Vicki's Work of Heart (13 page)

Colette gasped with delight. ‘Me too. But you’re so young to like the Bee Gees.’

‘My mother’s a huge fan.’

‘How marvellous.’ She turned up the volume again. ‘Come!’ she clasped my hand and began dancing me around the room.

Within seconds, we were like a couple of seventies’ schoolgirls – only without the flares. When I noticed Christophe standing in the doorway, I pulled a broad grin of embarrassment and stopped abruptly. Colette, on the other hand, swayed across, reached out and encouraged him to join us. Cool as you please, he cooperated in a few bars of perfect jive dancing with his mother, before the song ended.

Wow! He was good. Most guys I knew danced like lunatics. I applauded and Christophe nodded his head in acknowledgement. After reducing the volume he commented, ‘I think you are feeling better, huh?’

‘I’m feeling much better, thanks.’

‘Chéri, Vicki is a fan of the Bee Gees. I think we must be due for a party, soon. Don’t you?’

By the drop of his face and the slump of his shoulders, I guessed he didn’t agree. Maybe it had something to do with the Sylvie situation. He shrugged and turned to me. ‘Vicki, would you like to come for a walk outside; perhaps you could take some photographs?’

‘Great!’ I said and picked up my camera case.

Colette shook her magnificent auburn mane. ‘I think the weather is good enough to have lunch on the terrace today. You are staying to lunch, chéri?’

Christophe glanced at me. I was more than happy to stay so I nodded. ‘Oui,’ he said, with a sigh. Rude bugger.

‘That would be lovely,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

Christophe nodded. ‘Bien sur. Viens!’ He gestured for me to follow him. At the door he turned back to his mother. ‘Vicki is a vegetarian – no meat, only fish.’

‘Vraiment?’ Colette drawled. ‘That must be why you’re so lovely and slim.’ She studied herself in the large gilt mirror over the fireplace. ‘I wonder if that would work for me?’

I watched Christophe bounding down the staircase like he had the cavalry after him. I scuttled behind until we were outside, when he finally came to rest by the balustraded wall separating the terrace from the lawns. Aside from picking up on his strange mood, I couldn’t help noticing how well the lichen-covered wall blended into its surroundings.

Christophe had his arms open wide, hands pressing on the stone slabs as he gazed over the grass. He’d hitched up the sleeves of his rugby shirt, displaying a fine pair of forearms, flecked with dark hairs. He turned and pulled a polite but incomplete smile. ‘Feel free to take all the pictures you want.’

Like a Formula One racing driver, I gave him the thumbs up, ‘Roger that,’ I said before scrabbling about in my camera case.

After a few minutes, I’d walked the length of the terrace, looking for the best shots. From the far side I peered through my camera, training it on Christophe. Quickly, I swapped to telephoto lens and refocused, zooming in on his face. The lids of his eyes were half closed as he stared into the distance. I liked how the sunlight picked out the texture of his hair and the angular planes of his face. Click. He looked down. Click. And then, as if sensing my attention, he turned to look at me. Click. I lowered the camera and picked up my case, blushing like a Peeping Tom caught in the act.

‘I thought you were interested in the
château,’ he said, as he walked towards me.

‘I like human studies too. A telephoto lens is very good for that – it usually means the subject is unaware of the camera, so it makes for a more natural result.’

‘Yes, I have personal experience of that.’ His tone was deadly flat.

‘Oh?’

‘Journalists. It was a long time ago, but it was humiliating for my family. So forgive me if I don’t get excited at the prospect.’

‘Sorry.’ I unscrewed the lens and placed it back in the case. Trust me to piss him off when he was already in such a sour mood.

He walked down the central steps that led onto the upper lawn so I caught up. He tucked his hands into the tops of his pockets and looked at me. ‘I apologise. I’m a little distracted at the moment.’

‘Can I ask why?’

We continued walking. ‘It’s just a family affair.’

Appropriate choice of phrase. I shrugged, ‘Okay,’ and stopped halfway down the lawn and turned back to look at the
château.

I got the message: it was nothing I needed to know about.

*

Christophe watched Vicki as she worked, changing her position; sometimes crouching down, sometimes swapping lenses but absorbed in her task. He liked the way her hair was loose again, and the colour was back in her cheeks.

As they walked to the end of the lower lawn, he led her to a seat under a rose arbour, now devoid of flowers. She placed her camera case down and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. ‘This is such a lovely place. Do you know how lucky you are?’

