by Rosie Dean
I came here to paint. I did. And I still will.
You’ve got to live in the same house with him. Before you know it…
I pictured his wide bed with the heavy blue bedspread, and let out a little moan and dragged myself back from Chrisophe’s oh-so-addictive kisses and took a deep breath. I held up both my hands as if to say, Enough! I glanced at him quickly but looked away again – his eyes were even darker now and the stray lock of hair that fell over his forehead looked more unruly than usual. My head was spinning but that could just as easily have been the wine. I blew the breath out of my lungs slowly. ‘I…er…that was lovely and I’m not sorry it happened…but I…’ Why was I making a speech? ‘Sorry, I’ve drunk too much. I probably shouldn’t have done that. Sorry.’ I rammed my hands into my coat pockets.
‘Don’t apologise.’ Christophe stroked the back of his fingers down my cheek.
My stomach flipped at his touch but I wouldn’t be going back for more. ‘You’re tired and I’m drunk, so we really should be going.’ I stepped away from him and stood by the car.
After a moment, I heard him let out a sigh as he walked round to the driver’s side and got in. He leaned over and opened my door. I sat down without looking at him and fastened my safety belt. He started the car and reversed in a huge, sweeping arc, before accelerating down the drive – the tyres spitting stones in all directions. I dropped my head back and closed my eyes. Big mistake. I opened them again to suppress a rising wave of nausea, and fixed my eyes on the road ahead. It was a great relief when, moments later, Christophe turned on the CD player and made no demands on me for conversation.
CHAPTER 10
I peeled my eyes open and closed them again. Sunlight was streaming through a gap in the curtains. I rolled over to look at my bedside clock, and felt my brain follow a split-second later. Quarter past ten.
Quarter past ten.
I pushed myself up on one elbow. Eugh. My stomach was on slow spin and my skull had shrunk. Looking down, I discovered I had gone to bed in my underwear. I scanned the room. On the chair opposite was my handbag but where was my dress? I leaned over the side of the bed, catching hold of my head as I did so. No dress, just a bucket. Thankfully, it was an empty bucket. I sat up and dragged myself over to the wardrobe. My dress and coat were both hanging neatly on the rail. There was a jug of water next to my alarm clock too, which hadn’t been there yesterday. I sat on the bed and poured myself a tumbler-full, which I glugged back.
Gradually, as the fog in my brain started to lift, little scenes from last night began to emerge. And the scene that absorbed me most, showed me making a pass at Christophe. I let out a heavy groan and lay back on the bed. What was that – remorse or excitement? I gulped. It was both. And added to the mix was the apprehension of dealing with him today and tomorrow and…
I pulled the pillow over my face and moaned.
There was a tap at the door. ‘Vicki, how are you feeling?’
I snatched the pillow down to check he wasn’t in the room. ‘Okay. I think. Sorry, I overslept,’ I croaked.
‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘Yes please.’
To my horror, the door opened and he entered, carrying a cafetière and a large mug. I stared at him wide-eyed, swiftly manoeuvring the pillow to cover my body.
His hair was still damp from the shower, and he wore a pair of jeans with a blue and white rugby shirt. ‘It’s always worse, first thing.’ He moved the jug of water to the floor to make room for the coffee. I watched in fascination, unable to think of anything to say that might not expose me more than I already felt. Slowly, he depressed the plunger on the cafetière and decanted the steaming black coffee into the mug. I studied his capable hands as they worked, noticing the large silver and black watch on his wrist. He offered me the mug. ‘Here, I think you need to flush the alcohol out of your system.’
I tried to sit up but it wasn’t easy. I felt wobbly and was anxious not to flaunt my barely clothed body. Christophe seemed unperturbed and reached out a hand to pull me up. I flicked a brief smile at him and took the mug. Eager to get him out of the room, I said, ‘Thank you. I’ll have a shower. That should do the trick.’
He hesitated before asking, ‘Do you still want to see the château?’
