Vicki's Work of Heart by Rosie Dean Page A

missing?’
    I looked at his plate, confused both by his query but more by the intensity of his look. I shook my head. ‘Salad?’
    ‘Wine.’
    Idiot. How could I have forgotten – in France of all places? I blushed, jumping up immediately. He closed his hand gently around my wrist. An electric surge shot up my arm. Yikes! This man could be dangerous.
    ‘Vicki. please, sit down. Leave it to me.’
    When he left I rubbed my wrist and shook it. I slid my plate a little further away from his and shuffled my chair into a new position. He returned with two large glasses and a bottle of Pinot Noir.
    ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I forgot,’ I said as he poured the wine.
    ‘No matter. You have been busy.’ He passed me a glass. ‘A votre santé. Good health.’
    I took the glass from him, holding it by the stem to avoid his fingers, and sipped it immediately. The wine was smooth, buttery and just the right temperature. I could feel a warm glow spreading through my insides. Wine could do that to you, I reasoned, taking another swallow.
    Outside the sun was setting behind the trees, forming a deep orange halo. I thought how lucky I was to be there, gazing out at such a lovely view. After a while, I asked, ‘Who are the children in the pictures?’
    ‘My father and his brother, Alain.’
    ‘They’re charming sketches.’
    He nodded.
    ‘And the château?’
    ‘That was painted by a local artist.’
    ‘It’s beautiful. Is it near here? I’d like to go and see it for myself – or one like it.’
    Christophe nodded. ‘I can take you. It looks particularly beautiful in the autumn.’
    ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
    ‘It’s no trouble.’ He smiled, the dimple in his cheek reappearing. ‘It will be my pleasure.’
    Pleasure. I suspected he was well able to find and give pleasure at the drop of a chapeau, which launched another rush of heat through my veins. ‘Oh.  Right.  Thank you. I’ll take my camera. The more images I can gather, the more stimulation I’ll have for my work.’
    He raised an eyebrow as he lifted the bottle to refill our glasses. ‘So, you have swapped teaching to make a living as a painter?’
    ‘Ooh, well, I hope so.’ I remembered my affirmations. ‘No. Yes. I am a painter. This year I plan on building a portfolio of paintings. I’m working towards an exhibition.’
    He nodded. ‘So, why the change and why now?’
    Isabelle couldn’t have told him the full story, then. Thumbs up to Izzy. I twiddled the stem of my wine glass, backwards and forwards as I considered my answer. ‘Teaching art can be very satisfying but also frustrating. You come up with lots of ideas for the children to develop, and all the time you wish you could be working on them, too.’
    ‘Really? Couldn’t you paint while they were painting?’
    ‘Not easily.’ I thought of the pandemonium that had ensued the day I’d attempted to work on my own piece while the year nines were working on theirs. It had taken six hours and a large can of emulsion paint to cover up the graffiti. The standard of Banksy it wasn’t. Nobs, balls and boobs proliferated, dappled with arcs of multicoloured spots and several blobs of chewing gum. No. Kids at Darwin High School had demanded my full and undivided attention. ‘This way, I can really concentrate on my painting; no lesson plans, no reports, no detentions. I’ll be free to enjoy the tactile pleasure of moving paint around the canvas. Sometimes, there’s this glorious, serendipitous discovery, when you butt one colour up against another and it changes the whole mood of the image. It’s amazing how just a line here or a highlight there can alter the picture. It’s like a journey into the unknown.’
    He smiled. ‘Did you know, your eyes sparkle when you talk about your painting? You really lift the mood.’
    ‘I do?’
    ‘I think you could succeed at pretty much anything you chose to do.’
    My inner thermostat went haywire as a rush of heat