Lucky? He could understand why she would think that, with her English love of history and her artistic imagination. He sat down beside her, forward on the seat with his arms resting on his knees, one hand inside the other. He was looking back at the
château, his eyes narrowing against the sunlight. Was he lucky?

She filled the silence. ‘I really like your mother. She’s wonderfully eccentric.’

He nodded.

‘What was you father like?’

Christophe’s fist twisted back and forth in his palm. ‘Much more serious. I used to think they were nothing like each other, but in a way, they were. They were both single-minded. He was passionate about horses…’

‘And she’s just passionate.’ Vicki cut in, making light of the situation.

Finally, he smiled and sat up, stretching his arms to rest on the back of the bench. ‘Yes. That certainly describes my mother.’

‘She’s very different from mine.’

He looked at her. ‘What is she like?’

‘Quieter. She’s a lab technician at the hospital. Very organised, you know, writes lists and lists of lists.’

He nodded and smiled to himself. ‘Like your little food inventory?’ He saw her jaw drop. ‘I’ve seen it on your notebook in the kitchen.’ He wrote in the air, ‘Dairy, Fruit, Vegetables…very organised, I was impressed.’

‘Oh, no. I’m turning into my mother.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Moving on…did your father always breed horses?’

‘Yes, and his father before him. The Dubois family were farmers. Grandpère Dubois acquired his first race-horse in a game of cards. It was very successful so he bred from it, and so he became more wealthy. And, of course, my father’s marriage to my mother helped.’ 

‘Your mother, the social butterfly.’

‘Yes. My maternal grandmother was from a wealthy English family – a socialite who came over to France after the Second World War. She met Grandpère de Chatillon, fell in love with him and stayed here.’

‘What did Grandpère de Chatillon do?’

‘He had a pharmaceutical business.’

‘So, did your grandmother go back to
England when he died?’

‘Non. Grandpère de Chatillon had, what you would call, a roving eye, which she ignored for many years, until…bah!’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘You remember I told you about my concern over journalists? It was twenty-five years ago. There was a dispute between my grandpère’s pharmaceutical company and a smaller one. Unfortunately, grandpère underestimated the determination of his opponent, who hired a journalist to grind the very dust out of the story. He discovered my grandpère with a fifteen-year old chambermaid in
Milan. He caught some very explicit photographs with his telephoto lens.’ He raised his hands in exclamation. ‘There was an exposé and the name of Antoine de Chatillon, which was already known and respected throughout Europe, became known for a very different reason. Of course, it was a set-up. The girl in question was paid off by his adversary and disappeared into obscurity. But the whole story was too great a humiliation for my grandmère. She walked out on him, returned to England and never set foot in France again.’

‘How awful for her.’

He turned back to focus again on the château. ‘And not just for her. The family and the business suffered.’

‘I can only imagine how that must have been.’

‘I was just a young boy. I’d never seen an adult cry until I saw my grandmother, weeping with shame. She was a wonderful woman, she did good things for people. I loved her more than anybody. It was…bah!’ He shrugged. Why was he telling her all this? It was history, now. They had all moved on.

*

I would never have anticipated Christophe Dubois would bare his soul to me. The hunch of his shoulders and the drop of his head brought a shocking and unexpected lump to my throat. I sat forward, closing the gap between us. I could feel the muscles of my arm twitch as I resisted touching him but, after last night, I didn’t trust myself to do anything, nor him for that matter. It’s at times like that, I want to say something profound but all that came out was, ‘You never know what’s round the corner, do you?’

After a moment, he turned his head and looked at me. The gloom appeared to have lifted and as his gaze connected with mine, he said. ‘You certainly don’t.’ That glimmer in his eye could only be alluding to last night.

I swear I could feel the heat off him scorching my face, and I’m not absolutely sure I didn’t flinch as his thigh moved against my knee. I swallowed and dragged my eyes away from his, clasping my now sweating hands securely together. His family history was littered with infidelities. As far as I knew, my own family had been steadfast to the point of calcification. I changed the subject. ‘So, is Colette like your grandmother?’

He nodded slowly. ‘In small ways. But she’s more like my grandfather.’

‘You mean, she has a roving eye, too?’ He inclined his head and frowned as he looked across at me. Damn. Me and my big mouth. ‘Sorry, it’s just…the François thing…’ My heart was starting to pound.

He studied me in an unnerving way. ‘I imagine you’re building up quite a picture of us all, huh? The Dubois and the de Chatillons – all loose morals and disloyalty.’

