Read Online Vicki's Work of Heart by Rosie Dean - Free Book Online Page B

an avenue of poplar trees to a house and outbuildings that scrambled up the gentle gradient of a hill. ‘A drink before we work,’ he announced.
    We sat on the terrace, drinking Pouilly Fumé and munching olives. François rattled off stories of his time at art school and disasters he’d had with a foray into sculpture, ‘Metal is not my friend,’ he said. ‘It’s not forgiving like paint.’
    The house overlooked a lake, which now shimmered as the late afternoon sun played on a surface rippled by the breeze. I had one small glass of wine, while François downed two large glasses and filled himself a third before guiding me to his studio. I wondered if he’d be able to see straight enough to stretch the canvases and, more importantly, to drive me home.
    His paintings, however, were superb. I stood back and marvelled at the huge images. They were vivid and full of his energy. Their vibrancy reminded me of the work of Gauguin, although François had a style of his own. In one, I could sense the horses straining to be off; in another I could almost feel the heat, and touch the sweat dripping off their flanks. If my paintings could have half of this power, I’d be deliriously happy.
    In his vast barn of a studio we worked together, one holding the canvas while the other stapled it to the stretcher bars and finally, we were applying gesso with big, fat brushes. As we finished the last canvas, my phone rang. It was Christophe.
    ‘Salut.’ I chimed. ‘How are you?’
    ‘Bien, merci.’ He sounded like he was in the car. ‘Did François come to see you?’
    ‘Yes, I’m with him now. We’ve just been preparing my canvases.’
    ‘Where are you?’
    ‘In his studio. His paintings are absolutely brilliant.’
    ‘You like them, huh?’ He continued. ‘I will come and meet you. I expect François has had a couple of bottles of wine by now.’
    ‘Nearly.’ I smiled with relief. ‘Thanks.’
    ‘I will see you shortly.’
    Twenty minutes later, Christophe was sauntering into the studio. He was tall, lean, undoubtedly sober and an Adonis alongside the haggard François. They greeted each other with hearty embraces and continental man-kisses. After a brief exchange of words, Christophe turned to me. ‘François says you have had a good day together.’
    ‘Yes, he’s been really helpful and quite an inspiration.’
    François offered Christophe a glass of wine.
    He shook his head. ‘Thanks but I’ve had a long day, we should be going.’
    Not to mention – long night – I thought. Judging by the dark crescents under his eyes, he probably hadn’t slept at all.
    François continued, ‘Vicki can speak French very well. We had quite a conversation, didn’t we?’
    I responded in slow but determined French, only getting one word wrong. Christophe corrected me so gently, I felt as if my attempts at French were perfectly okay. He smiled. ‘Soon, you will be speaking like a native.’
    ‘Well that, at least, would be one of my ambitions achieved.’
    ‘And how many more are there?’
    I scratched my head. Well, there was holding an art exhibition, somewhat difficult to declare in front of a talent like François; and then there was not allowing myself to be jilted again, which I certainly wouldn’t own up to; and I supposed there was still the vague hope that, one day, I might meet a man – the right man – who wouldn’t leave me at the altar. And there was no way I was making that confession, either. ‘Certainly more than one.’ Was all I would say.
    Christophe raised an eyebrow and nodded. ‘Do you want to put your canvases in the car?’
    ‘I can’t. They’re still wet.’
    François volunteered to deliver them the following day. ‘It will be a pleasure and in time, I look forward to seeing your work.’
    ‘Well don’t expect too much. It’s been ages since I put paint to canvas. But I’ve really found your work inspiring. It’s wonderful.’
    François took my hand, bowed and kissed it. ‘Vicki,