I held my mug with both hands, just another small barrier between my vulnerable self and him. Did I want to? If I said no, then it meant I’d kept him waiting when he probably had far more important things to do. And if I said yes, I’d have to haul this mother of a hangover with me. But, on reflection, it seemed better to be out in the fresh air and seeing the château than festering here all day. I glanced up, and those warm brown eyes were looking back at me. ‘Do you still want to go?’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘Of course. I have to go anyway.’
Oh. Not quite the special excursion I’d imagined, then.
He continued. ‘I see you have not been sick.’
I tossed him a sheepish look. ‘No. Not that I remember.’
‘Good. I put the bucket there as a precaution.’
My mouth and eyes popped open in unison. ‘You put the bucket there?’
‘I did.’
I gulped at the realisation of what must have happened last night. No wonder my room was so tidy. Usually, after a few glasses of wine, I abandoned my clothes in a heap on the floor. Last night, I’d lost count of the number of glasses. Christophe had clearly been the one who had put me to bed. Thank goodness I was wearing my matching, honeymoon underwear.
‘Did I pass out?’
‘Eventually. Before that, you were…quite amusing.’
Dear Doris. What did that mean? ‘In what way was I quite amusing?’
He smiled. ‘You were singing a little song. It was about eating worms.’
Memories of Girl Guide camp came clanging into my brain. ‘Ah. Yes. That is a funny little song.’
‘I thought so – for a vegetarian.’ Christophe stopped by the door. ‘I’ll be ready when you are.’
*
Christophe thought Vicki still looked remarkably good for someone with a hangover – maybe a little pale. Last night, despite her state of inebriation, she had insisted on removing her make-up. But then, she had sat back on the bed, handed him the cotton wool, closed her eyes and drifted into oblivion. It had been a strange experience for him, as he stroked the cleanser over her face. Her skin was smooth and delicate – with a scattering of freckles from the autumn sunshine. He had watched her sleep for a moment, resisting the temptation to steal another kiss. Then he’d faced a dilemma – should he leave her as she was or did her eagerness to remove her make-up indicate a girl who would never ruin her clothes by sleeping in them? Finally, the physician in him had taken over and he elected to remove her dress and place her in the recovery position. And, as an extra precaution, he had left both their doors ajar so he would hear if she was ill.
Even though he had been through a tiring week, somehow sleep had eluded him until it was nearly light. Unless he was mistaken, last night, Vicki had definitely taken the lead – even if it had been fuelled by the wine. Yet, it revealed another facet of her personality. He found he liked her spirit and passion – that had certainly come through in the heat of her kisses and, although he was reluctant to admit it, he wanted more. But that would be a really foolish direction to take.
Jeanne was already on his case, goading him with comments like, ‘Vicki is very attractive, aren’t you tempted? After all, you are a free agent, now.’
However, Vicki was living in his house and, short of chucking her out, would be for the next twelve months. Involvement with a live-in artist was not on his agenda. And he knew it wasn’t on hers. He threw the kitchen door open and walked into the courtyard for some fresh air.
*
I took a fast shower. Standing under the heavy jets of water increased my queasiness. I stepped out and wrapped the towelling robe around me and padded into the bedroom. I pulled one of the curtains back and swung a window open. A cool breeze fou
nd the exposed, damp parts of my body. Outside, Christophe was leaning against the wall of the surgery, his hands thrust deep into his pockets as he stared at the stone courtyard. At the sound of my opening window, he looked up. I jumped in surprise, clutching the robe tighter across my chest. Which seemed overly coy, bearing in mind only hours ago, he’d seen me in cream and red satin underwear. I watched as he pulled away from the wall and sauntered back towards the house, his focus not moving from me until he was out of sight.
I continued to clutch the robe, my heart hammering in my chest. There was something in that look which suggested there was more to come. A thrill ran up my spine and I swallowed hard as it reached the top. I listened, barely breathing, for the creak of the stairs. What would I do if he bounded back in and claimed me, Tarzan style, over the crumpled, rose-bud bedspread? Could I resist? I ruffled my hair and tried not to pant like an excited spaniel. I kicked the bucket – literally – under the bed. I scanned the room and fastened the wardrobe door. My reflection showed red, wine spiked eyes and an unhealthy mottle of pink on my cheeks. Ugh. It was probably too early in the day for me, anyway. I waited.
