by Rosie Dean
‘Hey! You believed you could do it before you ever met that man. Erase it. Go back to how you felt when you first arrived. You were bursting with enthusiasm.’ I was surprised at how effusive he was in his opinion. ‘If you give up now, then he’ll have done even more damage, won’t he?’ he said, fixing both hands on my shoulders.
The heat from his hands was travelling at great velocity down through my spine and pooling in my pelvis. His eyes were intensely fixed on mine. My head was saying ‘move’ but my body misinterpreted the command and I stepped closer to him. ‘Thanks,’ I whispered, looking from his darkening eyes to the curve of his top lip and down to the feint vertical crease in the centre of his chin. And he seemed to be contemplating this electric moment between us just as intently as I was. As his hand drifted up and touched my neck, I was a goner.
A kiss every bit as delicious as the one we’d shared before, sent a vibrant hum through all my senses. This time, we’d come to this point together and it had nothing to do with me consuming every wine in Limousin. I could feel the stroke of his thumb beneath my ear, and the pressure of his other hand in the small of my back. He drew me so close I could feel the thumping of his heart against my chest.
His hands were moving over my back, hugging me even more tightly to him as his mouth moved so skilfully – searching and tasting mine. I was in heaven, a whole different place from where Daniel had taken me. This took pulse-quickening to a whole new level.
No wonder he had claimed so many hearts in Limousin.
Had he?
I was breaking the spell. Why did I do that? This was my moment, I should enjoy it.
My moment or my turn?
Damn!
Sylvie’s cool figure drifted in from the corner of my mind, followed swiftly by Jeanne’s.
Stop it!
Stop what? Kissing him or analysing this?
It was no good. I pulled back. My breathing was every bit as laboured as his. I shook my head. ‘Christophe, I don’t think I’m ready for this.’
He frowned. ‘You’re not ready or you won’t let yourself? Just like you won’t let yourself paint.’
That stung. I pushed myself back from him. ‘It’s entirely different.’
‘I don’t think so. You are so full of talent. You are passionate about your work. I’ve seen it. Then you have a small break in your confidence and look at you! You are giving up too easily. You ran away from Bristol to find your answers, and now…now perhaps you are running away again.’
‘Maybe I’m just a realist. Maybe I know my limitations and have the balls to face up to them and move on.’
‘Yes. And you moved on from Marc, didn’t you? You came here to create a new future for yourself. Stay with it, Vicki.’
We had a moment’s standoff. I could hear his breath over my own. I knew he was right and yet the whole Daniel scenario had seriously winded me. ‘Maybe I need a break. Maybe I should go home for a week. Come back refreshed.’
‘You’ve just had a week in Paris.’
Right again.
He stepped further back and whistled to the dogs, who stirred quickly from their beds and obediently trotted into the kitchen. ‘Think very seriously about why you came to France before you give up on your dream.’
He pulled two leads from a hook on the wall and headed out into the courtyard, slamming the door behind him.
I stared at the door long after he’d gone. I did think about it. And about him.
That kiss had been good, hadn’t it? Hadn’t it been knee-tremblingly, heart-swellingly, mind-blowingly fantastic? So what was all this about not being ready?
I opened my eyes and let out a yell of frustration.
I ran up to my room and showered. When I got out, I rubbed myself punishingly with a towel. I snatched up my toothbrush, squirted on a glob of paste and scrubbed my teeth vigorously. Finally, I lay back on the bed and replayed the evening in my mind, fast-forwarding to the lovely parts and rewinding over the final few minutes.
What had he said that really hurt…I was talented? No – what hurt was that he said I was running away. I slapped myself on the forehead. I’d never considered myself a quitter. But he was right. My relationship with Marc had failed. I’d run from my life in Bristol, thinking a fresh start was the answer but here I was, with all this opportunity in front of me and I was preparing to run away from my painting too, and I was sure as hell trying to run away from Christophe – just not fast enough. Maybe the answer was right here in Limousin.
