Jojo’s French Escape
LORRAINE WILSON
One More Chapter
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020
Copyright © Lorraine Wilson 2020
Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Lorraine Wilson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008363123
Ebook ISBN: 9780008363116
Version: 2020-04-28
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Also by Lorraine Wilson
About the Author
About the Publisher
To Anna Bell, John Prentice and Flump (aka The Artful Dodger). I’ll be forever grateful for the encouragement and inspiration provided by writer friends and cheeky puppies!
Chapter 1
‘New beginnings are often disguised as painful endings’
Lao Tzu
From [email protected]
To [email protected]
Subject: Heads up
Hi JoJo,
Hope you’re okay? It’s been a while since we heard from you. Mum’s been worrying. I know you said you’ve been much better lately, and you’re happily settled in France but you feel so far away and after what happened last year it’s difficult not to be a bit concerned when you go quiet. Just humour me and stay in touch, okay?
I only ask because I love you, you know that, right?
Anyway, I need to give you a heads up about something. Two somethings in fact, I want you to be forewarned so you have some time to think.
Something number one: Have you decided what to do about the café? Because if you’re going to stay in France maybe you should think about selling? I’m happy to keep looking after it for a bit longer but I was thinking that maybe I’d like to go traveling, at some point anyway. I know how much The Sticky Bun means to you but if you’re not coming back … Your call.
Something number two: we had some people from the television company turn up on the doorstep. They said they’d tried to get in touch with you, but you weren’t answering your phone or email. They were talking about doing a special ‘one year on’ piece for Sex in the Suburbs @Nite, it’s a companion panel show to the main Sex in the Suburbs series … well, you know the kind of thing they want. Where is Joanna Grant now? And does she still hold a grudge? Maybe they were planning to give you a surprise on-air reunion with Aiden and Sally and hoping you’d punch Aiden? Who knows.
Actually, I’m hoping you’ll punch Aiden. On or off air, I’m not fussy.
Dad told them to fuck off. Can you believe it? After all the grief he’s given us over the years for bad language? Anyway, I thought you should know. Just in case they try to ambush you.
Stay safe okay sis? And please send me a reply soon.
Miss you lovely. Sending hugs.
Annabel
xx
P.S. I love the photo you sent me with Pickwick sitting on your shoulder. Who knew a miniature Yorkshire terrier could do a parrot impression. Poppy’s dogs are so cute, I’d love to meet them. Send me some more pics when you get a chance. Peanut’s dancing on YouTube is hilarious and Treacle sounds really sweet, I’m glad he’s not so timid now and getting over his pre-rescue traumas.
‘You know, I’m sure it’s her, it’s definitely JoJo …’
‘No, really? So she’s like a waitress now then?’
I do my best to block out the voices and sit tall in my chair at the kitchen table. There’s a tightness in my chest. It’s just anxiety, I know.
Just. Ha!
I try to keep in mind how far I’ve come in the past year. I knew that a new summer season would bring its challenges and I’m determined to hold on to all the progress I’ve made since last year.
Last summer I would’ve been hiding in my room or the loo having a full-on panic attack, not just a few anxious twinges. It would be fair to say that when I first arrived in France I was in pieces but after a year of Poppy’s non-judgemental, easy-going company and the peace of living in a rural community that couldn’t care less about English reality TV I’m finally feeling more like myself again. I love running the guesthouse, and the fresh air and outdoor lifestyle have been great for me. Discovering the French markets has been amazing and inspiring, both in terms of the fresh produce for cooking inspiration and the antique brocante markets for interior design ideas. Gradually I’ve clawed and climbed my way out of the dark hole I landed in last year.
And I’m not going to let a few people gossiping push me back down again.
It’s taken a while to put the pieces back together again, like an emotional jigsaw puzzle that’s more or less finished. Some pieces have the edges knocked off and there are a few holes where I’ve lost pieces of myself, but I am mostly together again.
Mostly.
And I plan to stay that way.
‘I read she had a breakdown and checked into the Priory …’
Do they realise their voices are carrying from the terrace into the kitchen?
Days like today are just a little wobble. Hearing the English guests whispering, speculating, wondering if it’s really me … it knocks me. But like a Weeble I’m determined to wobble back into place. I won’t let it keep me down for long.
I do the yoga breathing Poppy taught me and it works well, the tightness in my chest lessening. Ha! Take that, anxiety! Who’s in charge now? So the guests want to talk about me. So what? I absorb the peace of the kitchen, of cosy hot chocolates with Poppy, of glasses of wine on the kitchen table or out on the terrace while I plan menus and compile to-do lists and Poppy sketches in her journal.
I pick at the frayed edge of my denim shorts. I spent last summer shrouded and sweltering in baggy clothes and baseball caps. This summer I’m looking forward to wearing cute summer dresses and pretty tops. I’m finally emerging from my shell again and I’m done apologising for being me.