However, the stairs didn’t creak and the door didn’t burst open. After a few moments, as realisation dawned that my body was not in imminent danger of a good ravishing, I leaned against the wardrobe. My breath calmed and I muttered to myself, ‘Christophe Dubois, you’ve got it in spades – but so help me, I am NOT going to succumb.’ I caught my guilty look in the mirror. ‘Again.’
Thank heavens, the château was only a few minutes’ drive away so I wasn’t obliged to make lengthy conversation with Christophe. Instead, I taunted myself with flashbacks to the night before – specifically one moment. This booted my hormones and a ton of guilt into circulation, which in turn triggered me to spit out phrases you’d only use if you were trapped on a bus with a complete stranger: ‘What lovely scenery; We’re so lucky with the weather today; Oh, what a pretty house; I do love autumn, it’s my favourite season.’
As the acid in my stomach churned over, I gulped some water down and decided to keep the bottle close to my lips to prevent any more inane comments from spewing out.
The approach to the château was glorious. Red and copper beech trees illuminated the road on either side. As the car slowed to turn between two huge, stone pillars, Christophe reached into his pocket and took out a small plastic device and pressed a button. The impressive iron gates juddered apart to allow us through.
I looked at him. ‘How come you have a clicker for the gates?’
‘Why not? It’s my home.’
I almost dislocated my neck in surprise. ‘Your home?’
‘I grew up here. Didn’t Isabelle tell you?’
‘No. I’d have remembered something like that.’ I surveyed the wonderful biscuit coloured château, with its slate grey roof and circular towers. ‘Wow! Does this make you a French aristocrat?’
He laughed. ‘Non. My father and his brother bought it when it was in a very poor state. Both our families live here.’
We drove around the side of the château through a small parade of trees, to park in a large, gravelled area. To one side I could see stables and a paddock, to the other was a hedged path leading to the château. In the back of the car, Hercules and Boz had become restless. Christophe stepped out and opened the tailgate of the car to release them.
Throughout the short journey, my water bottle had never been far from my lips. Now, I drained the last remaining drops before stepping out into the sunshine. I shielded my eyes from the low-slanting glare as I surveyed my surroundings. It was so beautiful. I imagined setting up my easel in the shade of one of the old trees and painting here all day. I scanned the stable buildings, where two nodding horses peered inquisitively out of open doors. I looked beyond them to the paddock, turning slowly to take in 360º of gorgeous French scenery – and, yes, that probably did include Christophe, who was watching me across the roof of the car. I smiled at him, my mouth still open in astonishment. ‘This is amazing. I thought you were taking me to a château full of tourists.’
He smiled and nodded in the direction of the stables. ‘Come. I will introduce you to the horses.’
I followed slowly, several steps behind, passing through a wooden gate towards the first horse. I’d not actually confessed to my fear of horses. I didn’t mind them at a distance, behind a sturdy fence or shackled to a horse and cart but loose, that was another story. As we approached the first stable, a dark head bobbed in what I hoped was friendly greeting, whilst the lighter coloured horse in the neighbouring stable whinnied. Christophe held out his hand, ‘Voici, le Magicien.’ The horse’s head jerked unpredictably as Christophe patted its neck and cheek.
‘He’s a handsome boy,’ I acknowledged, still standing a good three metres away.
Christophe stroked Magicien’s nose. ‘He is probably my best horse,’ he said, looking up at me as I folded my arms and crossed my legs. ‘Are you afraid of horses?’
‘Kind of. I think they’re really beautiful but…I do get a bit nervous, close up.’
Magicien leaned in towards him in a remarkably intimate way – for a horse – and Christophe mumbled something into the horse’s neck, before flashing me a wicked smile. ‘Come closer. He’d like to get to know you better.’
I let out a half-hearted chuckle. ‘Tell him I’m not that easy,’ which in the light of last night’s activity, was a pretty dumb statement to make – and not lost on Christophe, who raised an eyebrow. I swept an arm in the direction of the stables to distract him and asked, ‘So, how many horses do you have?’
