Vicki's Work of Heart Read Free Page B

waking, the vision faded. Who said my work would be popular at all? What conceit.
    I shifted in my damp coat. There was a lot of ground, not to mention canvas, to cover before anyone could even hope to judge my work. I wasn’t certain it mattered whether it was good or not. No. I was here for me. This would be my phoenix year – time to rediscover the essential Vicki.
    Oh. I would also be cooking every day for my landlord.
    What did I know about Christophe? Isabelle described him as, ‘Tall with dark hair. Not my type,’ which was encouraging, since Isabelle always went for moody, academic types who sat brooding over books – even in company. Maybe he was an absolute dish and his looks had bypassed Isabelle. She’d called him a confirmed bachelor – with just one little blip last year when, to everyone’s surprise, he’d moved a girlfriend in, but that was over.
    And your point is? I asked myself.  You haven’t come to France to meet some dishy homme.
    No. This was my time. I reminded myself that Marc’s departure had happened for a reason. I had to believe that, otherwise all his misdemeanours would be too painful to bear. No, his leaving had freed me up to pursue the life I was meant to follow. Until now, I had shelved my own artistic ambitions for the security of a teaching job, and saving for our future. Isabelle had known that too.
    I was jostled from my thoughts as the taxi pulled to a halt outside a large, stone, detached house set back from the road. The uncommunicative driver lifted my bags from the boot and placed them on the pavement. He grunted the cost of the fare. I peered at him, ‘Repetez, s’il vous plait,’ I said, so he had to repeat it. I still didn’t get it. He said it louder and held up his fingers to indicate thirty-seven euros. I gave him forty and he grunted again before climbing back into his car and driving off.
    The rain was lighter now – if you can imagine standing under a watering can as opposed to a power-shower. There were huge puddles in the road and a small lake on the driveway. I slung one bag over my arm and dragged the case towards the house. A deep bark, followed immediately by a higher yapping, answered my knock at the door. I waited and listened as the barking came closer and was interrupted now and again by exaggerated snuffling noises along the bottom of the door. Through the frosted glass at the top I could make out the shaggy head of some kind of hound. So I jabbered doggie-chat through the wooden panels until I reached their boredom threshold and they quietened down.
    Still I waited. No point in knocking again – who needed a doorbell with security like that?
    I looked for signs of human life. The brass plate by the door declared Christophe Dubois’ credentials. Below it, was an arrow directing clients round to the side of the house. I followed it to the surgery door, which was locked and the interior in darkness. Extending from the house was a stone wall with a gate, also locked. Rain clouds were still dumping their contents on me and I had nowhere to shelter.
    ‘Merci, Christophe,’ I grumbled. ‘Merci chuffing beaucoup.’
    Returning to the front of the house, I sat on my suitcase and looked up and down the road for any signs of life. If this were England, there would at least be a pub or a corner shop where I could seek refuge. Here, all I could see was a small bakery and an antique shop. Neither was open. I looked up at the darkening sky and waited for a flash of lightning to strike.
    Should I call him again? Would that make me sound like an old nag? On the other hand, what kind of person agreed to collect someone from the station then left them to wait in a strange place, in the pouring rain? I pressed myself against the wall to avoid the full pelt of water from above. My hair was dripping, and droplets trickled down the side of my nose. Every joint in my body was stiffening with cold.
    This was beyond miserable. A familiar ache clutched at the back of