Poppy's Place in the Sun by Lorraine Wilson (1)

Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country.

Anais Nin

“So, your boyfriend, he is not here in France with you?” Jacques, the notaire, opens the door for me and places a hand on my back as he sees me out of his office into the corridor. He’s the official who has been handling my house purchase, and he’s been noticeably friendlier in Pete’s absence.

A little too friendly, really.

“Er, no, he’s still working in England.” I ease forward as inconspicuously as I can, aware the palm of Jacques’s hand is resting firmly over the bra clasp beneath my cotton top but still not wanting to give offence. It might be an accidental palm placement, you never know.

“When will he be joining you?” Jacques takes another step forward, seemingly glued to me.

“Um, I’m not sure exactly.” My phone beeps, and I fish it out of my bag, cursing the English politeness that runs through my bones like the message inside a stick of rock. It’s so ingrained I actually apologise when someone else walks into me or spills a drink over me.

And I’ve never had it in me to tell a man to sod off.

I take a swift step forwards out of Jacques’s reach. “I think I’ve got a message from Pete now, actually. Also, I really should get back to the dogs.”

I crane my head towards reception where I managed to persuade Sophie the receptionist into dog sitting, not that she took much persuasion. Of course, now I could actually do with the dogs kicking off with an eardrum-splitting howling session to necessitate my speedy removal, they are being quiet and well behaved.

Typical.

Jacques smiles politely, finally picking up on my not-so-subtle cues now Sophie is in earshot.

“It was very nice to see you, Poppy Kirkbride,” he says, finally removing his hand from my bra strap. “Please feel free to contact me if you need anything or you’d like me to show you around. I could introduce you to the delights of Carcassonne and the surrounding area, show you the best places to eat. You’ve only visited once and briefly, if I recall correctly?”

“Yes, that’s right. Thank you, that’s … very kind of you.” I mutter and pretend to be oblivious to the predatory gleam in his eyes. Somehow, I doubt he’ll be less keen to give me a tour once I’ve got Pete out here with me.

Pete will laugh when I tell him about this. He’s never been one for the jealous boyfriend act. Which is good, sort of, but maybe a little bit unflattering. He usually makes a joke out of it, asking whether the other man had a white stick or a guide dog.

But who wants a man so possessive he thinks he owns you?

There’s an awkward moment when I wonder if Jacques is going for yet another French triple air kiss. I still can’t quite get the hang of the timing and Jacques seems to like to actually make contact with my cheeks or, on one occasion, my lips, taking advantage of my messed-up timing. It’s all very cringe-makingly awkward. I’m glad Sophie is in the room.

While the going is good, I make a dash for it before he can lunge. The stubborn streak of English running through my bones may be polite, but it also protests that a handshake is quite sufficient, thank you very much.

When I arrived alone at the office earlier, Jacques’s eyes gleamed as he insisted I call him by his first name. He also rose from his desk to treat me to a triple kiss of the full-on contact kind. From the amused look on the estate agent’s face, I’m not sure Jacques is usually that friendly with all the visitors to the office. I certainly don’t remember Jacques kissing me when Pete had been with me for the signing of the initial purchase offer papers.

Aren’t a lot of Frenchmen quite flirty though? I’m not sure it means anything. It feels big headed to read anything much into it. I know I’m nothing special. I’m not as thin as I’d like to be, but then I’ve never met a woman yet who’s one hundred per cent happy with her body. Even the really beautiful ones will point out a supposedly wonky nose or imaginary cellulite.

According to Marks and Spencer’s I’m an average size. In Top Shop I’m both obese and ancient. If pressed to find a good feature, I suppose I like my brunette gypsy curls, but of course they are extremely unfashionable. My hair has stubborn kinks in it that I’ve learnt not to fight. So it waves and curls and does as it likes, and I’ve given up caring. The electric straightening tongs Pete bought me for Christmas have never been out of their box.

I’m certainly not in Jacques’s league. He’s from the “attractive, but by God he knows it” group of men who I find tend to make a lot of use of their bathroom mirrors and own more grooming products on one shelf than I’d get through in several years. He probably has a wife and a mistress yet still needs to flirt to boost his ego during the day.

I put him out of my mind as I go to fetch the dogs.

I smile to find both Peanut and Treacle curled up side by side on Sophie’s lap, one on each thigh, no doubt dispensing a mixture of cream and ginger chihuahua fur onto her smart black work skirt, while she contorts her arms awkwardly around them to reach her keyboard. I grin. I know that posture so well. The chihuahuas are so very good at looking so cute that moving them feels mean, and instead you end up with permanent backache. Pickwick the miniature Yorkie is sitting on top of the desk next to Sophie’s monitor doing a good impression of a paperweight so he can look out of the window. He’s watching all the comings and goings in the village square and looking extremely pleased with himself.

“Oh no, I am so sorry. Pickwick knows full well he’s not allowed on desks or tables.” I swoop in to scoop him up first, trying not to dislodge any papers. He perches on my shoulder like a parrot and continues his surveillance.

“It is fine Poppy, they are beautiful little dogs. Such little angels. I have never seen such tiny dogs.” Sophie speaks impeccable English, beaming as she strokes first Peanut’s head and then Treacle’s. She also looks flawless – a dusky Audrey Hepburn look-a-like, but seemingly unbothered by the dog fur on her skirt.

She’s probably very organised and has one of those sticky roller things in her drawer to remove bits of fluff from clothing. I keep buying them and then forgetting to put them in the car.

Unfortunately, the little angels choose that moment to leap from Sophie’s lap onto my chest, and soon I’m mobbed with the full force of twelve scrabbly paws and three licky tongues. Soulful brown eyes reproach me as though I’ve been gone for years and left them to face unimaginable horrors.

As if I haven’t just seen them cuddled up quite happily with Sophie.

“Little fraudsters,” I mutter, but as usual they put a big smile on my face.

Once they’ve calmed down sufficiently, I put them on the floor and attach their leads.

“Thank you so much for helping me out.” I smile at Sophie.

