Vicki's Work of Heart (5 page)

I filled him in on my walk around the town and the apparent lack of an
art supplier.

‘You need to go into
Limoges. My good friend, François, is an artist. He will be able to help you.’

‘Yay! Another artist? What does he paint?’

‘Mostly horses. His wife, Marie, is an interior designer. I will call them after dinner.’

‘Great. Thank you.’

I glanced, then, at his untouched soup willing him to taste it.

‘And this is?’ he asked.

‘Melon and mint.’

His eyebrows twitched. He dipped the spoon in. I held my breath. He appeared to savour it for a moment and nodded. ‘Very good.’ He looked up and I breathed again. ‘Unusual but delicious.’

Phew! One course down, two to go. After a polite silence, I told him about my lunch with Louise. ‘You’re right, she’s lovely.’

‘I’m glad you like her. It will be good for you to make some friends here. I assume you don’t intend to spend all your time painting while you’re in
France, do you?’

‘Well…it’s my main focus but you’re right, everyone needs a friend or two.’

‘Good. Perhaps she will take you out with her. You can get to know her friends.’

I could feel my eyebrows lift. ‘She’s quite young though,’ I said. Thinking she was closer in age to my sixth-formers – bursting with optimism and low on life’s experiences.

‘I think it’s good to hang out with young people, non? They lift your spirits; remind you that life can be fun sometimes, huh?’

His smile was wickedly twinkling, now – and just a little intoxicating. Maybe he was remembering some fun he might have had with Louise, himself. Maybe he was imagining the kind of fun this sad, old, jilted
art teacher might be crying out for. At this image, my cheeks roared up to maximum temperature and guess what; his smile registered the affect. Suddenly, I was catapulted back in time to the moment I’d come fact to face with my first big crush, Lawrence Harvey, outside the chip shop in Clifton. I’d run straight into his elbow and sent his chips flying. Then I’d performed a Tom & Jerry style juggling act to catch them before they hit the pavement, meeting a brutally vinegary chip full in the eye. As I’d squinted through the tears to clutch the greasy parcel to my duffel-coated chest, he’d said, ‘Kids!’ He was all of fifteen and I was eleven. On handing most of the chips back to him, he’d shrugged, looked me in the eye and grinned. ‘Good catch, though,’ he’d said and, for the first time in my young life, my heart boarded a roller coaster. My addiction to charmers had been launched.

Right now, as then, I could feel my equilibrium being seriously challenged. The difference being that on Whiteladies Road, I’d shoved the chips back into Lawrence’s hands and legged it; now, I nudged a fraction closer, probably lowered my eyelids à la Miss Piggy and said, sotto voce, ‘Do you think I might have forgotten how to have fun?’ Our eyes locked. My focus did a slow pan from one of his eyes to the other. They were as dark as printer’s ink.

‘I think, the older we get, we can all be guilty of that, non?’ he said. ‘Tell me, what’s the most fun you’ve had in the last week?’ Week? We were talking seven days? I scanned my memory bank, tearing off imaginary calendar pages, one after the other. He must have spotted the rapid blinking of my eyes; I guess I looked like Richard Gere doing his I’m-in-a-tricky-spot-and-thinking-very-hard act, because Christophe added, ‘Not much, I think.’

‘Well, coming here has been a highlight. Last week I was busy getting ready to leave.’

‘Okay. Before that. What was the last fun thing you did?’

I’d got absolutely trashed at my leaving party in July. The theme was cartoon heroes. I’d gone as Madame Whiplash. Not because I had designs on subjugating any men, but because a certain level of bitterness had taken root. I think I was secretly hoping to keep them at arm’s length by cracking my 120 centimetres of coiled leathe
r if they got too close. In retrospect, I should have gone as Mrs Doubtfire. With term over and several pints under their belts, some male members of staff were salivating at my apparently blatant come-on. In their eyes, I was back on the market. Three mojitos under my belt, and I’d become a proficient circus act; three more and all hostility towards the male species had been swilled away. I’m a happy drunk; everybody is my friend and I love them for it, which is probably not the most appropriate status when strutting around in cheap black latex and stockings.

