Vicki's Work of Heart (9 page)

‘He won’t,’ Christophe breathed, as Daniel headed off in search of
Florin.

‘What? Why?’

Christophe shrugged. ‘A hunch. Now, where’s Jeanne?’

‘I’ve no idea. She introduced me to Daniel and I haven’t seen her since.’ More importantly, I asked, ‘Why won’t he get in touch?’

Christophe waved his hand dismissively. ‘Oh, maybe he will, but he looks to me like the kind of guy who collects women’s numbers for fun.’

‘Really? I’ve never met anyone who did that. Have you?’

‘One or two.’ Christophe smiled then, and I detected a weariness in his face as he touched my arm. ‘Ignore me, I’m probably wrong. Now…’ he looked about him, his focus appearing to bounce from canvas to canvas. ‘What do you think? Should I invest in a Florin?’

‘If I said, ‘yes’, would you?’

He studied the closest piece. ‘Non.’

‘Art’s not really your thing is it, Christophe?’

‘No, although I can appreciate a good picture when I see one.’

‘Is that why you asked Jeanne to bring me?’

‘Not exactly. She rang to say she had invitations and would we like to come. I thought you would enjoy it. But maybe you didn’t?’

‘I don’t like the results, but that doesn’t stop me from appreciating the work that’s gone into them.
And of course, art can exist to stimulate and test the psyche.’ Christophe nodded but I could tell he really wanted to be somewhere else, so I put a bright smile on my face and added, ‘Plus, I met Daniel. He could be a useful contact, if I ever have an exhibition.’

‘Excellent. So, does that mean you’re ready to leave?’

I nodded. My feet ached and all I’d eaten since lunch was an apple and a couple of canapés. ‘Don’t you want to find Jeanne?’

‘If I know Jeanne, she’s already left. Art’s not her thing, either.’

In the car, I kicked off my shoes and closed my eyes. So, poor old Jeanne had invited Christophe to the exhibition only to end up baby-sitting his lodger. No wonder she’d been so bloody cheerless and legged it at the earliest opportunity. Still, fair dos, by bouncing me off onto Daniel Keane, she’d done me a huge favour.

Christophe was wrong. Daniel, did call me, and he took me to see Limoges Museum’s porcelain collection. ‘I’m not a great connoisseur of ceramics,’ he said. ‘But the town’s history is full of it, so I feel it would be rude not to go.’

‘Absolutely,’ I agreed. Anything for some creative stimulation and human company.

I couldn’t quite work out whether Christophe had been avoiding me or perpetually busy. He’d invited his partner, Philippe, round for dinner on Sunday evening. ‘His wife’s away, do you mind?’ he’d asked. Although I’d looked forward to the evening, it had been like watching a foreign movie without subtitles. I’d gone to bed exhausted from trying to follow the conversation. And in the morning, Christophe had gone back to the veterinary school in Toulouse.

Limoges
museum didn’t stimulate me half as much as Daniel’s conversation did. The exhibits were fine – ornamental plates, urns and vases that wouldn’t look out of place in a gypsy caravan – but Daniel, well! He was so connected. He had a sister at the BBC, an aunt at the Royal Academy, friends in two leading newspapers and a cousin on the Arts Council. Which sounded like he was name-dropping, which he sort of was but only because I was quizzing him on how he found subjects to write about. ‘Word gets around in the art world, Vicki. Produce something fresh, interesting or just plain good, and people in the know get to hear about it.’ He smiled. Was he hinting that if I could only produce something good…?

Still, it couldn’t hurt to know people in the know. ‘I feel even more self-conscious about my paintings, now, than I did before,’ I grinned.

‘Don’t be.’ He touched me gently on the arm. ‘There’s such a lot of crap talked about art. I’ve done it myself often enough. Please don’t try to produce something extraordinary. It’ll only look self-conscious. Paint from the heart. That way, you’ll paint what you enjoy, you’ll produce more and by doing that, you’ll develop a style all of your own. The best you should hope for, is to touch people.’

I felt my throat tighten at his sincerity but swallowed the lump down and beamed back at him and blinked a bit. ‘Thanks. I’ll try.’

‘Excellent.’ He squeezed my arm gently before moving his hand away and running it through his hair. ‘Now, let’s see if we can grab a coffee, somewhere.’