“You’re welcome.” She beams back. “Any time. I wish I could have a dog, but I work full time. It would not be fair.”

“Well, you can always borrow mine when you want a dog fix.”

Sophie raises an eyebrow. “Dog fix?”

“Dog cuddle?” I offer instead. The addiction metaphor is a bit too complicated for translation.

She smiles back, and I wish I had the courage to suggest I buy her a drink sometime to thank her for looking after the dogs, but it seems a little desperate after two brief meetings. I might as well just say “I need new friends. Will you be my friend? “

I’m quite sure Sophie already has plenty of friends.

I’m still annoyed with Pete for refusing to take a couple of days off to fly down and meet up with me so we could do this together. Then he could’ve looked after the dogs. I told him it would be far too hot to leave them in the Mini, but he refused, even though he had holiday owing to him, saying he had too much on at work to take any holiday time.

I pat my jeans pocket to check the house keys are still there, then I head off into the village square.

Despite the warm patches of sunshine, it’s cool beneath the dappled shade of the trees as I cross the square, passing elegant buildings with pale blue shutters and roses trailing up the walls. I pause briefly on a wrought iron bench beneath a leafy tree and let the dogs sniff around while I check my phone. I’ve got one text from Mum, one from Dad and one from Pete.

I look at the texts from Mum and Dad first to get them out of the way.

Are you at the house? Have you got water and electricity yet? I do wish you’d waited and gone with Pete, I don’t like to think of you abroad all alone. Mum xx

How are you coping with driving on the wrong side of the road?

The second text from Dad is meant to be a joke. I hope. The first is a typical Mum text, full of worry and always assuming I can’t cope on my own. It’s not as though I’m eighteen years old and have just left home. I’ve just turned thirty, and I’m tired of being labelled as the dreamy one of the family. Just because I went to art college instead of “a proper university” like my older sisters doesn’t make me incapable. Of course, I then compounded their view of me by choosing to illustrate children’s books instead of doing “real art.” By “real art” they meant an in-house industry career that would have slowly sucked the spirit out of me.

I suppose it didn’t help that I missed a year of school with glandular fever and post viral fatigue when I was younger. After that I was the “delicate one” who needed looking after. I was a problem to be dealt with, and nothing I did after that could get them to see me differently.

Gran was the only one in our family to take me seriously. She loved the little stories and pictures I created in notebooks and encouraged my “doodling.” That was what Mum called my art. For all I know, she still does. Gran bought me my first set of watercolours and proper brushes to work with, as well as a good quality sketching pad. I can still remember the excitement that seeing those blank pages stirred in me.

Today is a blank page waiting to be filled with this new life I’ve chosen.

Gran was always so interested in my work and would send me flowers or chocolates whenever I got a new commission. She bought every single Fenella Fairy book and displayed them proudly on her living room bookshelves. She showed them to anyone she managed to lure onto her sofa with the enticement of tea and a piece of cake. She once accosted the meter reading man “who said I was lucky to have such a talented granddaughter.”

I swallow down the lump that rises in my throat. I miss her so much. It’s been ten months since she died, but the time that’s supposed to heal all wounds hasn’t done anything for mine so far.

I did try to explain to Mum that I had to come to France in person to sign the papers. Well, I could’ve elected a representative, but I really didn’t want to wait anyway. I wanted to do this stage in person. I sigh. I’ll reply to Mum later.

I open the text from Pete.

Sorry Poppy, but I won’t be joining you in France. I’ve been waiting for a good time to tell you, and I can’t put it off any longer – when I went to hand my notice in at work, they offered me a promotion with lots of extra money. I couldn’t turn it down. I would’ve been an idiot to say no. France is more your thing than mine anyway. I hope you’ll be happy.

Pete

What the … What? WHAT?!

I stare at my iPhone, unable to take it in. Peanut, the most sensitive of the three dogs, stops sniffing at the tree with the others and puts her tiny paws up on my legs, soulful brown eyes shining with concern. I scoop her onto my lap and chew my lip pensively. My mind is blank. I can’t think of a single thing to type in reply to my boyfriend. Or I suppose that should be my ex-boyfriend. How can my life be turned upside down by one text? It’s not just like having the rug pulled out from under me but also discovering that underneath is an open trap door and I’m falling.

Pete was waiting for a good time to tell me? And he considers today, once I’ve finally committed myself to the house purchase, to be a good time? From his point of view, maybe, given I’m currently too far away to make a scene or cause actual bodily harm. I’ve never actually hit anyone – well, except my sisters when we were all little, but as an adult I tend to stay away from conflict. But I think I’d be prepared to make an exception in Pete’s case.

Has he met someone else? That’s the only explanation that would make sense right now.

Dumped by text. I’m a clichéd statistic. It’s one of those things you hear about but think will never happen to you. Just a few symbols on my phone screen, and Pete has burst the bubble of happiness I’ve been floating along in since I put in an offer on the dream house. Supposedly “our” dream house. He has brought me back down to earth with a nasty bump.

It looks like Mum and Dad are right. I am “the dreamy one with her head in the clouds.” How else could I have missed this coming? My cheeks burn, but I feel strangely cold.

I look down at my hands. They’re shaking. I put my phone away before I drop it but stay rooted to the bench. I stroke Peanut absentmindedly, still reeling.

How could he … How?

Watching A Place in the Sun should come with a health warning. I used to record all the programmes and watch them on my iPad at night. I fell asleep dreaming of picturesque villas with mountain views and vivid turquoise swimming pools shimmering in the heat. Vibrant images danced in my mind, luring me away from everything I was used to. Taking me away from a world that was safe.

I would imagine having breakfast on a sun-drenched terrace, my dogs lying contentedly at my feet. Then I’d drink wine as the sun slipped down, streaking the mountain skyline with crimson as I headed off to work in my purpose-built art studio, converted from an outbuilding.

Only now does it occur to me that Pete didn’t feature much in my daydreams. He was there in some of them – walking hand in hand with me through the markets and then us sitting together having dinner at a restaurant in an elegant and sunny town square.