‘Well?’ Christophe prompted.

Gah! ‘We had a party at the end of term. That was fun.’

He nodded slowly but didn’t seem too impressed. ‘Did you dance?’

‘Oh boy, yes. We also had a horse race – of sorts.’

‘You did?’ he looked puzzled.

‘How do I explain? The men were the horses, the women were the riders. We raced through the car-park – piggy-back style.’ I omitted to say there was a grainy video of me on Youtube, frantically caning one of the PE teachers with my whip handle as we crashed across the finishing line. I’m not absolutely sure it didn’t unearth some deep-seated masochistic tendency in my mount, since I swear his eyes shone quite brilliantly as he thanked me for the best ride of his life. You can hear him say so on Youtube…anonymously, of course. We’re all responsible teachers who would never be caught doing anything unseemly after dark.

‘So, the end of term was when – July?’

I knew what he was getting at. It was months ago. ‘That was the most fun I’ve had recently. I’ve been busy preparing to come here. Although, I did treat myself to a weekend watching the entire boxed set of Sex and the City and eating my way through a large tub of Chunky Monkey ice cream. How about you?’ I asked before he had chance to comment.

He smiled. ‘Fun? Do you know what? I’ve probably not had that much fun myself, lately.’

‘Think.’

He sat back in his chair. ‘That would probably be when I kayaked down the river
Tarn. Four of us went on a weekend away. I think you English would call it a stag weekend.’ He nodded and smiled at the memory.

‘When was that?’

He grinned. ‘June.’

‘You’re right, Christophe, we need to get out more.’ I stood up and reached for his empty dish. ‘I’ll go and fix the main course.’

From the kitchen, I could just make out him talking on the phone again. I figured he was calling his artist friend, until a loud and explosive stream of invective made Boz whimper in disapproval. By the time the main course was ready, all was quiet again. I entered the dining room cautiously but he was sitting with his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his fists and staring out of the window. I hovered. ‘Are you ready for your main course? It’s pork in apricot sauce with sage and onion rice.’

He sat back, and I could see from the set of his jaw that all sense of fun was forgotten. ‘Absolutely. Thank you.’

He ate quickly, deep in thought while I wondered what was happening in his world to wind him up so. Should I distract him with conversation or leave him alone? It was hard to judge. You could practically twang the tension with a fingernail. Finally he spoke.

‘You have no meat.’

I took my focus from the vegetable risotto on my plate and looked up at him. ‘No. I’m a vegetarian.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Well…I think I was always a vegetarian at heart. I knew I could never actually take another creature’s life just to satisfy my hunger; especially when there are so many other options. But I once heard someone explain he was a vegetarian because “animals are your friends, and you don’t eat your friends”.’ I shrugged. ‘Made sense to me.’

Christophe stared at me like he was assessing my sanity.

I continued, ‘Well, I was stroking one of our dogs at the time, and I thought – he’s right. So I haven’t eaten meat since.’

Christophe repeated the phrase: ‘You don’t eat your friends.’ And then he laughed. ‘I would love to hear what Monsieur Bonnet would say about that – or Monsieur Laurent.’

‘Let me guess – farmers?’

He nodded slowly. ‘So, do you offer fish the same respect?’

I wrinkled my nose. ‘Not exactly.’

‘You do not consider them your friends, then?’

‘Well…I know it is a tiny bit hypocritical, but I’m not sure there’s much history of mankind bonding with fish. I’m not saying they don’t have feelings or emotions – it’s just not very easy to spot them.’

He smiled and studied me for a moment. It was that staring thing again. ‘Vicki. Do you know what this meal is missing?’

I looked at his plate, confused both by his query but more by the intensity of his look. I shook my head. ‘Salad?’

‘Wine.’

Idiot. How could I have forgotten – in France of all places? I blushed, jumping up immediately. He closed his hand gently around my wrist. An electric surge shot up my arm. Yikes! This man could be dangerous.

