Vicki's Work of Heart by Rosie Dean Page A

my parents to hear me play. So I practised – very hard.’ That was so sweet; to think of him as a little boy, eager to please his pre-occupied parents by devoting himself to his music. ‘My mother still has the grand piano I was taught on. It’s a beautiful instrument but too big for this house.’
    ‘Well, I think you should play every day – if you have time. I can’t believe you play so well and yet I’ve been here two weeks and that’s the first time I’ve heard you.’
    ‘It’s the first time I’ve played all year. I’m surprised the piano hasn’t gone out of tune.’
    I gaped up at him. Marc was forever tinkering with his guitar – and he was crap by comparison. Actually, on second thoughts, crap was too flattering. ‘Then I shall insist you play more frequently.’
    ‘Yes…Miss,’ he nodded, a rather fascinating twinkle in his eye.
    ‘Sorry.’ I rolled my eyes and took a glug of coffee. I had hoped to leave my schoolteacher status behind me but maybe it was still my default setting.
    ‘Would you like to visit the château on Saturday?’ he asked.
    ‘Would I?’ I answered, registering how surprised I sounded. ‘Yes please.’
    ‘Good. Now, I must do some paperwork.’ He moved off towards his study, coffee still in his hand. He turned in the doorway. ‘I forgot to mention, Marie has invited us for dinner tomorrow night. Would you like to go?’
    Marie…? I thought. Marie?
    ‘François and Marie.’
    ‘Oh yes, of course. Love to. Thanks.’
    ‘Good. I shall meet you there. Jeanne will come by and pick you up.’
    There it was again, the Jeanne connection. The girl was clearly very much in Christophe’s picture.
     
    On Friday night, I pulled out the only smart dress I’d brought with me – the halter-neck wedding dress, now dyed a more appropriate shade of charcoal. As I zipped it up, I vowed the result of tonight’s outing would be more positive. The cripplingly high, crimson stilettos were to have their second excursion, too. Although foxed slightly by the damp grass on my non-wedding day, I’d buffed them up with polish so you’d never notice from a distance. My hair had dried in random blonde waves around my face so I left it loose.
    Jeanne displayed, I noted, monumental relief at having set me up with Daniel and was coming very close to being friendly. She was wearing a teal coloured trouser-suit, with a deep v-necked, cream vest beneath. Her long, gold stranded earrings, which draped over her collar bones, seemed surprisingly frivolous for her. The perfume she wore was pungent, a sort of musk verging on mothball. I suspected it was all for Christophe’s benefit.
    When I met Marie, I was surprised to see how tailored and trim she was in comparison with François. She was tall and elegant, her silver hair cut into a classic bob. Everything about her was slim, even her hands and feet. She wore a straight, magenta-coloured skirt and lilac blouse, which might have looked a tad secretarial on someone less graceful. She greeted me with a classic French double-kiss before introducing me to the other guests. There were to be twelve for dinner. ‘I have seated you at the head of the table,’ she confided in English. ‘That way, you will be able to see everybody. If you’re anything like François, you will love studying people. Am I right?’
    ‘Yes. I’m a great people-watcher.’ Although sitting at the head of the table sounded more conspicuous than I’d like for my first French dinner party. ‘Thank you for inviting me, I just hope I can cope with the language.’
    ‘Oh, we have quite a cosmopolitan crowd. Would you prefer to speak English, this evening?’
    ‘No. I’ll give French my best shot.’
    Marie nodded and switched immediately to French. Thank heavens, she spoke slowly.
    François, dressed in a bottle-green shirt with beige trousers and a scarlet cravat, pressed a tall flute of Kir Royale into my hand. He chinked glasses with me and took a large slug from his