Part of the daydreams or not, Pete was a pretty essential part of the overall plan. He was meant to take charge of turning the outbuildings into gîtes. He’s the one with the project management skills, and his financial contribution to the project was meant to pay for all the renovations. We had it all planned.

Or at least I thought we did.

Why didn’t I question the fact that he didn’t want to be on the property deeds “for capital gains tax reasons”? He planned to hold onto his flat and rent it out. He didn’t want to be clobbered for tax and said his flat would give us somewhere to go back to if everything went wrong. A safety net. Ha!

I absentmindedly stroke Peanut, and she nestles into me.

It seemed to make sense at the time. Have I been selfish? Gullible, perhaps, but I don’t recall bullying Pete into the decision. I’ve been so busy getting my flat ready for sale and then getting my non-essential belongings into storage for Pete to bring down with him in a rented van. We haven’t spent much time together recently, but he always seemed very enthusiastic about moving. Why on earth didn’t he say something before now?

I pull the new house keys out of my pocket and finger them. The Estate Agent tag is still attached – it’s labelled “Les Coquelicots,” which roughly translates as “The Poppy House.” It seemed like such a good sign at the time. Not that I go around looking for signs, but the name jumped out at me from all the property details I had. None of the other options even came close.

I remember a phrase from the letter Gran put in with her will – “Find a home in France, Poppy darling, somewhere they aren’t afraid of ‘tall poppies.’ I’m convinced there is somewhere magical waiting for you – a place you can put down roots and grow to be the tall Poppy you are destined to be, without anyone trying to cut you down to size.”

So, the house name was more than a nice coincidence. When we viewed it, the wild poppies had just begun to flower. They flourished and dominated the cottage garden, and something deep inside me tugged me towards the property, almost like a magnetic pull. It was very strange. I just knew. This was my new home.

And we hadn’t even opened the front door yet.

Everything about it felt perfect, and as a possible holiday accommodation property it had great potential, Pete said. With the medieval walled city of Carcassonne to the north, easy access to the coast in the summer and ski resorts in the winter, it should make a perfect tourist retreat.

Should do. Could do. Will do?

I’m determined not to think in the past tense. I can do this on my own, right?

Oh, crap and double crap.

A knot of panic twists in my stomach like a physical pain. I take a deep breath and get a grip. There’s no point thinking about what I could’ve done differently. I now have the keys.

New keys. New house. New life.

I take another deep breath and try to put Peanut down, but she clings to me like a baby koala, as though she’s picked up on my barely suppressed panic. She probably has. I remember reading that dogs can smell our stress pheromones. Peanut acts like she’s big and tough, and the other two boy dogs accept her as pack leader without a quibble, but she’s often insecure. Both she and Treacle are rescue dogs and hate me leaving them. Pickwick is more confident, but then he was Gran’s dog. He’s always known what it means to be loved. She left him to me when she died, along with the money to help me make this move.

I cuddle Peanut back, her affection and vulnerability making it even harder not to cry. I don’t feel like moving but am aware of the penetrating stares of an old lady in a housecoat sitting outside her house opposite the bench. There’s something about her suspicious, hooded eyes that gives me the jitters. She looks like she thinks I’m a serial murderer or burglar or both and will set about me with a broom if I don’t move on.

I gather up the dog leads and head for the village market before going back to the car. It’s not as big as the Monday market in nearby Mirepoix that all the tourists flock to, but it has everything I need for the moment. The desire to get supplies in so I can lie low and lick my wounds has kicked in.

I haven’t got much of an appetite, but the market manages to distract me. The aroma of freshly baked bread draws me towards a stall laden with baguettes, freshly baked cakes and pastries. I buy a baguette, a quiche Lorraine and a golden, flakey pain au chocolat that doesn’t resemble anything like the more pallid, additive-packed offerings in the supermarkets back home. Then I head to the fruits and vegetables and buy some of the reddest cherry tomatoes I’ve ever seen, still on their vine. I’m tempted by the watermelons bigger than cannonballs but haven’t got a bag suitable for carrying one back to the car, so in the end I settle for ripe, luscious peaches and local cherries.

The dogs’ noses are up in the air, and as one they tug me towards the butcher’s van. I relent and buy a remarkably cheap steak for us all to share tonight. After all, the dogs need cheering up too. Pete has abandoned them as well as me. He said he adored them. But then he also said he loved me, and that obviously wasn’t true.

By now I’m finding it a strain keeping up the “I’m here to support the local economy and not to drive up house prices and leave your children homeless” smile. It’s a tough sentiment to portray with faltering French and sore cheek muscles, not to mention a sore heart.

I ignore the stalls selling intricately patterned scarves and handmade jewellery, quickly buy some free-range eggs and head back to the Mini before the smile slips. There’s a tightness spreading through my chest, making it hard to breath. By the time I’ve put the shopping and dogs in the car, the sensation is developing into a full-on panic attack.

Being on my own shouldn’t feel so terrifying. After all I’ve lived on my own for years. I’ve been happily single before. But that was in a country where I had a support network around me. Where I speak the language well enough to handle any crisis thrown at me.

I get in and start the engine. It won’t be as terrible as I dread. I’m just feeling bad because Pete has dumped me. By text.

And also because I don’t know a single sodding soul in this country except for a lecherous notaire and his receptionist who is beautiful, elegant and far too cool for me.

Once I’ve remembered how to breathe again, I ring the only person it was a real wrench to leave behind in England – my best and oldest friend Michelle. I use my hands-free set in the car. I had wondered if I’d get a follow-up grovelling text or call from Pete, but there’s nothing. I think about ringing him, but my finger hovers over his contact details without actually touching the screen. Something is holding me back. I don’t know what to say to him. Partly because I’m still winded, and also because I’m too proud to beg, and I’m afraid I might resort to it in a moment of weakness. Or worse I’ll cry, and he’ll be condescending. Then I’ll feel like hitting him and won’t be able to…

As the phone rings at Michelle’s end, I vaguely register how pretty the main road through the village looks. Plane trees line both sides of the street, and sunlight filters down through silvery-green leaves onto honey-coloured stone buildings. There are more of the painted shutters I love and a small café with people sitting outside, enjoying the sun and chatting with friends over coffee with the shopping from the market piled around their feet. It’s as though what I love about France is trying to nudge me through my shock and panic to remind me why I’m here. Also, I’ve got to remember this is not just about the picturesque villages and markets but the all-important sunshine my body needs if I’m going to be able to carry on working.

