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I threw my arms out evangelically and pumped my hips. ‘Vicki’s back.’
    Later, as I wandered from room to room, Hercules and Boz fussed around me, Hercules ramming his snout into my hand and Boz scuttling behind. I couldn’t work out why a house with such old family charm could be so sparsely decorated, unless Christophe’s former lover had legged it with half the contents. I should introduce her to Marc, it might be a match made in heaven. In the corner of the sitting room stood a piano, on which there was a group of framed photographs. All but one showed Christophe in the winner’s circle, receiving trophies with different horses. Izzy had told me his family had bred race horses for years. Christophe specialised in equine vet work. Another photo was altogether more interesting; it showed him holding a red-haired woman in his arms who he’d evidently just swept off her feet. She was clutching a huge Ascot-style hat on her head and kicking a very shapely leg in the air. After close scrutiny, I put the picture down and headed off to the kitchen – the room where I would earn my keep.
    Old cupboards had been painted in duck-egg blue; a large American style fridge-freezer stood in the corner and a stainless-steel, five-burner hob was better than I’d hoped for. Despite these impressive facilities, I stuck a potato in the microwave and chopped some tomato and onion. I was too tired for anything fancy and I had nobody to impress tonight.
    After supper I went back upstairs, where I couldn’t resist taking a sneaky peek into Christophe’s bedroom. It was decorated in blues and greens. A large dresser stood between two windows. On it were a couple of bottles of cologne, some loose change and a small, bronze sculpture of a horse. The doors of a large wooden wardrobe hung open, exposing a neat selection of clothes; sweaters in shades of bottle green, blue and deep pink hung beside an orderly row of trousers. European men were much braver in their choice of colour – I wondered if their Mediterranean colouring helped. I thought about Marc’s haphazard wardrobe, dull with khaki and navy, most of which would be spilling from the shelves like there’d been an earthquake.
    On the bedside table was a biography of Jules Verne.
    The light was still on in the en-suite and, as I approached it, I picked up the subtle, amber fragrance of his cologne. Guiltily, I turned away and my eyes drifted back over to the wide bed with its heavy blue bedspread.
    Oh boy, I could just imagine the fun that might be had on there with Christophe. Maybe I’d tug his bow-tie loose with my teeth…then again, maybe he’d do it himself – though not with his teeth, of course – in that confident way a true Hollywood idol would. Followed by the snapping open of tiny white buttons…
    ‘Don’t even think about it!’ I screeched, and headed out of the room, clicking off the light and closing the door. ‘Focus, Vicki! Focus!’

CHAPTER 4
    The following morning, I woke with an ache across my shoulders. I sat on the side of the bed and wind-milled my arms to loosen the muscles. It was only six-thirty but I’d always been an early riser. Well…always since the first week of my first teaching term. I’d quickly learnt it didn’t pay to face marauding year nines with the hang-over from Hades and a seat-of-the-pants lesson plan. They were experts at spotting weakness. It was a kind of jungle cunning. They might not all be destined to make eye-watering GCSE grades, but they were onto a fledgling teacher faster than a mean cat on a sickly sparrow. By getting an hour’s head start, fuelled by a pint of coffee, I could just about keep on top of the little blighters.
    Yawning, I wandered over to the window, lifted the curtain and looked out at the hazy morning light playing on the courtyard. There were buildings either side, which I assumed to be part of the veterinary practice. Beyond this, fields stretched into shallow hills dotted with trees.