I was becoming breathless at the thought. Possibilities tumbled through my mind like clothes in a dryer. I recalled our kiss. If I hadn’t pulled back, what might we be doing now? If he was just looking for another notch on his bedpost, why tackle an emotional nut-job like me? Maybe… maybe he really cared. I’d been so thrown by the Daniel thing, I wasn’t sure I was qualified to judge. I studied the evidence and let out a moan as I realised that even after all I’d done, Christophe was still prepared to give me a home and showed every sign of being attracted to me. I shivered. What a wasted opportunity.
I lay listening for him to come home from walking the dogs, trying all the time to think of a way to redeem the situation – whether to sit on the stairs and wait for him to come back and shame-facedly admit he was right, or whether to wait until tomorrow. Perhaps I could make amends with a truly spectacular dinner and a little careful seduction.
I sat up and started smoothing body lotion into my skin, and wondered if it was logically possible to seduce the same person, twice. I heard movement downstairs. He was back. Hastily, I slapped the cream onto my thighs and smeared it the length of my legs. Jumping up, I grabbed my dressing gown and struggled into it.
Damn! Why hadn’t I pulled the sleeves the right way round this morning? I quickly checked my reflection. Yep – still flushed – but at least my hair was clean and drying into a nice, softly curling frame around my face. Taking a deep breath, I opened the bedroom door – trembling but resolute. I took the stairs slowly, I didn’t want to fall base over apex into his arms. As I reached the bottom step, there was a chilling sound from outside. Christophe had gunned the engine of his car and was now reversing – fast – into the road.
‘No!’ I cried, and ran to the front door. Hell! Why did it have to be so stiff? I yanked it open just in time to see the car’s tail-lights speeding away down the road, with Christophe on board, quite probably heading off to consol himself with Jeanne.
All was not lost. I sprinted back up the stairs and rifled through my bag for my phone. Pulling it out I flicked it open. No life. I hurled the clothes off the chair to get at the charger beneath. Plugging the lead into my phone, I waited impatiently for it to register. Finally, and with heart thumping, I selected Christophe’s mobile number and pressed the key.
I waited.
It connected.
Bzz. Bzz.
I dropped my head. Downstairs, I could clearly hear his phone vibrating on the hall table.
CHAPTER 27
I woke with a nagging feeling in the back of my mind that all was not well in my world. I forced my eyelids open, which felt sticky and swollen from crying. It was then I remembered and pulled the covers back over my head. I’d fallen asleep around dawn, having played through a number of possible scenarios in my head – not least of which featured me packing up and heading for home.
I summoned up the energy to face the world and, in particular, Christophe. I guessed he’d gone to see Jeanne, although he could equally have gone to the château. A vision of Sylvie floated into my head. Was he hoping to confide in her? No. That couldn’t possibly happen, could it? But something tugged at my insides, all the same. I groaned and dragged myself out of bed, washed and dressed in my best jeans with my most flattering, soft lilac sweater and headed downstairs.
The first thing to catch my eye, was the hall table – now missing the mobile phone that had been mocking me last night. So, he was back. My heartbeat quickened as I began walking about the house looking for him.
I made myself some peppermint tea. It was now eleven-thirty, and the low-slanting winter sun shone hazily through the damp air from last night’s rain. I decided to take my tea outside to drink it in the courtyard, thinking it would be so much nicer to meet Christophe there, than at the scene of last night’s misunderstanding. To my surprise, the door from the kitchen was locked, with the key still in place. Christophe didn’t usually lock it after walking the dogs. I turned around and noticed, for the first time, a small note on the table, beneath the pepper-pot.
Sorry for last night. My mistake. I will see you next week.
I believe you are a painter – don’t give up.
Christophe.
Next week? Yes. I could wait. He was putting distance and time between us. After all, I had told him I wasn’t ready – hadn’t I?
I let out a sigh. He was being thoughtful, just like François said.
