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Poppy's Place in the Sun

Page 3

by Lorraine Wilson


  “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.

  From: michelle.davis@yahoo.com

  To: poppy@poppysdesigns.com

  Subject: 10 reasons why Poppy Kirkbride is a total star

  1) She’s my 3am friend. Enough said.

  2) She has the biggest heart of anyone I know. She’d do anything for anyone.

  3) She’s a brilliant godmother who will be an inspiration to my kids.

  4) She can put up with my mother (which is more than I can say!).

  5) She listens to my moaning without complaining.

  6) Her art is totally amazing. Her illustrations make me smile, and I think she’s a far better artist than she’d ever admit, even to herself.

  7) She’s quirky and brave enough to be her own person.

  8) She’s so creative and cool. She even makes her own clothes. Everyone else thinks the clothes are designer, and she’s too modest to admit she made them herself, so I have to tell everyone.

  9) She used to stand up to the bullies at school if someone was being picked on, even though it made her a target.

  10) She has no idea what a total star she is.

  Poppy Kirkbride, you are a fantastic, strong and capable woman. Pete is a C word, but you can rise above this, and you will find a solution.

  Sometimes fate gives us a shout because we’re getting it wrong. When you look back on this in a year’s time, I bet you’ll be glad Pete left you and there will be a gorgeous Frenchman in your bed.

  For now, throw yourself into work and take the time to remember why you moved to France in the first place.

  P.S. Are you really sure you don’t want me to sew rotten fish in Pete’s curtains? Let me know if you change your mind. I am more than happy to be your avenging angel ;-)

  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 w
hat 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.

 

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