I think about Annabel’s email and the Sex in the Suburbs people wanting me to do a panel show and have to suppress the urge to laugh hysterically. As if!
A large furry mu
zzle appears on my knee. First impressions suggest the muzzle is attached to a giant shaggy rug but on closer examination it’s possible to see a pair of eyes amidst the fur. They belong to one of Les Coquelicots’ most important residents, Barney, who is a crossbreed griffon/beagle/hearthrug. I can attest to the fact that he makes a lovely foot warmer and footstool in winter. In summer, not so much. We’ll have to think about giving him a fur cut soon, before the really hot weather hits us.
He rests his head on my lap and leans the rest of his shaggy body against me, his pale, milky eyes reflecting his blindness, a disability he’s adapted to with amazing ease. Putting his head on my lap and leaning in is Barney’s version of a hug and I reciprocate, reaching out to sink my hand through curly, thick fur until it meets dog.
On my other side another important Les Coquelicots resident, Pickwick, puts his front paws up on my shin and taps me, asking to be picked up. As he is a miniature Yorkshire terrier he can barely reach my knees but like Barney he doesn’t let anything hold him back, not even the crooked front legs he was born with. Peanut and Treacle, the Chihuahuas, are even smaller still and are undoubtedly out the front with Poppy and the guests, dancing about on their hind legs, looking cute and begging for as much food as they can get their paws on. Barney and Pickwick tend to keep me company in the kitchen though, when Poppy goes to Leo’s.
I definitely have a special bond with them. Barney because he virtually lives in the kitchen, determined everyone remembers that since his rescue he’s now an indoor dog and shouldn’t be left out at night. Pickwick because I’ve taken to dog-napping him to sleep on my bed at night and I talk to him a lot. In my defence he does talk back, making odd pigeon-like noises that sound exactly like he’s chattering away, making his point. Poppy has the Chihuahuas – well, and she has Leo too now and soon she’ll have Leo’s dog Maxi as a permanent addition to the pack – but my bed is pretty empty so having a tiny Yorkie curled up on my feet or occasionally on the top of my head on the pillow is good company.
Poppy says that Barney and Pickwick only stay in the kitchen because I sneak them extra treats. I like to think it’s more than that though. Felix, our cat at home, would be horrified – I’ve become a dog person.
Dogs are great though. They just listen and don’t pass judgment. They continue to offer their unconditional love and support no matter what.
If only people were the same.
If you imagine the stupidest thing you’ve ever done and multiply it by a hundred, even then you probably won’t come close to the appalling, stupid decision that got me into this mess. I do hope not anyway. I wouldn’t wish that kind of humiliation on anyone.
My self-preservation instinct compelled me to run. I got as far as the South of France, where lack of funds and the kindness of strangers made me decide to stop running and start hiding. And where better to hide than a tiny, welcoming village in the heart of the Languedoc countryside? I left the happy, body-confident, outgoing JoJo, the Joanna Grant everyone knew from the telly, behind me in England and reinvented myself as ‘just Joanna’, a reserved, itinerant worker and cook with a love of baseball hats and baggy clothes.
Recently though I’ve been feeling like it might be okay to be JoJo again.
I’m not sure at what point my hideaway became my home. Initially I couldn’t see how to get over it, given the drama and scandal were on the internet for ever, a replay available at the tap of the screen or click of the mouse. But I took things one normal, non-disastrous day by normal, non-disastrous day, and each day the world didn’t end I breathed a little easier. My mind became filled with other, nicer preoccupations but every so often something happens, like tonight, and it hurts, like I’m knocking against thorns hooked deep beneath my skin.
Sitting in the kitchen is calming me. It’s the heart of my friend Poppy’s guesthouse, Les Coquelicots – a chambre d’hôtes in the village of St Quentin sur Aude and the scene of many a consoling late night hot chocolate over the past year. Not just for me either – Poppy had her own stuff to deal with last year when her boyfriend Pete dumped her by text the day she signed the purchase papers for the house, announcing he wouldn’t be moving to France with her after all. The fact that she got over it and is now in a relationship with Leo, the lovely village vet, gives me hope that maybe one day I’ll find that too. Okay, that seems like a stretch now, but that I’d even be contemplating it would have seemed inconceivable last year. So … maybe.
I put the kettle on to make a cup of tea. Les Coquelicots isn’t just a home, it’s been a safe haven, a second chance and a place to hide from the world, all while still technically working and paying my way, wrapped up in one. Helping Poppy renovate the house and turn it into a profitable business has saved me from going completely insane. Without something to keep my hands and brain busy I would have rerun what happened last year over and over on an endless loop until I … No, I don’t want to think about what I might have done if I hadn’t met Poppy, if she hadn’t given me a chance, if she hadn’t, well, saved me, I suppose. It sounds melodramatic but it happens to be true.
