Vicki's Work of Heart by Rosie Dean Page B

own. ‘And how is your work progressing, Vicki?’
    ‘Great, thank you. Nothing really outstanding yet but I’m enjoying exploring colour and movement again.’
    ‘Wonderful,’ He peered intently into my eyes. ‘Never lose that joy for the medium. Now,’ he placed a hand at my elbow, ‘let me introduce you to our neighbours, Henri and Helene.’
    Within seconds, the conversation shot up to warp speed and I struggled to comprehend but I nodded and smiled, all the time keeping a subtle eye out for Christophe’s arrival. François left us for a moment then reappeared to top up our glasses. I was clinging to mine like a life preserver.
    I’d just been introduced to a doctor and a TV executive, when Marie announced dinner and led us through to a long, blood-red dining room. It was like something out of Homes & Gardens. The table had been beautifully dressed and was lit by candles on tall candelabra. Four glass doors overlooked the terrace where I had shared lunch with François. It was too chilly to sit outside but we could all enjoy the magnificent view across the valley, where moonlight was glistening on the lake’s surface.
    Marie guided me to the head of the table. A vivid salad of lettuce, shredded peppers and tomato was already set at each place – along with a serving of prawns. Ah, so Christophe must have told Marie I was vegetarian – what a relief. She indicated that the seat to my left was for Christophe. I sincerely hoped he would turn up.
    Around the table, conversation was animated. I tried tuning in to what was being said, but with so much noise, it was difficult. I tasted the white wine. It was delicious – light, crisp and very cool. The neighbours, Henri and Helene, were sat to my right. They were in their mid-forties; he a teacher and she a housewife. Suddenly, he was eager to try out his English and discuss various trips he had made to Britain. After a while, I could tell by Helene’s travelling eyes, she’d lost interest so I endeavoured to draw her back into the conversation, asking if she too had enjoyed the same excursions.
    ‘Helene speaks very little English,’ Henri confided, before pressing on to relate a school trip he had recently organised to Edinburgh. ‘Very interesting – but so cold,’ he exclaimed.
    ‘My mother is Scottish,’ I announced.
    ‘Really?’ Henri raised his glass. ‘A very friendly nation, I think.’
    I raised my eyebrows. Good job he hadn’t gone to Glasgow.
    He continued to ignore his wife and struck up conversation with Jeanne, who was seated across from him and next to Christophe’s empty chair. They spoke rapidly and, sometimes across each other’s sentences, making it impossible for me to pick up. I sat with my elbows on the table, clutching my white wine and straining to grasp threads of their conversation. All I could hear was a barrage of chatter – occasional phrases made sense and then I would lose it again. It was like listening to a badly tuned radio – there one minute and gone the next.
    Where was Christophe? Waylaid, en route, by one of his lady-friends…maybe his mystery caller – Sylvie or possibly Louise? Perhaps they were having a highly-charged moment of passion, now that the English school-mistress was safely out of the way. I emptied my wine glass. It really was the most glorious wine.
    Marie moved around the table gathering up the dishes, followed by François with another bottle of white wine. He sat briefly on Christophe’s chair.
    ‘My dear Vicki. Are you enjoying yourself?’
    ‘Yes, thank you. That wine was delightful. What was it?’ He held the bottle label towards me. ‘Sancerre? I’ve had that at home but it never tasted as good as this.’
    ‘This is an excellent vintage.’ He refilled my glass. ‘I hope Christophe will be here soon. It’s a pity to see his lovely escort alone.’ Jeanne glanced across and pulled a taut smile before returning to her conversation with Henri.
    As François stood up to continue