‘Just ten.’ He moved along to introduce some more of his four-legged friends. ‘This is le Léopard des Neiges, here is le Roi de la Montagne and finally…’ he held his hand out to a smaller, chestnut coloured horse. ‘Here is the gentlest mare in my stable. Vicki, you need not be afraid of this one. This is la Belle Amitié or Belle.’
‘Beautiful Friendship. That’s a lovely name. How do you decide what to call them?’
‘Sometimes we use an association to the sire and dam, sometimes it’s just a personal association.’ I watched as he stroked the filly’s cheek with great tenderness.
‘Why are there some horses in the paddock and some still in the stable?’
He left Belle and came over to join me. ‘Just because they’re all horses doesn’t mean they get along. So we exercise them, groom them and rest them in different groups. There are four in the field now and there are two more out riding.’
‘Do you race them all?’
‘Non. Le Magicien, le Roi de Montagne and Crepuscule du Soir – he is the black horse over in the paddock – are my top horses, the others are either too young or too old.’
‘And which ones do you ride?’
‘I don’t often have the time, but Léopard. He may be too old to race but he still has a lot of power and he just loves to run.’ He stared out across the paddock for a moment. ‘I ride him when I want to exorcise the demons.’
I felt a little shiver. There were two faint grooves between his brows as he turned back to look at me. Just what exactly did he mean by demons?
His brows lifted and the lines evened out. ‘But if I just want to relax, I take Belle.’
We heard the gate open behind us. An older man was approaching, clearly well known by the dogs. Christophe introduced him as his uncle, Alain. There was a strong family resemblance in their build; Alain was tall, like Christophe, but had grey hair and the weathered face of a man who spent his time in the open air. For an older guy, he was still quite handsome. I could picture Christophe in another thirty years.
Alain greeted us cordially enough but I detected a glacial breeze pass between them. ‘Colette saw you arrive. I believe she is making preparations to receive you.’
‘Then we’d better not keep her waiting.’ They nodded briefly at each other and we left the two dogs with Alain.
I fell into step beside Christophe. ‘Colette is your aunt?’
/> ‘Non. Colette is my mother.’
Aha. The great beauty who’d had the affair with François. This would be interesting. I imagined a tall, elegant brunette with beautiful eyes like her son – a French Catherine Zeta Jones. I considered my own appearance – best jeans, thin navy sweater and toffee-coloured, woollen jacket – more tourist class than supermodel. Add to that my large canvas camera bag, and one might be forgiven for thinking I was carrying a flask and sandwiches. Oh well. I lifted my chin and straightened my back as Christophe led me through a side door, down a stone floored corridor and through a heavy wooden door into a grand hallway. The walls were adorned with paintings, old and new; heavy drapes hung beside tall windows and somebody, somewhere, was playing the Bee Gees – loudly.
‘Please excuse the interior styling. My mother is a woman of impulse. If she likes something, she buys it, never mind if it does not suit the rest.’
‘Interesting though.’
He headed off up the wide staircase. The carpet, which was a deep pink, had seen better days. We were heading in the direction of the music. He stopped by a white panelled door, on which the detail had been picked out in gold. He tapped before pushing it open.
Shock horror! If I had expected a sophisticated brunette, I couldn’t have been more surprised. Shimmying round the large room, in a knee-length, rust-coloured dress, tailored to an impressive hour-glass figure, was a ravishing redhead. We stood in the doorway, waiting until she noticed us, when she paused, flashed us a traffic-stopping smile and gestured for us to join her. Then, she side-stepped to the CD player and turned the volume down. ‘Christophe, chéri,’ she crooned in a voice like crème de marron. She held out one hand to her son and another to me, before switching to flawless English. She spoke slowly, her voice caressing the words with just the hint of a French accent, which I imagined would set any red-blooded man’s pulse racing. ‘You must be our new English artist, Vicki. Welcome. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ She air-kissed me, and then her son. ‘Sorry, you caught me doing my exercises. Far better to dance in the comfort of one’s own salon than put on hideous clothes and go to the gym, don’t you think?’
