A French Affair (40 page)

It was a while before he allowed his eyes to travel on down her legs. By then she had such a powerful sense of having been probed by his eyes that small shivers of release were starting to pulse inside her. He picked up her hat and told her to put it on.

‘Now sit down,' he said, holding the back of one of the chairs, ‘and show me the position you would like to take.'

When she was seated she arranged the hat so it
wasn't covering too much of her face, and glanced up at him to seek his approval. He gave it, then stood watching as she stretched out her legs and rested a hand on her upper thigh. From the darkness that came into his eyes she knew that he was remembering what she'd said about Modigliani's
Nude with Loose Hair,
and why her hand was positioned where it was. Putting her other arm behind her head, she looked up at him again.

‘I think you will find it difficult to keep your arm there,' he told her. ‘It is easier when you are lying down, but when you are sitting . . .' He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you can just let your hand fall to the floor, as though you have interest only in what the other hand is doing. Yes, yes, that is good,' he decided.

She stayed as she was while he turned to pick up her wine, then after handing it to her, he settled himself into the other chair and opened his pad.

To her amusement it didn't seem to take long before he became every bit as absorbed in his work as when he'd sculpted her. She listened to his hand and pencil moving over the page in a soft, whispering sound, and watched his eyes as they came to her, unseeing of the woman, only of the texture and shape, light and shadow.

Since he was fulfilling her desire to model nude for an artist, the way so many had for Modi, she began paying attention to how she was feeling, what was passing through her mind, and how she was responding in her body.

After a while she found her thoughts travelling back through time, seeking the colourful squalor of the Bateau-Lavoir where chaotic, sunlit studios were filled
with future masters at work, and sumptuous girls at play. From there it became easy to hear the cries of artistic frustration mingling with the groans of sexual release and shrieks of raucous hilarity. She saw oil paints splashing onto canvas, fingers digging into clay and flesh moving against flesh. There was the cancan, men in silk capes, and gaily painted whores. And on the periphery of all the concupiscence and wealth was starvation, disease, alcoholism and the kind of decadence that made the period so appallingly frayed.

‘What are you thinking?' Luc said.

Opening her eyes she looked at him, and smiled at the furrow of his brow. ‘I was getting into the mood for my book,' she told him.

His eyebrows rose. ‘Why don't you tell me about it?' he said. ‘How do you think you will begin?'

Inhaling deeply as she thought, she let her eyes drift to the leaves beside her, made richer in colour, or translucent, by the sun, then she lifted a hand to the grapes, wanting to feel their plumpness, while her other hand remained still on her thigh. Eventually she began trying to put her various ideas into words, at first hesitantly, exploratively, seeming to test their worth as she took them down avenues that she either quickly abandoned, or occasionally continued. He listened attentively while continuing to draw, though sometimes he questioned her, needing something clarified, or at other times making suggestions of his own. She took them willingly, as though they were fruits to be tasted and assessed, and gradually she became aware of a pleasing lilt inside as a tentative confidence began to take root.

Then they were laughing as they fleshed out the characters – moody artists and their models,
flamboyant mentors and their mistresses, shark landlords, violent police and despairing priests. They wove all kinds of fiction into the facts, bringing the period and the people to life in ways that made everything seem dazzling and fraught. It was full of cruel and outrageous passions, jealousies and rivalry, murderous rages and suicidal declines, all clashing with the tender poetry of the times, not to mention the opera, orgies, opium – and the approaching eve of a war to end all wars.

‘Never forgetting,' he said, still sketching, ‘that Picasso was in the next room to Modi creating
Les Demoiselles d'Avignon
– or, put another way, giving birth to Cubism.'

How exciting that felt, she thought, imagining it. ‘You know, it's going to be interesting recreating scenes between those two,' she said, ‘particularly during the time Modi was painting Picasso's portrait. Tell me what you think might have passed between them.'