Early onset arthritis. A bad diagnosis for anyone, but especially not good for an illustrator or artist. Gran always swore her winters here in the sun did wonders for her arthritic joints. It’s one of the reasons she left me the legacy to enable me to pay off my mortgage and make this move. She said I should buy a property that could earn me money if I become unable to work, but that I should do it now while I’m healthy enough and young enough to enjoy the adventure. Quite how I’m going to get the property earning money without Pete’s help, I don’t know.

I practically sob with relief when Michelle picks up on the fifth ring.

“Hi Poppy, or should that be Bonjour? How does it feel to be a French homeowner then?” Her voice is bright and chirpy. “I can’t believe you’re the one going off and having adventures while I’m the one living in bloody suburbia with kids and a huge mortgage that keeps us awake at night. I always thought of the two of us that…”

“Michelle. I…” I cut her off mid-stream before my head explodes. It feels like it might, anyway. Can aneurysms be triggered by stress? My chest hurts as well, swollen with a too-tight feeling, like I’ve swallowed a rock and it’s lodged in my rib cage.

“What’s wrong?” Her tone changes immediately.

“It’s Pete. He’s. He’s…” I choke on my words and almost miss the turning next to the chateau down the private gravel track that leads to Les Coquelicots.

“Is he ill? In hospital? What is it, Poppy?” Michelle asks sharply.

I try to take another deep breath, but it morphs into a deep sigh.

“He’s not coming.” I pull up in front of my gate and turn the engine off. I want to, need to, tell her he’s dumped me, but I think saying the words aloud would definitely unleash the tears.

“But I thought you weren’t expecting him yet,” Michelle sounds puzzled. “You said you were driving down to the South of France on your own. Hang on a second.”

The background noise of a children’s cartoon fades.

“That’s better, I can hear you properly now. I’m as much of an Ardmann fan as the next person, but I’m getting bored of Shaun the Sheep on endless repeat. Tell me what you said again. What’s wrong exactly?” Her calm, no-nonsense tone soothes me a little. I picture her sitting, legs tucked up gracefully beneath her on the faded IKEA sofa we used in our flat share before she got married. It’s now covered with child-friendly throws, but the familiarity of the image is comforting.

“He’s not coming here. Ever.” The words have a horrible finality to them. It’s as though it’s only now I’m speaking it out loud that I can really start to believe that I haven’t just imagined the whole thing. “It seems he lied about handing in his notice. They offered him more money to stay, and he took it.”

There’s a slight wobble to my voice at the end of the sentence. Being valued less than a fatter pay check isn’t very complimentary. That’s if it’s really about the money. Yes, Pete threw himself wholeheartedly into the project idea once I’d won him round, but he’s right, it was always my dream first, not his.

Or perhaps he just wanted to dump me, and waiting until I’d signed the final papers was an easy out for him. No messy emotional dramas to deal with if I’m in another country.

“And he told you this when?” Michelle’s tone hardens as she morphs from bored mum to best friend ready to go into battle.

“Just now. He timed it so I got the text right after I signed the final papers and got the keys.” I half laugh, half sob. Then I have to reassure Peanut who turns her anxious, big, brown eyes on me, ever watchful for a sign of distress. Poor thing. For all her bravado, she’s pretty vulnerable underneath.

A bit like me really.

“Fuck,” Michelle says.

“Fuck indeed,” I repeat solemnly, staring through the gate at my new home.

Its shabby chic elegance inspired me when I first saw it. It has wooden shutters on every window that I plan to paint duck egg blue, and the upstairs bedrooms all have elegant wrought iron balconies. Back in England, whenever I pictured the house, it was with its beauty restored, adorned with pretty window boxes and shiny, copper planters full of lavender.

But now I see a few patches of peeling paint around the front door, window frames that need sanding down and repainting, and the odd straggling weed encroaching on the pretty cottage garden. And that’s just what I can see from here.

If I can’t restore the chic, will I just be left with shabby? I’ll still love it, but getting paying guests to feel the same might be a tad difficult.

On its own I might just about manage to cope with the house. Maybe.

It’s the fact I’m now also the owner of a large barn, several stone outbuildings, a ruined chapel, ten acres of land and two acres of woodland that scares the pants off me. That was the part Pete got so excited about though, and he kept enthusing about all the money it could make us once we’d done the conversions.

“No problem,” he’d said. “You’ve got me to handle all that side of things for you. I’ll pay for it all. That will be my contribution.”

Remembering the words, I snort, feeling hysterical laughter bubbling up inside.

“Are you okay, sweetie? Are we still at the fuck stage?” Michelle asks cautiously.

“Definitely, absolutely,” I say. “As in I have been, and not in a good way.”

“You can do it without him.” Michelle sounds like she’s trying to inject enough confidence for the both of us into her words.

“Yes, I know I can,” I lie.

“Of course.” Even Michelle doesn’t sound convinced.

My own best friend isn’t sure I can make it. My parents certainly think I can’t. Something stirs inside me as I look at The Poppy House, like the house is reproaching me. I’m filled with an indignation, a determination to bloody well prove everyone wrong, even myself, and succeed.

“Other people do this and make it work, so why shouldn’t I?”

I deliberately move away from talking about Pete. I need to focus on something positive. The statistics about the numbers of Brit expats who don’t make it and return home briefly flit into my mind, and I soundly bat them away again. I only know about them thanks to Mum, who made sure I saw the article in the newspaper when she was trying to talk me out of the move.