Up in my studio, I turned the easel round, so I didn’t have to look at the picture. I fired up my laptop and navigated straight to the photos of Christophe. The last time I’d pored over pictures like this was when I was fourteen and drooling over pictures of Ronan Keating. I reached for my sketch-pad and began drafting the outline of his profile, studying the strong straight line of his nose and the slate-grey shading on his jaw. Half an hour later I held it at arms’ length. It was a good portrait. Pencil drawing had always come easily to me. I glanced over at the back of my canvas – shame about my skill with paint. Disconsolately, my eyes drifted across to the mirror on the end wall.
I gasped.
Reflected back at me, was the painting – only in this reversed view, it looked quite different. Suddenly, I saw in it a beauty I hadn’t appreciated before. I stared aghast – seeing immediately that the picture only needed more angles in the principal characters. It was astonishing. Looking at the image back-to-front, was like seeing it for the first time. And I knew exactly what needed to be done. Before I lost the vision, I flipped over the page of my sketchpad and hastily made some notes.
Long after sunset, I ran down to the sitting room and put on a Tchaikovsky CD – loud. With my stomach hollow from hunger, I danced about the kitchen, while a jacket potato sat heating in the microwave.
‘Wait till I show him what I’ve done. He won’t believe it.’ I announced to the empty room. ‘Even I don’t believe it!’
A couple of nights later, my phone rang. I was onto it like shot from a catapult.
‘Salut,’ I chimed into the receiver.
‘Salut, Chérie!’ It was Isabelle. ‘How is it going? Have you started another painting yet?’
‘Almost finished one.’
‘C’est magnifique! And how is Christophe?’
‘Fine.’
‘Has he forgiven you for the Daniel situation?’
That set me thinking. I supposed he had. There wasn’t much evidence of grudge-bearing the other evening.
‘Vicki?’ Isabelle’s voice rose inquisitively. ‘Have you fallen out?
‘No. Why would you say that?’
‘Because Xavier says he’s moved back into the château. He saw him yesterday.’
I was relieved to know he wasn’t with Jeanne.
‘Oh, he often spends time over there,’ I lied. ‘He has a really smart apartment.’
‘I know. Xavier says his ex is living there, too. Don’t you think that’s weird?’
‘Extremely.’ My heart began to plummet at the possibilities and it reminded me of something else. ‘Izzy, what does the phrase, croceuse dedi amant, mean?’
‘Croqueuse de diamants? It’s not very nice, it means gold-digger – like a woman who’s after money. Has somebody called you that?’ she sounded concerned.
‘No. It was a phrase I heard someone use to describe Sylvie.’
‘Ahh. Could be. I’ve never met her. So, you haven’t fallen out with Christophe. And you’re happy with your painting?’
‘Yes. But how are you, Izzy? Are you feeling better?’
‘Much better. I’m finally catching up on my sleep.’
‘Great,’ I said, suppressing yawn. I hadn’t slept properly for days.
On Sunday morning, I reviewed my painting in the mirror. After adding just a few highlights to the fishing basket, I stood back and grinned with satisfaction. An artist can always find something more to do to a picture but I resisted. The move from where I was on Tuesday, to where I was now, had been huge. Feeling as if a load had been lifted from my shoulders, I made myself a sandwich then packed it, some water and my camera into my new friend, Tom the Citroen, and headed off into the countryside for some fresh air.
*
Over at the château, Colette was admonishing Christophe for deserting Vicki. He scratched dried mud from his riding breeches. ‘She needs space and time to work on her painting. That’s the only reason I came here.’
‘Well, I think it’s very inhospitable of you. We must invite her over to lunch.’ She held out a bangled arm. ‘Chéri, pass me the telephone.’
‘Maman, please don’t interfere.’
‘What’s interfering about inviting someone to lunch? If she doesn’t want to come, she’s entitled to say so.’
‘And I’m sure she will.’ He stood and passed his mother the phone.
Colette tapped the receiver as she waited for the call to connect. With a heavy sigh, Christophe strode out of the room. ‘I’m going riding,’ he barked over his shoulder.
‘Christophe,’ she crooned after him, but he took the stairs two at a time and headed out.