*

Later that evening, Daniel reflected on how Vicki had clearly been touched by his words of encouragement. It never ceased to amaze him how one person could so easily affect another. In the wrong hands, influential personalities could and did manipulate weaker ones. That was how teachers could inspire pupils; a few verbal strokes here and a pat on the back there. Equally, a barb or a sneer could squash any burgeoning talent. Maybe, in another life, he might have considered a career in teaching. He shook himself. Unlikely. He wouldn’t have the patience. No. Teaching was for altruistic people, like Vicki. He smiled to himself. Beneath that bright, jokey exterior she was, genuinely, a sweetheart.

Jeanne had not done the English girl justice. Far from being small and insipid, he found her bright and sparky. There was a mischief behind the eyes and a little awkwardness. His smiled broadened when he remembered the flash of concern he’d detected when she’d realised she didn’t recognise him or his name. But Jeanne had been right about one thing, as an aspiring artist, she was ideal. Yes, Vicki was a good find.

On Thursday, to my surprise, Christophe was in a refreshingly chirpy mood. He asked about my trip to the museum. ‘It’s good that you have an acquaintance in the
art world, non?’

‘Very good. It’s nice to talk to someone who understands what I do.’

‘Not like me, huh?’ he smiled.

‘Ah, no, don’t say that. It’s just different. With Daniel I can talk about art and artists and all those things art snobs talk about. Not that I’m one of those. God forbid.’

‘Don’t worry. I can’t imagine discussing Exertional Rhabdomyolysis with you, either.’

‘Granted.’ I thought for a moment. ‘And that is…?’

‘Muscle disintegration. It can happen in horses that are exercised too much, too quickly.’ We exchanged a smile and began clearing the plates away.

When the coffee was made and we took it through to the salon, I said, ‘Do you play the piano or is it there for decoration?’

He cocked an eyebrow. ‘It’s a little too big for an ornament, don’t you think?’

‘So you do play.’

‘Occasionally but like you and your painting, I’m a little rusty.’

‘Could you play something now?’

He looked a little taken aback but placed his coffee down and went over and pulled back the piano stool. ‘Don’t expect too much.’

Like a joke pianist, he flexed his fingers, interlaced them and cracked his knuckles, making me whince. Then he smiled, placed his fingers on the keyboard and faultlessly rippled through a classical piece I totally recognised but couldn’t name.

‘Wow! That was amazing. What was it?’

‘Mozart. Rondo alla Turca.’

‘You should practise more – you could give up your day job and tour the world.’ As he made to get up, I said, ‘Don’t stop now. You’re coffee’s still hot. Play something else.’

He looked amused by this but settled down again, anyway. ‘I think you’ll know this one,’ he said, and began to play the Harry Potter theme tune. Part-way through, he vamped it up into a honky-tonk style and ended, on his feet, hammering the keys with his fingers like a true pro.

‘Bravo!’ I exclaimed, clapping my hands. He looked over at me, a huge grin on his face. It was the first time I’d seen him truly cheerful since my arrival. The man was human, after all.

He closed the lid on the piano. Maybe he didn’t believe in giving a girl too much of a good thing. Just considering how much of a good thing he could give me, made my pulse kick. ‘You’re so talented,’ I said, to deflect my thoughts from where they were heading. ‘You must have been playing for years.’

He stood over the table and picked up his coffee mug. ‘Yes. It pleased my parents to hear me play. So I practised – very hard.’ That was so sweet; to think of him as a little boy, eager to please his pre-occupied parents by devoting himself to his music. ‘My mother still has the grand piano I was taught on. It’s a beautiful instrument but too big for this house.’

‘Well, I think you should play every day – if you have time. I can’t believe you play so well and yet I’ve been here two weeks and that’s the first time I’ve heard you.’

‘It’s the first time I’ve played all year. I’m surprised the piano hasn’t gone out of tune.’

I gaped up at him. Marc was forever tinkering with his guitar – and he was crap by comparison. Actually, on second thoughts, crap was too flattering. ‘Then I shall insist you play more frequently.’

‘Yes…Miss,’ he nodded, a rather fascinating twinkle in his eye.

‘Sorry.’ I rolled my eyes and took a glug of coffee. I had hoped to leave my schoolteacher status behind me but maybe it was still my default setting.

‘Would you like to visit the château on Saturday?’ he asked.

‘Would I?’ I answered, registering how surprised I sounded. ‘Yes please.’