I pop my cup of tea onto the stripped pine table that I found for Poppy at a local brocante market and rest my forehead on my arms, inhaling the faint aroma of beeswax polish as I calm my breathing and block out the conversation from the terrace. I hear Poppy’s voice outside, back from Leo’s and greeting the guests. I’m reassured she’ll steer the conversation elsewhere. People often make the mistake of thinking she’s soft but there’s a core of steel running through her when the people, or for that matter the dogs, she cares about are threatened.
I sip my tea and resist the urge to go out on the terrace and put the story straight, to correct all the lies. It wouldn’t do any good and would just make things worse but I’m only human and the urge to defend myself is one I’ve yet to master. It’s not fair but it is what it is. I know I’m not to blame. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.
I repeat the mantra in my head and eventually the urge to wade in and explain myself subsides. I’ve been telling myself the exact same thing every day and I do believe it.
Mostly.
There are questions I’m not sure I’ll ever get answers to. Like if I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of then why do I feel so ashamed? And why do so many people on the internet believe I should be ashamed of myself and want to tell me so in great detail? Head belief and heart belief seem to be two very different things.
I bend down to scoop up Pickwick and let him perch on my shoulder, parrot style as he likes it. I think I’m starting to understand how eccentric misfits end up the way they are. I mean, I’ve been using a Yorkshire terrier who thinks he’s a parrot–pigeon hybrid as a counsellor, for pity’s sake, talking away to him about everything that happened.
Well, it helps and at least I know he’s never going to sell my secrets to the tabloids. I don’t believe he’d betray me even for a lorry full of dog treats. Whereas my cat would so sell me out for his favourite salmon treats.
By the time the meal is over I’ve sent Annabel a short reply and some dog photos and I’ve cheered myself up enough to put a smile on my face for Poppy. I remove Pickwick from where he ended up falling asleep, curled up on my chest, and together Poppy and I clear the plates and wipe the table down.
‘Fancy a hot chocolate?’ I stack the dishwasher with the dirty plates and ignore the half hopeful, half plaintive expressions on the dogs’ faces. I know they aren’t hungry because I fed them myself earlier but they are skilled little actors.
‘Yes please.’ Poppy yawns and stretches, apparently oblivious that Peanut and Treacle have abandoned their attempt to break into the dishwasher and are trying to scale her like she’s a climbing frame. ‘Just don’t expect any small talk, I’m completely out of it.’
‘No problem, I used all mine up on Barney and Pickwick anyway.’ I get the milk out of the fridge and find a clean milk saucepan. Good hot chocolate can’t be done in the microwave; the milk needs to be heated s
lowly and the cocoa powder added gradually. We use a Swiss brand of hot chocolate powder that comes in milk, white and dark flavours and has added B vitamins that make it good for us. That’s our story anyway and we’re sticking to it.
Poppy yawns widely and sinks down into a chair.
‘Did it go okay up at the Château earlier?’ I ask. ‘Was there a lot of wedding planning talk?’
‘Oodles of it,’ Poppy replies glumly, absent-mindedly fiddling with her engagement ring.
‘Happiest day of your life, remember?’ I tease.
‘Only if you don’t have two different lots of relatives to keep happy who both want – no, both expect – different things.’
‘You could just elope?’
‘Then I wouldn’t be making anyone happy. There’s a difference between upsetting a few relatives and pissing everyone off.’
‘So, upset the few then. If you can’t win don’t try.’ I whisk the chocolate powder into the hot milk until it becomes frothy.
‘I know that’s sound advice, but this is my mum we’re talking about.’ She laughs. ‘Choosing to get married in France so Leo’s dad doesn’t have to travel has been a little contentious, as you know. But anyway, enough about me, I had a nice evening, ignore me, I’m just a bit tired. How are you? You seem … off.’
She tilts her head and examines me. She has an uncanny ability to pick up other people’s emotions, which can be annoying at times, when you’re trying to pretend everything is okay, for instance. But I know it’s only because she cares.
‘The guests were talking about me.’ I lower my voice. ‘They recognised me.’
‘Oh,’ Poppy frowns. ‘Nothing too …’
‘No, nothing too …’ I leave the possibility blank too, deliberately. ‘It’s only going to get worse over the summer. We’ve lots of bookings from English guests and I’m not going to hide away like last year. I’ll just have to, you know, deal.’
‘Not all of them will have heard of you.’
‘No,’ I concede. ‘If they were marooned on a remote island with no wifi last summer they might have missed the story of “disgraced TV star Joanna Grant”. Yes, seriously, you know, it’s like my official moniker or something. It appears no journalist or blogger can write the words Joanna Grant without adding the word “disgraced”.’
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