Instead I think about Gran and how much she would’ve loved this house. It was Gran who inspired my love of France. When my older sisters were off doing the Duke of Edinburgh award or building orphanages in Africa, I used to travel with Gran – Champagne, The Alps, Côte d’Azur, Provence and the Pyrenees. She took me on my first trip to the medieval fortified city of Carcassonne. I was only twelve, but it made a big impression on me. She told me that Walt Disney was inspired to create the famous Disney logo when he visited the city with its cobbled streets and fairy tale spires.

Something about this area called me back when we were house hunting.

Then, when I walked up the track to Les Coquelicots for the viewing, I knew instantly. The certainty was so absolute I cancelled all the other viewings.

I know Gran would love this house.

My house.

She wouldn’t care that inside there’s no kitchen to speak of – just an ancient range backed up by an old electric cooker, a butler’s sink and a few shelves. The plumbing and electricity “need updating,” as estate agents put it. It just needs some TLC. As I stare at the house with its wild cottage garden leading up to the woods and the jagged mountain peaks in the distance, my heart does skip, just a little.

So it’s not broken then. Not irrevocably, anyway.

In spite of its sheer impracticality, I love it all. The house crying out to be loved and filled with life. The land that’s bigger than my local park back home. The impossibly wild, tangled woodland I don’t know how to care for.

This feels like coming home. I just wish I wasn’t coming home alone. It’s a big old house for one person and three miniature dogs.

“Are you still there, Poppy?” Michelle’s anxious tone cuts into my thoughts. She’s used to me drifting off. From our very first day of secondary school, when Michelle decided I was going to be her best friend. Her mum used to say I was having a “fairy” moment when I drifted off into a daydream, as in I was “away with them.” So, when I got the commission for the Fenella Fairy books, it seemed kind of appropriate.

“Yes. I’m here. Just about.” I swallow hard, trying to forget how Pete and I toured the bedrooms and talked about what might make the best room for a nursery one day. Maybe.

One day.

My jaw clenches with the effort of holding it all in. How did I miss this? I feel so utterly stupid.

“I wish I could get on a plane and come straight over there, but it’s not that easy now with the kidlets and then Tom being away from home four days a week for work.” Michelle sighs. “Would you like me to go around to Pete’s flat and sew rotten fish into his curtain linings? Do you still have his spare key? Or I could just let the kids loose in it for a few hours. They’ll trash his flat, no problem.”

In spite of myself, I giggle. I’m not entirely sure she’s joking.

“No. It’s okay. Well, no, it’s not really, but I just needed to connect. To hear a friendly voice, you know. To remind myself that I’m not totally alone in the world…” The pain in my jaw increases, and my voice wobbles with the realisation that I know no one here, no one at all.

“Of course you’re not alone, you daft cow. Why do you think God invented the Internet?” Michelle exclaims indignantly. “I’m going to write you a long list of all the reasons why you’re fabulous and then a second one about why Pete is a rude word beginning with C I can’t say right now because of little ears. I’ll email it over, okay? Have you got a good enough phone signal for email? I assume you’ve still got to get Wi-Fi sorted out?”

I check the bars on my phone. “Yes, I’ve got a full signal on my mobile. Here at the gate, anyway.”

I hear a crash and shriek at Michelle’s end.

“I’ve got to go now.” Michelle sounds harried. “But I’ll email soon. I can breastfeed and type at the same time now. I’ve got it down to a fine art.”

“Thanks, Michelle. I’ll be okay, you know.” I’m determined not to let her hear the catch in my throat.

“I know you’ll be okay,” she replies emphatically, as though by saying it we can make it true. “Now go explore your new house. I hope you’ve got some booze in?”

“Uh, yes, of course. I’ll toast you.” I don’t mention it’s the champagne I was keeping to break open with Pete when he got down here to celebrate the new house and us moving in together. “I ought to go and let the dogs out anyway. Thanks, Michelle.”

Once I’ve disconnected the call and manoeuvred the car through the gate, I let the dogs out to explore. Within minutes of excited sniffing, there’s a three-way, miniature-Yorkie-chihuahua chase going on. They all seem to know the rules of the game of tag somehow, trying to fool each other by changing the direction as they hurtle around bushes. Peanut performs her usual acrobatics – a mixture of forward and sideways rolls as well as dancing around on her hind legs like a little meerkat ballerina. When I first got her from the rescue centre, I was sure she must be some kind of meerkat/baby kangaroo hybrid as she spent so much time hopping around on her hind legs. She never fails to make me smile.

She’s certainly the smallest dog I’ve ever seen, but with a personality so huge I don’t know where she can possibly be keeping it all. The other two boy dogs obey her without question.

The dogs didn’t have the space to do this kind of racing round back home. The garden was tiny, and I was always worried about bigger dogs at the park. Their sheer, unbridled exuberance lifts my spirits. Treacle, the other chihuahua, is also a rescue dog and is still quite timid with humans. Then, shortly after I adopted him, I inherited Pickwick from Gran. Luckily he already knew the chihuahuas and loves joining in with their games. They might all be tiny, but they like a large space to race around in as much as the next dog.

I’ve always been a “take the time to stand and stare” type of person. I think all artists are at heart. Dotted around my new garden are unfamiliar wild flowers hiding in hedgerows, the petals providing delicate bursts of red and blue in amongst the daisies. The poppies, both my new home’s namesake and my own, are still in full bloom and abundant. The vibrant, dancing red flowers always make me want to grab my sketchbook and watercolours. I love painting poppies. If you examine the Fenella Fairy books you’ll see they crop up a lot more frequently than other flowers. I suppose they’re a kind of secret signature.

Staring at them now, I’m struck by the symbolism of new life springing up from old and, inevitably, of remembrance. Memories of Gran flood in. The grief added to the loss and betrayal of Pete makes the wave of emotion feel dangerous. Like, tsunami dangerous. I need to focus on practical tasks before it sweeps me out of my depth.