As he was tightening the girth strap on Léopold, he heard his mother’s voice behind him. ‘Chéri, do you have Vicki’s mobile number? Nobody answered at the house.’
Why couldn’t she just drop it? He busied himself about the horse. ‘Maman – if she didn’t answer, I think it means she doesn’t want to be disturbed.’
Colette came over and patted the horse’s cheek. ‘Perhaps. Or maybe she’s lonely and has gone out looking for company. If I were her, I would hate to be on my own.’
‘Well, that’s you. Vicki is an artist. Artists spend hours in their own company. It’s how they work.’ All the same, he wondered why she hadn’t answered the phone.
His mother sighed. ‘What a pity. Seeing her would have cheered me up, considerably. Especially as you’re so snappy this weekend.’
Christophe plugged his foot into the stirrup and swung himself onto the horse, steering it back and away from his mother. ‘I apologise. It’s all this business with Sylvie and Gerard. I promise I’ll be more cheerful when I get back.’
Colette raised her eyebrows and shrugged.
He urged the horse forward and out of the yard.
*
Even though I thought I’d followed the only roads in the area I knew, I ended up on an unfamiliar, winding hill with a long curving bend. Eventually, it opened out to reveal a magnificent view across open fields with Christophe’s family château nestling comfortably within trees beyond. From that angle, as the sun blazed through a gap between the clouds, it looked spectacular. I pulled over onto the grass verge and took out my camera. I was probably half a mile away but the telephoto lens gave me a wonderful, clear shot of the old building. I supported the camera on Tom’s roof as I selected my shots.
Over to the right, a horse and rider was galloping away from the château. My heart skipped as I trained the lens on them, discovering it was, indeed, Christophe. I hastily made some adjustments to the camera settings, and snapped as many pictures as I could, before he disappeared into an area of woodland. Once he was out of sight, I switched the camera to view mode and back-tracked through the images. Only one of the five I had taken was really good – excellent, in fact. His head had almost come down to meet Léopard's, and there was a wonderful sense of shared purpose about the two of them. There was no getting away from it, he looked sensational, with those riding breeches stretched taut across the muscles of his thigh and all the primal strength he was displaying.
I pushed a strand of hair behind my ear and looked over to judge where he might emerge from the trees. Further to the left, and coming from the other direction was another rider. Great! Two for the price of one. I manoeuvred the camera again, steadied it and focused.
There was no mistaking the tall, elegant figure of Sylvie. I lifted my head from the camera and watched the scene unfolding before my eyes. As Christophe galloped out from the trees and saw Sylvie, both riders slowed their horses to a canter – as if choreographed by some unseen director.
I slowly lowered my head to watch it in close-up. They reined in their horses until they came alongside. I couldn’t see Sylvie’s face but there was clearly a look of intensity on Christophe’s. My finger instinctively pressed the shutter. He dismounted and held both horses as Sylvie jumped down.
My mouth went dry.
I watched as they talked for a moment, my heart hammering so hard, my body was rocking and I struggled to steady the camera. Sylvie’s hand lifted and rested on his shoulder. They were about the same height and, although I couldn’t feel it, I could imagine oceans of passion swelling between them. Then Sylvie’s hand slid around his neck and Christophe drew her to him.
Click. Click. Click.
I couldn’t see the detail through the film of tears, but I knew the lens would.
Moments later, they had remounted and were cantering off across the field – together – away from the château. Beyond them lay another crop of trees, which very soon swallowed them up.
I hung my head. At least I knew where I stood now. For that, I was very grateful.
I had to hand it to him, when it came to seducing women, he had style. There was I, feeling sorry for him because his cousin had run off with Sylvie. Now, I stood watching while he galloped off with his cousin’s bride. He’d got it all.
And to think, on Friday night, I had come so close to taking the next step. I blew the air from my lungs. Thank heavens for the sixth sense that had told me to pull back. I’d had a narrow escape. I let out a long, grating groan, and stared at the thicket of trees. Who knew what was going on in there?
