Vicki's Work of Heart Read Free Page A

the possibility I’d rushed into this and as I did so, all my gung-ho enthusiasm was evaporating faster than white spirit on a sunny day. A weedy art graduate, who wore an Oxfam Shop tweed suit, now sat in my art room at Darwin High. Plus, I’d let my flat to a lovely young couple with earnest faces, who were planning their own wedding.
    My darling Isabelle had, after several false starts, found me a part-time job with accommodation…but only at the eleventh hour. I knew my friend’s methods. Working at the sharp end of PR had given her the persuasive leanings of Torquemada. I suspected Christophe had been browbeaten into submission, and now had cold feet.
    I tried the second phone number – his mobile. There was a barrage of rapid-fire, indecipherable French, which I assumed told me his phone was out of range, and left me mouthing like a guppy. It was becoming apparent my seven years of school French hadn’t exactly set me up for life across the Channel. Luckily for me, Izzy had spent a gap year living with my family and working in Bristol, before going to Uni, so her English was almost faultless. I, on the other hand, had only made three exchange trips to stay with her family, and the occasional long weekend in Paris. Not surprisingly, we always spoke in English.
    At quarter to six, I rang Isabelle. ‘I’ve been waiting for Christophe to pick me up for nearly an hour. Do you know if he’s changed his mind?’
    ‘No. Why would he? I’ve told him about your excellent cooking skills.’ Like I said – she’s in PR. ‘He’s really looking forward to you staying with him. Have you called him?’
    ‘Yes – just messages. Are you absolutely sure he was keen to do this? People say some rash things when they’re at a party, especially if you had his arm twisted behind his back and your knee in his groin.’
    ‘Don’t be silly. I was on a mission to find you somewhere to stay, and he volunteered. Truly.’
    ‘My cooking isn’t excellent, Izzy. Not by French standards.’
    ‘Bah! Christophe is no cook.’
    ‘You said he lives alone, right?’
    ‘Yes. But his veterinary surgery is next door, so there are other people about.’
    Just then, my phone beeped.
    ‘Isabelle, I have another call, hang on.’
    I fumbled with my phone and lost both.
    ‘Shit!’ I glared at the little screen and waited a moment before checking my messages.
    ‘Vicki, this is Christophe Dubois.’ Like I got messages from French men all the time. ‘I apologise for not meeting you. I have had an emergency. I suggest you take a taxi and I will be back later. You will…’ The message cut out. Relief flooded through me. I grabbed my bags and headed for the taxi rank.
    As I settled into the back of a cab, the rain came down like metal rods, beating off the roads and hammering on the car roof. The sky flashed intermittently before great, rolling belts of thunder shuddered around us. I had to keep wiping condensation away from the window to see out. Soon, we were leaving the bright lights of Limoges. Architecture spanning thousands of years gave way to rolling green countryside and grey stone cottages. They all merged and blurred beyond the rivulets of rain, like a painting by Monet in his final years.
    My eyes dropped out of focus as I allowed myself to wonder about what I might achieve in the coming year. Never since I was at college had I had the opportunity to be creative without heavy responsibilities crowding in. I was giving myself a treat – the treat of a lifetime, really. And I knew, with absolute certainty, the year would fly by. In twelve months I’d be making this journey in the other direction. Only then would I know whether I’d mined the most out of this year. I allowed myself a quick peek into the future – a stack of completed canvases; an exhibition in Bristol…why limit myself to Bristol? How about London? Paris? Who knew how popular my work might become? Then, like the memory of a sensational dream dissolves on