I’d prefer to draw, to lose myself in my creativity as a way of dealing with the pain. My fingers itch to have a pencil, a pen, or even a stick of charcoal and my sketchbook, but I ought to put the shopping away and unpack the car. The dogs will want to be fed, and I need to keep an eye on them until I’ve had a chance to thoroughly check the fencing. I can’t lose myself in my sketchbook or travel journal, not now.

I struggle with the front door key for five minutes before I get the knack of holding up the handle, jiggling the key slightly to the right and then saying a prayer. The prayer was a last shot of desperation, but it worked, so I’m not going to knock it.

It’s beautifully cool in the house. It doesn’t smell at all musty. Someone must have aired it for me. The dogs trot in behind me and race off upstairs, no doubt eager to see if there are any beds to jump on. I place the shopping on surprisingly clean shelves and in the old but serviceable fridge. Once I’ve emptied the Mini, the hallway is lined with bags. I ought to unpack properly, but sod it, I simply can’t be bothered. Instead I grab the bottle of crème de cassis and the bottle of champagne I bought in a hypermarket just outside Calais. I take them with a glass outside to the terrace. The dogs hurtle downstairs, Peanut in the lead as they rush to follow me out. Either outdoor adventures are more exciting than indoor ones, or they’re anxious I’m going to leave them. They trot across the terrace in a little line of three at my heels like my own personal entourage.

Over my garden hedge I catch a glimpse of a tall man striding across the field towards one of the chateau’s outbuildings.

“Bonjour.” I step towards the hedge and muster a smile, carrying out an awkward half wave that I instantly regret when the stranger doesn’t so much as turn to acknowledge me.

Charming.

His flinty expression is almost as dark and wild as his tousled hair. He reminds me a bit of Gilles Mariani from Brothers and Sisters, only less groomed and without Gilles’ charming, self-deprecating smile. He strides towards the barn as though his long limbs can’t get away from me quickly enough and the only person he wants to deprecate is me.

My cheeks burn. After Pete’s rejection, this stranger’s refusal to even acknowledge me angers me disproportionately. If he’s my nearest neighbour then I’m screwed if I need help in an emergency.

Maybe he didn’t hear me? Yeah, sure, like Jacques’s hand on my bra strap was really an accident.

I thought villagers were supposed to be friendly and pull together to help each other. That’s how it works in the films. But then, I’m not a villager, am I? I’m an outsider. Maybe my hopes for a more connected life were just the foolish imaginings of a Londoner hoping real community still existed.

Sometimes I felt so disconnected in London, surrounded by people scurrying to their destinations, tutting if you held them up for a microsecond, or locked into their iPhones or kindles, preferring to live in a world of their own creation instead of the one right in front of them. I never even saw some of the neighbours in my block of flats back home, never mind knew their names. I used to seek out the quiet, peaceful places. The Rose Garden in Queen Mary’s Gardens in Regents Park, the National Gallery or the churches holding free lunchtime concerts. While I loved the exposure to art, I never felt like I fitted in or belonged in London.

One hot day last summer I was travelling on a London Underground tube train on my way to see a publisher, and I fainted. When I came round, no one had so much as moved to help me. One girl gave me some of her water, but not one person offered me a seat. That day fed the longing for more … There had to be more than this disconnection, this city anonymity. I tried to raise the topic with Pete, but I don’t think he got it.

I’d hoped for more here in Saint-Quentin-sur-Aude. I wanted to find other people who might believe in community. I’m really going to need “more” now, especially given Pete won’t be joining me.

I pull out a chair and sink down at the wrought iron table, tears pricking at my eyelids. I don’t usually drink during the day, but today I think I’ve got a good excuse. I’m trying to forget the champagne in my Kir Royale was supposed to be shared with Pete to toast our new home, but it’s not working. Thoughts tumble violently through my flimsily constructed barriers, smashing them to shards.

We’ve been practically living at each other’s flats for over a year, taking it in turns to have the convenience of having our own things around us. Did Pete get cold feet about moving in with me? I’m sure now his change of heart isn’t about France at all but about committing to me.

If so, he picked a bloody inconvenient time to come to that particular realisation.

I gulp down the uncomfortable thought that Pete’s cold feet are to do with me, not our French adventure. I drown it with delicious, rich blackcurrants and bubbles of champagne that tickle my tongue. A comforting warmth spreads through my chest like a sigh, releasing tension.

I take another gulp, trying to swallow down the emerging doubts and fears. Now that I’m not occupied with practical tasks, they threaten to break through and swamp me, to convince me not only that I’m a naïve fool but that now I’m a single fool, too.

I make a quick trip to the kitchen to grab the pain au chocolat and, to equalise the bad food points, a peach. It’s not the first meal I imagined eating here, but it’s what I fancy, and if I drink and don’t eat anything that’s not going to help anyone.

I take a bite of peach first, and it’s so juicy and succulent the taste hijacks all my senses. It’s got to be the nicest peach I’ve ever tasted, and I’m momentarily distracted from everything else. I’ve not yet got into the mindfulness trend, but for the moment all I can think about is how deliciously juicy it is. Then I tuck into the pain au chocolat, the layers of buttery, flakey pastry melting in my mouth and contrasting with the sharp layers of chocolate.

Oh my God. This is nothing like I’ve ever bought in an English supermarket; it’s even the best I’ve ever tasted in France. If this is from the local bakery my waistline might be in trouble.

I ponder starting up a food-based mindfulness programme. Now that I could go for.

I’ll stop thinking scary thoughts and try concentrating on how good the market food tastes and also how the warmth of the sun seems to penetrate my bones. I’ll remember why I came here. The sunshine soothes me, unknots and unfurls me deep inside like a pent-up sigh. I pretend not to notice the dogs licking up the odd bit of flaky pastry. I’m sure the odd crumb won’t harm them, and the dogs seem as bewitched by French pastries as I am.

This feels too incongruous – on the one hand I’ve got this glorious sunshine, delicious local food and the idyllic country scene on my doorstep, and on the other I’ve got Pete’s text and the spike of fear twisting and turning inside me. I’m just too damned tired to think. I should be planning what to do next.