‘Good. Now, I must do some paperwork.’ He moved off towards his study, coffee still in his hand. He turned in the doorway. ‘I forgot to mention, Marie has invited us for dinner tomorrow night. Would you like to go?’

Marie…? I thought. Marie?

‘François and Marie.’

‘Oh yes, of course. Love to. Thanks.’

‘Good. I shall meet you there. Jeanne will come by and pick you up.’

There it was again, the Jeanne connection. The girl was clearly very much in Christophe’s picture.

On Friday night, I pulled out the only smart dress I’d brought with me – the halter-neck wedding dress, now dyed a more appropriate shade of charcoal. As I zipped it up, I vowed the result of tonight’s outing would be more positive. The cripplingly high, crimson stilettos were to have their second excursion, too. Although foxed slightly by the damp grass on my non-wedding day, I’d buffed them up with polish so you’d never notice from a distance. My hair had dried in random blonde waves around my face so I left it loose.

Jeanne displayed, I noted, monumental relief at having set me up with Daniel and was coming very close to being friendly. She was wearing a teal coloured trouser-suit, with a deep v-necked, cream vest beneath. Her long, gold stranded earrings, which draped over her collar bones, seemed surprisingly frivolous for her. The perfume she wore was pungent, a sort of musk verging on mothball. I suspected it was all for Christophe’s benefit.

When I met Marie, I was surprised to see how tailored and trim she was in comparison with François. She was tall and elegant, her silver hair cut into a classic bob. Everything about her was slim, even her hands and feet. She wore a straight, magenta-coloured skirt and lilac blouse, which might have looked a tad secretarial on someone less graceful. She greeted me with a classic French double-kiss before introducing me to the other guests. There were to be twelve for dinner. ‘I have seated you at the head of the table,’ she confided in English. ‘That way, you will be able to see everybody. If you’re anything like François, you will love studying people. Am I right?’

‘Yes. I’m a great people-watcher.’ Although sitting at the head of the table sounded more conspicuous than I’d like for my first French dinner party. ‘Thank you for inviting me, I just hope I can cope with the language.’

‘Oh, we have quite a cosmopolitan crowd. Would you prefer to speak English, this evening?’

‘No. I’ll give French my best shot.’

Marie nodded and switched immediately to French. Thank heavens, she spoke slowly.

François, dressed in a bottle-green shirt with beige trousers and a scarlet cravat, pressed a tall flute of Kir Royale into my hand. He chinked glasses with me and took a large slug from his own. ‘And how is your work progressing, Vicki?’

‘Great, thank you. Nothing really outstanding yet but I’m enjoying exploring colour and movement again.’

‘Wonderful,’ He peered intently into my eyes. ‘Never lose that joy for the medium. Now,’ he placed a hand at my elbow, ‘let me introduce you to our neighbours, Henri and Helene.’

Within seconds, the conversation shot up to warp speed and I struggled to comprehend but I nodded and smiled, all the time keeping a subtle eye out for Christophe’s arrival. François left us for a moment then reappeared to top up our glasses. I was clinging to mine like a life preserver.

I’d just been introduced to a doctor and a TV executive, when Marie announced dinner and led us through to a long, blood-red dining room. It was like something out of Homes & Gardens. The table had been beautifully dressed and was lit by candles on tall candelabra. Four glass doors overlooked the terrace where I had shared lunch with François. It was too chilly to sit outside but we could all enjoy the magnificent view across the valley, where moonlight was glistening on the lake’s surface.

Marie guided me to the head of the table. A
vivid salad of lettuce, shredded peppers and tomato was already set at each place – along with a serving of prawns. Ah, so Christophe must have told Marie I was vegetarian – what a relief. She indicated that the seat to my left was for Christophe. I sincerely hoped he would turn up.

Around the table, conversation was animated. I tried tuning in to what was being said, but with so much noise, it was difficult. I tasted the white wine. It was delicious – light, crisp and very cool. The neighbours, Henri and Helene, were sat to my right. They were in their mid-forties; he a teacher and she a housewife. Suddenly, he was eager to try out his English and discuss various trips he had made to
Britain. After a while, I could tell by Helene’s travelling eyes, she’d lost interest so I endeavoured to draw her back into the conversation, asking if she too had enjoyed the same excursions.