He considered it for a while, then started to smile, and soon he was making her laugh again with a hilariously irreverent description of how two inebriated masters might discuss their work. ‘Of course it must lead to a magnificent brawl,' he informed her decisively, ‘which I think we can imagine the heavily pregnant Jeanne walking into – was she pregnant at that time, we'll have to check – and perhaps she separates them with a bucket of slop water, or violent squirts of paint.'

‘Or,' she suggested mischievously, ‘the threat of a knife to the portrait.'

‘
Oh là là
,' he murmured, clearly in pain at the mere suggestion. ‘Certainly, that would have the desired
effect. No artist, no matter how high on drugs or drink, could bear to see his work destroyed – unless of course he was to do it himself. And now,' he said, sitting forward, ‘may I present to you
La Déesse des Vignes.'

As she took the sketch pad she felt a moment's surprise to see herself, for she'd become so relaxed amongst the vines and involved in the story that she'd all but forgotten she was nude. Then, gazing down at the image he'd created, she began to feel the extraordinary pleasure of her own sensuousness coming from the page. Even to her own eyes she looked wanton and voluptuous, yet somehow shy beneath her hat, and even demure. She'd forgotten about the tiny platinum chain she was wearing, but he'd drawn it in over her collarbone, adding yet another touch to the femininity that seemed to float up from the sketch.

Just as in life her breasts were small, while her nipples were large and dark and hugely distended. Unthinkingly she put a hand to one of them, almost as though his pencil might still be there. Then she was looking at the hand he'd drawn on her thigh, her fingers semi-crooked, nails with crescent tips touching the very edge of her pubic hair.

Her eyes went to his as he came to kneel beside her, then they moved with his pencil back to the page. As he placed the point gently between her legs she felt a searing sensation go through her, as though he was touching her flesh instead of the sketch.

She looked at him again, the heaviness of desire showing in her eyes. She so badly wanted to feel his lips on hers, his tongue, his hands . . .

‘You're making this very difficult,' he said softly, and with an expression that was both rueful and accepting, he took the pencil away and stood up.

She felt oddly shaken and abandoned, slightly breathless and so very, very close to pulling him back, but she didn't, because she was making herself think of Lilian and Charlie. God knew it was bad enough that she and Luc were here like this – they couldn't go any further, they just couldn't.

When she was dressed they walked quietly back through the vines, carrying the wine they hadn't drunk, the chairs and the sketch pad. She wondered what he would do with the drawing, if he'd offer it to her, or decide to keep it. She didn't ask because for the moment she didn't want there to be any words.

When they reached the road he said, ‘We're going to Daniella's for dinner this evening.'

She nodded.

‘My father and I will pick you up at seven.'

Again she nodded, then as he turned towards the
manoir
, she started back down to the cottage, her eyes fixed sightlessly on the dusty road in front of her. For long minutes she barely knew what she was thinking, or even feeling, all she knew was how hard she was finding this. Then suddenly there was so much emotion gathering inside her that she could only wonder how it was possible to feel such happiness when she was so riddled with guilt and despair.

‘Jessica,' Fernand said, pronouncing her name in low, warm tones as he stepped out of the car to greet her. ‘Please for give me for being a bad host, it would seem it is my time for
les tournois en ce moment
.
Les boules. Les échecs. Mais, je suis là maintenant, et tu es très belle ce soir.
'

Jessica closed the French doors of the cottage behind her, and went to embrace him, her eyes soft with affection as she thanked him for the compliment. Then
slipping into the back seat of the Mercedes she started to say
bonsoir
to Luc, who was driving, but catching his eye in the rear-view mirror she only looked at him as a current of desire passed between them.

As they drove on up the hill to leave the valley Fernand half-turned in the front passenger seat, saying, ‘Luc has shown me the sculpture he has created of you,
chérie
. It is
formidable. Vraiment formidable. Le plus belle qu'il ait crée, je crois
.' The most beautiful he has created, I believe.