Shouldn’t I?

I honestly don’t know, and, despite the fact I’m shattered from my very early start this morning and the stressful drive down from London, I’m not sure how I’m going to get through tonight, alone in a strange house.

I wouldn’t admit it to Mum and Dad, but getting used to driving on the right hasn’t been as easy as it was with Pete sitting in the passenger seat looking out for me. And I’m definitely not going to mention to anyone the panic attack I had when I realised the car’s sat nav was trying to take me through the centre of Paris.

As always, Peanut senses the downward shift in my mood and leaps elegantly onto my lap, where she curls up into a tiny little ball. The boys flank me, sitting on either side of my feet, ears pricked – my own personal, pint-sized bodyguards. My lips soften into a smile, and suddenly I don’t feel quite so alone.

Maybe I’ll stay up drawing. I never tire of sketching the dogs. I’d love to illustrate a story with them in. Maybe even write the story, too. Who knows? Maybe one day.

They might be tiny, but they’ll help defend me against depressive tendencies. I never understood why Churchill made his depression a black dog. I see my dark thoughts as crawly spiders that try to creep up on me under cover of shadows.

My phone beeps, and I look to see what the message is. My heart thumps wildly until I see it’s an email from Michelle. Of course it’s not from Pete. I bet his phone is switched off, the coward.

I take a deep breath. If Pete is capable of what he did today, of forward planning this, then I’m glad he’s not here. He can stay on his own little island and good riddance.

Now I can have my French adventure my way and find out why this house called me here.

I take a deep breath and open the email, smiling as I read the subject line.

I look up from my phone to do a quick dog check and see Gilles Mariani’s ruder, wilder twin is walking back the way he came.

His shirt sleeves are rolled up to expose tanned forearms, and his gait is relaxed but confident. His expression isn’t relaxed, though; there’s a definite hint of glower, like he’s got a storm cloud over his head instead of the glorious sunshine I’m enjoying.

He must have seen me this time, surely? If the field is his regular short cut down to the main drive, is he going to ignore me every time he sees me? I shrink down into my chair. I’m amazed the dogs didn’t bark at him, but they’re still busy crumb hoovering.

Thank God I wasn’t crying into my drink. That would’ve been the ultimate humiliation. I want to hate the stranger for being so rude, but instead I feel a definite stirring of … something indefinable waking inside me. Maybe that’s just the Kir Royale talking. Maybe it’s more definable than I want to admit. It’s too confusing and embarrassing to feel that kind of attraction today of all days.

Great, I finally join the rest of the human race and feel attraction to someone. To someone who appears to hate me already.

Just for existing.

I mean, I haven’t even spoken to him, so why would he hate me already?

Maybe it’s a weird rebound thing. I’ve never been that into sex. I mean, I like it, it’s perfectly nice and all that, but I don’t really get what all the fuss is about. I came to the conclusion long ago that sex was hyped up in books and films. Either that or I’m abnormal. I’ve only ever had two lovers. I don’t usually admit that though. I get the impression I should be ashamed of my lack of experience.

All very confusing.

I’ve tried to broach the subject with Michelle, but she just says she hasn’t had sex since she gave birth to Kitty and starts talking about the kind of gruesome details that make me wonder if I really do want to have kids after all.

I try to remember the last time Pete and I had sex. The fact that I’m struggling to recall it is a bit telling. How did I not notice the warning signs?

I remember reading somewhere that if your man isn’t having sex with you he’s probably getting it elsewhere. Great that I’m remembering that now. I take another large gulp of my drink, unsure why I’m still thinking about sex. I’ve just split up with Pete. It’s not even been twenty-four hours yet. Why on earth would I willingly choose to expose myself to more humiliation?

I quash the ridiculous thought of anything other than permanent spinsterhood as I glimpse an older couple walking along the path that links the chateau with Les Coquelicots. They are very well dressed, the man in a suit and the woman in a smart dress. They are also walking extremely slowly. When they’re closer, I recognise them as Monsieur and Madame Dubois, the couple who own the chateau and sold me the house. They came to the first meeting at the notaire’s when I signed the first offer papers but couldn’t attend today because of a hospital appointment. I get up and decide it would be polite to meet them halfway. The dogs race along behind me but don’t go too far from me, unsettled by new surroundings and wary of losing sight of me.

“Bonjour.” I smile warmly when I get to them. They were kind to me at that first meeting, and the house has been left spotless. Not to mention full of all kinds of useful bits and pieces like crockery and cutlery and furniture left behind that wasn’t specifically included in the sale.

They smile back, but there’s a deep sadness in Madame Dubois’ eyes that startles me, resonating with my own sadness. They embrace me. Flustered, I forget it’s supposed to be three kisses in this part of France, not two and get caught out, almost kissing Monsieur Dubois full on the lips, something he’s polite enough to pretend didn’t happen, though I do notice a slight twinkle in his eyes. I don’t feel anywhere near as awkward as I did with Jacques the notaire, though.

I’d imagined the Mayor of Saint Quentin would be scary, but Monsieur Dubois reminds me a little of my Grandad, which helps me to relax. I manage to air kiss Madame Dubois with better timing. Her perfume engulfs me – Chanel no 5, Gran’s favourite. She said you couldn’t go wrong with a classic.

There’s nothing for it. If I’m going to fit in around here, I’m going to have to get used to kissing complete strangers, even if it does feel a little odd. My family aren’t exactly tactile. I can’t remember the last time my parents hugged me. It’s a bit weird that I’ve had more physical contact with my new neighbours in the past few minutes than with my own flesh and blood in the past few years.

“We are very glad to welcome you to the village,” Monsieur Dubois declares in slow, carefully pronounced English.

I’ve noticed that whenever I try to speak French people reply to me in English. I’m going to have to work on my accent; is it really that bad?