‘Vicki. please, sit down. Leave it to me.’

When he left I rubbed my wrist and shook it. I slid my plate a little further away from his and shuffled my chair into a new position. He returned with two large glasses and a bottle of Pinot Noir.

‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I forgot,’ I said as he poured the wine.

‘No matter. You have been busy.’ He passed me a glass. ‘A votre santé. Good health.’

I took the glass from him, holding it by the stem to avoid his fingers, and sipped it immediately. The wine was smooth, buttery and just the right temperature. I could feel a warm glow spreading through my insides. Wine could do that to you, I reasoned, taking another swallow.

Outside the sun was setting behind the trees, forming a deep orange halo. I thought how lucky I was to be there, gazing out at such a lovely view. After a while, I asked, ‘Who are the children in the pictures?’

‘My father and his brother, Alain.’

‘They’re charming sketches.’

He nodded.

‘And the château?’

‘That was painted by a local artist.’

‘It’s beautiful. Is it near here? I’d like to go and see it for myself – or one like it.’

Christophe nodded. ‘I can take you. It looks particularly beautiful in the autumn.’

‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

‘It’s no trouble.’ He smiled, the dimple in his cheek reappearing. ‘It will be my pleasure.’

Pleasure. I suspected he was well able to find and give pleasure at the drop of a chapeau, which launched another rush of heat through my veins. ‘Oh.  Right.  Thank you. I’ll take my camera. The more images I can gather, the more stimulation I’ll have for my work.’

He raised an eyebrow as he lifted the bottle to refill our glasses. ‘So, you have swapped teaching to make a living as a painter?’

‘Ooh, well, I hope so.’ I remembered my affirmations. ‘No. Yes. I am a painter. This year I plan on building a portfolio of paintings. I’m working towards an exhibition.’

He nodded. ‘So, why the change and why now?’

Isabelle couldn’t have told him the full story, then. Thumbs up to Izzy. I twiddled the stem of my wine glass, backwards and forwards as I considered my answer. ‘Teaching art can be very satisfying but also frustrating. You come up with lots of ideas for the children to develop, and all the time you wish you could be working on them, too.’

‘Really? Couldn’t you paint while they were painting?’

‘Not easily.’ I thought of the pandemonium that had ensued the day I’d attempted to work on my own piece while the year nines were working on theirs. It had taken six hours and a large can of emulsion paint to cover up the graffiti. The standard of Banksy it wasn’t. Nobs, balls and boobs proliferated, dappled with arcs of multicoloured spots and several blobs of chewing gum. No. Kids at Darwin High School had demanded my full and undivided attention. ‘This way, I can really concentrate on my painting; no lesson plans, no reports, no detentions. I’ll be free to enjoy the tactile pleasure of moving paint around the canvas. Sometimes, there’s this glorious, serendipitous discovery, when you butt one colour up against another and it changes the whole mood of the image. It’s amazing how just a line here or a highlight there can alter the picture. It’s like a journey into the unknown.’

He smiled. ‘Did you know, your eyes sparkle when you talk about your painting? You really lift the mood.’

‘I do?’

‘I think you could succeed at pretty much anything you chose to do.’

My inner thermostat went haywire as a rush of heat flared through me. ‘Maybe…No, you’re right. I want to prove something to myself.’

‘So, Vicki, tell me, what do you do for pleasure?’ He leaned back as he waited for me to reply. I looked down and could feel him watching me as I pushed rice around my plate.

‘Well, painting, of course.’

He was still watching me as I lifted the fork to my mouth. ‘But if painting becomes your work, you must do something else to unwind – what would that be?’

I rolled my eyes before reaching for my wine glass and took a gulp. After a moment I said, ‘I love walking in the countryside and, of course, I like cooking.’

‘And you cook very well. Everything has been delicious, and I’m looking forward to that lemon dessert you were making.’ He smiled so charmingly I was
reminded, again, of Marc.