‘Helene speaks very little English,’ Henri confided, before pressing on to relate a school trip he had recently organised to
Edinburgh. ‘Very interesting – but so cold,’ he exclaimed.

‘My mother is Scottish,’ I announced.

‘Really?’ Henri raised his glass. ‘A very friendly nation, I think.’

I raised my eyebrows. Good job he hadn’t gone to
Glasgow.

He continued to ignore his wife and struck up conversation with Jeanne, who was seated across from him and next to Christophe’s empty chair. They spoke rapidly and, sometimes across each other’s sentences, making it impossible for me to pick up. I sat with my elbows on the table, clutching my white wine and straining to grasp threads of their conversation. All I could hear was a barrage of chatter – occasional phrases made sense and then I would lose it again. It was like listening to a badly tuned radio – there one minute and gone the next.

Where was Christophe? Waylaid, en route, by one of his lady-friends…maybe his mystery caller – Sylvie or possibly Louise? Perhaps they were having a highly-charged moment of passion, now that the English school-mistress was safely out of the way. I emptied my wine glass. It really was the most glorious wine.

Marie moved around the table gathering up the dishes, followed by François with another bottle of white wine. He sat briefly on Christophe’s chair.

‘My dear Vicki. Are you enjoying yourself?’

‘Yes, thank you. That wine was delightful. What was it?’ He held the bottle label towards me. ‘Sancerre? I’ve had that at home but it never tasted as good as this.’

‘This is an excellent vintage.’ He refilled my glass. ‘I hope Christophe will be here soon. It’s a pity to see his lovely escort alone.’ Jeanne glanced across and pulled a taut smile before returning to her conversation with Henri.

As François stood up to continue his round of the table, I felt a pang of isolation. Marie was right. People-watching was an entertaining pastime. I tried to remember all their names. Was the doctor called Raphael – or was that the financial director for the French television company?

Jeanne was toying with her wine-glass, her pewter nails dancing round the rim. Was she flirting with Henri? I glanced at him. He was mildly good looking. My ears pricked up when I heard two names mentioned – Christophe et Sylvie. Who was this Sylvie and what did croceuse dedi amant mean? I knew amant had something to do with loving. I made a mental note to google it later.

Further along the table, a heavy-set woman with a cleavage a man could lose an arm in, rocked with an earthy laugh. Damn! Now I’d completely lost the thread of Jeanne and Henri’s conversation.

Just beyond Jeanne was a tall, fair-haired Dutch man. Was he called Kurt or Karl? He had something to do with shipping – although why he was doing it in the middle of France, I couldn’t imagine. I wondered if he had been invited to make up the numbers with Jeanne – who didn’t seem remotely interested in him.

Marie reappeared
pushing a trolley laden with plates. As my plate was put in front of me, I looked down in disbelief and horror. Seated in the middle of a circle of shallots and tiny potatoes, was the whole body (minus head and feet) of a small chicken – poussin – a French favourite. My heart began to hammer. Christophe had clearly said nothing to Marie. How was I going to deal with this? Perhaps I could shriek ‘Fire!’ then slip it into my handbag during the ensuing pandemonium. A small steak would have nestled neatly between the make-up bag and mobile phone but it would take a magician of David Copperfield’s proficiency to disappear this little beauty. Where were Hercules and Boz when I needed them? Perhaps I could dissect it slowly and mash the meat into a small steak. I took another slug of wine and wondered if, with a little Dutch courage, I could actually eat it.

‘Aha! Mon ami. Bienvenu!’ François boomed, as the familiar and very welcome figure of Christophe walked in from the terrace.

He was wearing an open-neck, navy shirt, cream linen jacket and navy trousers. He glanced around the table, smiled and apologised for his lateness. François hugged him heartily and began introducing the guests. Clearly, the only person Christophe didn’t know was Karl or Kurt from Holland. He made his way around the table, shaking hands with the men and kissing the women on both cheeks – including mine. His face was warm and I realised I was becoming familiar with his fragrance. I found I rather liked it tonight. When he kissed Jeanne, I noticed with a pang of acid resentment, the way her steel-tipped fingers caressed his neck as she accepted his kiss. I gulped more wine. No wonder poor Kurl (or was it Kart?) didn’t get a look in – Jeanne had been honing her skills on the pathetic Henri in preparation for the main event. As Christophe sat down, Jeanne smiled triumphantly at me.

Well bully for her.