“Thank you, I’m very happy to be here.” I look anxiously at his rigid frame, his hand rests casually on a fence post but I can see it’s holding him up. “Would you like to come and sit down or…”

I hesitate, aware that he’s only covered half the distance to my garden, not wanting him to now feel obliged to finish the journey.

Madame Dubois catches my eye. There’s a canny gleam in the way she sizes me up, as though she’s reading my mind. She gives me an almost imperceptible, approving nod.

“No need my cherie. We will go back in just a moment. Is everything okay with the house? Do you need anything?” She arches an eyebrow, and I catch a glimpse of the imperious, grand persona I imagine her bringing out on official occasions or when she talks to her staff.

“Everything is perfect, thank you. I’m sure we’re going to be happy here,” I reply, not quite ready to admit that “we” has shrunk to just me and the dogs.

Madame Dubois is peering over my shoulder, no doubt looking for Pete. I do wish I were better dressed. My denim skirt and handmade jersey top contrasts unfavourably with Madame Dubois’s elegant silk dress. She’s so beautifully turned out, I can’t imagine her ever eating dinner in her PJs.

The image that thought conjures in my mind is so amusing that I wish I had my sketchbook to hand. I suppress a smile and get the impression that our curiosity is mutual, but we’re both too polite to voice our questions.

When our eyes meet I feel a connection, like there are undercurrents we are both aware of. She is wondering where my boyfriend is and what I’m doing here, and I’m wondering what made them sell the house, why they are sad and if her husband is seriously ill.

“We have this for you, just a small welcome gift for a new neighbour.” She presents me with a gift bag.

“Oh, thank you, you shouldn’t have.” I peek inside the bag and spy a bottle of wine from the Saint-Quentin-sur-Aude vineyard along with a box of some very nice-looking chocolates.

Monsieur Dubois smiles back indulgently. “De rien cherie.”

Their kindness knocks my fragile control of my emotions and I blink hard.

“So, are you my nearest neighbour?” I ask briskly, trying to keep the conversation firmly on the small talk tracks. “Does someone live in the converted barn over there?”

The barn is about equidistant between Les Coquelicots and the Chateau. It looks intriguing. I long to have a nose round, maybe get some ideas. Along with A Place in the Sun, I’m also a big fan of Grand Designs. Pete and I used to watch that together and discuss how we would design our own renovations. I try to push those memories firmly away.

“Our son Leo lives there. He is a vet,” Madame Dubois replies proudly. “He had a very successful practice in Paris, but now he has come back to live at home.”

I wonder if he’s come home because Monsieur Dubois is sick. I also wonder if he’s the scowling man I saw earlier. Maybe he was just preoccupied with bad news and not up to being friendly to a stranger. I get that.

“I hope it will not be too quiet for you here.” Madame Dubois is watching me closely with an interested gleam. She’s definitely fishing. “You come from London, yes?”

“Yes.” I’ve given up trying to distinguish Greater London from Central London when talking to anyone outside of the UK. “But I’m sure it won’t be too quiet. I love it here, and so do the dogs.”

I’ve been trying to keep an eye on them as they race back and forth. I’m going to have to go round and check all the fencing. I sigh, feeling suddenly very tired.

“It won’t be quiet when Angeline moves the donkeys back into this field.” Monsieur Dubois cracks a side smile and gestures to the field bordering my garden. “She’s the other village vet, although her sanctuary animals seem to be expanding in numbers each year.”

“The donkeys help keep the grass down.” Madame Dubois touches her husband’s elbow, a gentle gesture that is obviously part of their secret couple’s language. “We must go now, Poppy. But also, we came to invite you to the chateau for aperitifs tomorrow evening at seven o’clock. So we can welcome you properly to the village.”

“Oh, thank you, that would be lovely. It may only be me though. Pete is still in London working.” Heat blossoms in my cheeks and I wonder how much of the truth Madame Dubois sees in my eyes. I’ve never been good at lying and have nothing vaguely resembling a poker face.

“Thank you so much for the gift and for all the things you left for me in the house.” I gabble on quickly before she can ask anything about Pete. I swing the gift bag nervously, wondering if we have to go through the kissing ritual again, determined not to muck it up and accidentally snog Saint Quentin’s mayor.

“It is our pleasure.” Madame Dubois moves in to air kiss me again, and I feel the weight of all the things sensed but not acknowledged hanging between us. The words not said weave questions in the air, stories of pain and loss for another day and on better acquaintance.

Monsieur Dubois lightens the mood by deliberately kissing me lightly on the lips with his third kiss.

Even though it’s a very chaste kiss, my cheeks flame hotter, and Madame Dubois swats her husband’s arm and rolls her eyes. There’s an affectionate bond between them that makes me yearn for what they have. I manage to hide my tears by turning to scoop up Peanut who is deliberately ignoring my call for her to follow me in favour of a particularly interesting scent on a bush.

Something about the stoicism of the older couple makes me decide not to waste time mourning “Pete the Prick” as I’ll now call him. There’s far too much on my to-do list for indulgent self-pity. I’ve got a deadline for the next Fenella Fairy book as well as everything I need to do with the house. Fenella is a feisty fairy with plenty of attitude. I’m going to channel my inner Fenella and get through this.

Looking down at the gift bag, I feel something of the magnetic tug that I felt the first time I saw Les Coquelicots. I’m meant to be here for some reason. There is community here.

There is connection.

If I fainted here in Saint Quentin, someone would stop what they were doing and help me back up on my feet again, I’m sure of it. I think about the man I saw earlier scooping me up in his arms, à la Willoughby from Sense and Sensibility.

Yes, because that worked out so well for Marianne, didn’t it?

Still, the idea of it creates some of those interesting stirrings again. Perhaps every girl needs a Willoughby before she finds a Colonel Brandon.

Soon the dogs distract me, and I try my most sensible idea yet – I turn up the music on my iPhone speaker and dance with my dogs. Peanut is great at dancing on her hind legs, and while they have no idea why I’m singing “I Will Survive” at the top of my voice, they join in enthusiastically and make me laugh – an infinitely better alternative to crying.