtful. And I think, often lonely.’

My head snapped up. ‘Really?’

François nodded, tossing his cigarette filter out of the window. ‘His parents were busy with their own lives. His father was a fine man – quiet but strong. Sadly, I don’t think he was very affectionate. And yet his mother, ah…’ he paused. ‘What a beautiful woman.’ A smile settled on his face and I could tell there was something going on behind his eyes, which I could only guess at.

And…?

After a moment, I asked, ‘So, they sent their only child away to school?’

François shrugged. ‘His mother likes to travel. Having a baby doesn’t automatically make you a good parent, you know.’

I leaned my head back on the seat and pictured a little seven year-old boy, packed off to a school in another country because his parents had better things to do than look after him. I would never do that to a child of mine. An image drifted across my inner vision of a beautiful boy, with dark eyes and a heartbreaking smile. Drawing a deep breath, I found it hard to imagine Christophe being lonely these days.

François steered his van through an avenue of poplar trees to a house and outbuildings that scrambled up the gentle gradient of a hill. ‘A drink before we work,’ he announced.

We sat on the terrace, drinking Pouilly Fumé and munching olives. François rattled off stories of his time at art school and disasters he’d had with a foray into sculpture, ‘Metal is not my friend,’ he said. ‘It’s not forgiving like paint.’

The house overlooked a lake, which now shimmered as the late afternoon sun played on a surface rippled by the breeze. I had one small glass of wine, while François downed two large glasses and filled himself a third before guiding me to his studio. I wondered if he’d be able to see straight enough to stretch the canvases and, more importantly, to drive me home.

His paintings, however, were superb. I stood back and marvelled at the huge images. They were vivid and full of his energy. Their vibrancy reminded me of the work of Gauguin, although François had a style of his own. In one, I could sense the horses straining to be off; in another I could almost feel the heat, and touch the sweat dripping off their flanks. If my paintings could have half of this power, I’d be deliriously happy.

In his vast barn of a studio we worked together, one holding the canvas while the other stapled it to the stretcher bars and finally, we were applying gesso with big, fat brushes. As we finished the last canvas, my phone rang. It was Christophe.

‘Salut.’ I chimed. ‘How are you?’

‘Bien, merci.’ He sounded like he was in the car. ‘Did François come to see you?’

‘Yes, I’m with him now. We’ve just been preparing my canvases.’

‘Where are you?’

‘In his studio. His paintings are absolutely brilliant.’

‘You like them, huh?’ He continued. ‘I will come and meet you. I expect François has had a couple of bottles of wine by now.’

‘Nearly.’ I smiled with relief. ‘Thanks.’

‘I will see you shortly.’

Twenty minutes later, Christophe was sauntering into the studio. He was tall, lean, undoubtedly sober and an Adonis alongside the haggard François. They greeted each other with hearty embraces and continental man-kisses. After a brief exchange of words, Christophe turned to me. ‘François says you have had a good day together.’

‘Yes, he’s been really helpful and quite an inspiration.’

François offered Christophe a glass of wine.

He shook his head. ‘Thanks but I’ve had a long day, we should be going.’

Not to mention – long night – I thought. Judging by the dark crescents under his eyes, he probably hadn’t slept at all.

François continued, ‘Vicki can speak French very well. We had quite a conversation, didn’t we?’

I responded in slow but determined French, only getting one word wrong. Christophe corrected me so gently, I felt as if my attempts at French were perfectly okay. He smiled. ‘Soon, you will be speaking like a native.’

‘Well that, at least, would be one of my ambitions achieved.’

‘And how many more are there?’

I scratched my head. Well, there was holding an art exhibition, somewhat difficult to declare in front of a talent like François; and then there was not allowing myself to be jilted again, which I certainly wouldn’t own up to; and I supposed there was still the vague hope that, one day, I might meet a man – the right man – who wouldn’t leave me at the altar. And there was no way I was making that confession, either. ‘Certainly more than one.’ Was all I would say.

Christophe raised an eyebrow and nodded. ‘Do you want to put your canvases in the car?’

‘I can’t. They’re still wet.’

François volunteered to deliver them the following day. ‘It will be a pleasure and in time, I look forward to seeing your work.’

‘Well don’t expect too much. It’s been ages since I put paint to canvas. But I’ve really found your work inspiring. It’s wonderful.’

François took my hand, bowed and kissed it. ‘Vicki, it has been an honour.’

We drove home in silence, me contemplating the roller-coaster of moods I had experienced in the last forty-eight hours and Christophe, no doubt, reflecting on his torrid night at the hands (or possibly feet) of some hysterical woman. As we drew up alongside the house,
without looking at me, he said very softly, ‘Thank you.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Thank you for your quiet. I appreciate it.’

‘Oh,’ I responded, feeling like I’d just received an unexpected award. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘I am dealing with a difficult situation at the moment.’ He shrugged. ‘No matter.’ He turned and opened his car door.

I watched him head to the house. ‘Well,’ I murmured to myself, ‘What’s all that about?’

As we stood in the hallway being greeted by a frenzy of delight from Hercules and Boz, I asked, ‘Are you hungry? I was going to make lasagne but I could do something quicker, if you prefer? A frittata, perhaps?’

He stood up, still caressing the larger dog’s head and barely smiled. ‘A frittata will be fine. Thank you.’

‘Okay. I’ll just pop up and get changed.’ I guessed I was looking pretty shabby after stretching all those canvases. I stopped on the stairs. ‘Could you feed the dogs?’