‘Jessica hasn't seen the finished version yet,' Luc told him. ‘I completed it last night, and this afternoon,' he added, glancing at her in the mirror.

She let her eyes meet his for a second, loving how dark his were, then turning back to Fernand she gave a mischievous twinkle, as she said, ‘If mine is
la plus belle
, then I think yours is
le plus beau.
'

Fernand chortled with amusement, and was about to embark on a modest protest, when his expression changed as something else came into his mind. ‘
Oh, là là
,' he murmured, tapping a hand to his head, ‘I am forgetting that I have
des bonnes nouvelles pour toi.
Is it good news? Maybe. Well, it is news. Today I play chess with the brother of
le Chef des Pompiers
for this region.
Le Chef
himself, like all the world at the moment, is
en vacances
, but his brother is going to call him at his house in Italy to ask for his help. Maybe he can give the order for someone else to show you the report of the paramedic since the poor man,
lui-même,
cannot yet return from the Auvergne.'

‘What about speaking to the paramedic on the phone?' Luc suggested. ‘Maybe we can get a number.'

Jessica nodded. ‘I'm sure it'll only be to thank him for his kindness,' she said, feeling almost certain she
was right, but not quite, particularly since the strange moment at the top of the stairs when she'd thought her instincts were trying to tell her something again.

In French Luc explained to his father how the paramedic had probably carried Natalie to the sofa, rather than leave her crumpled on the floor.

‘
Ah oui,
' Fernand said gravely, ‘there are some very good people in this world and this young man who has broken his leg, I know him a little by reputation, because he win an award once for bravery. So I think, without doubt, that he would be very kind to Natalie.'

Jessica swallowed as she smiled.

‘My friend,' Fernand continued, ‘the brother of
le Chef de Pompiers,
says he will call me as soon as he has some news, but he thinks it will be by Friday, or perhaps even Thursday.'

Though Jessica could have wished it would be even sooner, it was a relief to know that her mind could be completely at rest before Harry and Charlie arrived.

Letting her head fall back against the seat she turned to stare out of the window for a while, watching the passing trees and hedgerows and wondering when her heart had ever felt so full. Her eyes moved to Luc and she felt a surge of gratitude, mixed with longing and so much else, rise up in her. She had no idea if it was his intention, but it was as though he was helping to heal her, lending her his strength and support, not only by listening and believing, or by opening doors she couldn't open alone, but by encouraging her to work on her book, to take part in life again and to remember that she was a woman with passions and desires that went beyond those of a mother.

She looked out at the countryside again and sighed silently to herself. What did it all mean, she wondered.
Why had they been brought together like this, given this time and these feelings, when surely no good could come of them in the end?

By the time Luc finally steered the car through the gates of the château to start following the twisting, leafy drive to the house, Fernand was entertaining them with stories from that weekend's chess tournament, which had clearly been far less sedate, or even sportsmanlike, than the game, on the surface at least, might appear.

Jessica and Luc were still laughing as they got out of the car, but as Jessica made to link Fernand's arm to start across the lawn towards the arbour where they could see Daniella sitting, Luc said to his father,
‘Vas-y. Je voudrais dire un mot à Jessica.
' You go ahead, I want a quick word with Jessica.

As Fernand ambled off, already preparing to catch the twins who were hurtling towards him, Jessica turned questioningly to Luc, and seeing how troubled he looked she felt a pang of unease.

‘I'm leaving for Paris in the morning,' he said. ‘I'll be back on Wednesday.'

Knowing she couldn't ask him not to go, even though she wanted to, she let her eyes fall away for a moment.

‘I want you to come with me,' he said.

She looked at him again, and almost started to protest, but how could she when her heart wasn't in it? Already he was saying, ‘Claude and Daniella's apartment is below mine. You can stay there.'

Her gaze remained on his until finally she nodded, then turning together they began walking across the lawn, saying no more until Daniella came to greet them, and the twins pulled Luc into a rowdy game of football.