Free Vicki's Work of Heart by Rosie Dean Page A

Suddenly, I became aware of a change in temperature – not in front of me but behind. Christophe spoke so close to my ear, I swear I must have flinched.
    ‘Perhaps I should watch you and learn to cook, myself, huh?’
    I pulled a smile. ‘Happy to teach you, if you want to learn.’
    ‘Do you know what?’ he said, smoothly. ‘Standing this close…’
    Er…yes?
    ‘…I close my eyes and I think François is here.’
    I turned and looked at up him. ‘What?’
    ‘It is the Gauloises. Yesterday you smelled of lemon and mint.’ He moved round and leaned against the counter next to me. ‘François smokes more than he breathes. He is not a healthy man but…he is an interesting one. My father was very fond of him – even though he had an affair with my mother.’
    My mind buzzed. First I was insulted by his practically saying I smelled like an old ashtray, then the lemon and mint comment and now, now he was telling me personal details about his mother’s infidelities. How disturbing was this man? He was so close it was verging on intimate…he must be getting quite a lungful of my smoky hair, which was now absorbing tincture of allium as I stirred the onions unnecessarily. ‘That was very magnanimous of your father. He must have loved her very much.’
    ‘You think? Or perhaps he just wanted a quiet life. He was very preoccupied with his horses and racing. In many other ways she was an excellent wife. She was a superb hostess and brought many good contacts to him. You see, my father was a quiet man, he needed her social skills to further his business.’
    ‘That’s awful. You make it sound like a corporate merger.’
    ‘This is often the case in marriage.’
    ‘It won’t be for me.’ I said defiantly, then coloured at the irony of what I was saying. My own choice of husband had been seriously flawed and yet there I was, passing judgement on his parents’ marriage.
    ‘So, Vicki, you believe in love and marriage?’
    I added peppers to the pan. ‘Well…’ what did I believe? He was looking at me expectantly. ‘…Marriage works for some people…’ Just not me, I thought.
    ‘And it worked for my parents.’
    ‘Okay, point taken.’
    ‘But…?’
    I shrugged. ‘Marriage should be about two people really wanting to share their life. About commitment to a joint future. It’s about teamwork.’
    ‘So, if you’re not a team player, you shouldn’t get married, huh?’
    ‘Exactly.’
    ‘And are you a team player, Vicki?’
    ‘Yes. But right now, I prefer a singles game.’
    ‘You are impatient to paint, huh? What age are you, twenty-six?’
    ‘Twenty-eight.’
    ‘Interesting. Most women your age are starting to look around – they’re like Meerkats.’
    I shrugged. ‘Then I guess I’m not like most women.’ I jiggled the spatula vigorously through the onions and peppers.
    ‘I guess not.’ He heaved himself up to sit on the work surface next to the chopping board. I lifted the board, moved it to the opposite side of the hob, and set about quartering mushrooms. He sat, sipping his wine and watching me. I threw the mushrooms into the pan. As sizzling vegetables filled the weighty silence, I took a long, cool hit of white wine, he said, ‘Some people rush into marriage, don’t you think?’
    ‘Possibly.’ What was his obsession with marriage? Was he talking about mine? I was bloody sure Isabelle hadn’t said anything, but maybe Louise had. ‘Look, do you mind if we change the subject?’
    He shrugged. ‘Okay.’ Good.
    I went over to the fridge for the eggs.
    ‘It smells delicious,’ he said quietly as I came back to the hob.
    Now he’s being nice, I thought with a pang of guilt. I lowered the heat. ‘It’s not much, really,’ I said, before looking up to meet the deep brown, unblinking gaze of his eyes.
    ‘Since you’re keen on a singles game, it’s quite a compromise to worry about cooking for me, non?’
    ‘No. I’m happy cooking.’
    ‘But maybe that’s why this subject