‘No. Not at all.’ I said, although he’d pretty much hit the nail on the head.

He continued staring at my face, his Bourneville-brown eyes judging me and drawing me in at the same time. I had the wild notion he was deciding whether or not to prove just how loose his morals could be, by ravaging me on the arbour seat in full view of the
château. And I’m not sure I would have resisted. I could sense my body drifting towards him in slow motion.

‘Is that what you were hoping for last night?’ he murmured. ‘Is that the kind of man you’re looking for – a man with no strings to suit your new life?’

I lurched away and looked back at him. ‘Hang on a minute. What happened last night was entirely a result of too much alcohol on an empty stomach. And you know it.’

‘So you would have done the same thing if it had been François who walked you to the car, huh? Or Henri?’

I stared back at him. He had a point. There was no way I would have snogged Henri or François without a hefty financial reward to a charity of my choice, which meant…

Without a response from me, he continued quietly. ‘So does that make your morals any superior to Colette’s or my grandfather’s?’

I stood up clutching the camera case and drew in a deep breath. ‘I think we’re both adult enough to know that…that last night was a blip. You were my ally, my friend. I was seriously under the influence of François’ entire wine cellar and yes, congratulations. From the selection of men on offer last night, you were the pick of the bunch.’

‘And I’m delighted you picked me. It’s always a pleasure when a beautiful woman takes the lead.’

Yes, oh Heartbreaker of Limousin. ‘So I’ve heard.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘What have you heard?’

‘That you have a reputation where women are concerned.’

He looked bewildered.

What on earth was I doing getting into this discussion? ‘Never mind. Forget it.’

I spun round and stomped off – more annoyed with myself than anyone else. As I rapidly approached the paddock, I attracted the attention of the horses grazing there. Suddenly, the black one turned, raised his head and hit the gas…accelerating towards the fence, his mane dancing and mad eyes glaring as he approached. I stopped. Horses could jump fences. Wasn’t that what the Grand National was all about? I watched in mounting horror as the enormous beast headed straight at me. I dropped to the ground and scrunched myself into a knot, waiting for the inevitable. I wasn’t sure which was louder – the pounding in my ears or the hooves on the turf.

I waited.

Nothing.

I looked up. He was standing behind the fence, his head lurching and a snort billowing through his nostrils. I let out a whimper of relief, followed swiftly by a groan of humiliation. Finally, I sat back on my haunches and watched it from the safe distance of twenty metres. And the horse watched me. Before the moment was lost, I took out my camera.

Christophe appeared at my side. ‘Did you think he was going to leap over the fence and eat you?’ I ignored him and started taking photos. ‘Equinophobia. We could help you get over that, you know.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘I could teach you to ride. I like a challenge.’

I stood up, and looked him in the eye. ‘Yes. I have a fear of horses. You can blame a donkey at Weston-super-Mare.’

‘What did it do?’

I hesitated. Could a donkey savage a three year old? I coughed. ‘He dribbled on me.’

After a second’s disbelief crossed his face, Christophe chuckled.

‘He was big and I was very small. It was like a monster. It gave me nightmares.’

Christophe studied me some more so I busied myself tidying away the camera. Eventually, he said, ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Good. Because I see the table is being prepared for lunch.’

‘Lovely.’

‘Should I tell my mother you’ll only be drinking water?’

I zipped the bag up. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Good. Then I won’t have to worry about you getting so drunk that I have to fight you off.’

‘Oh, per-lease!’

‘Well, you appear to think I have no shame where women are concerned so if you were to make another pass at me, your honour would be seriously at risk. Although why you would make such a judgement about me, I cannot understand. Unless Isabelle has been very creative…and I know she can be.’

‘Isabelle is a good friend of mine.’

‘Well, she must have said something.’

‘You don’t have to look that far away from home. Your mother seems to think you’ve broken every heart in Limousin.’

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Now you’re talking about someone even more creative than Isabelle.’

His smile was killing me. That’s how men like him worked – pissing you off then launching a massive charm offensive. How many times had Marc sweet-talked me round when I was fuming at his selfishness? ‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you but you really do give off that whole ‘love-em-and-leave-em’ kind of vibe. And I’m even more sorry I was so stupid last night. It was purely biological. I’m a woman in my prime – what can I say?’ I headed off towards the château, gesturing with my free arm. ‘I have no intention of doing it again. I promise.’