Poppy's Place in the Sun

by Lorraine Wilson

  “Oh, thank you. I’d love to,” I reply. I sternly forbid myself to offer to do it for free. I could do with the extra income now.

  “When is that boyfriend of yours moving here?” Monsieur Dubois asks. Madame Dubois elbows him, none too subtly.

  I try to take a deep breath, but my chest is too tight.

  “He’s not coming. It’s just going to be me,” I say firmly, as casually as I can fake it.

  I can feel the stares and the barely restrained curiosity in the room. I just hope it’s going to stay restrained. I bite my lip and try not to meet anyone’s eye, silently praying someone will change the subject. Anyone? Please?

  “Here Poppy, I notice you don’t have a drink. Have this.” Leo breaks the silence and hands me a Kir Royale in a crystal champagne flute. “To celebrate your move.”

  “Thank you.” I clasp it tightly, confused. I thought Leo didn’t want me here. I’m half afraid my hands might shake, half afraid I might drop it. His presence has such a peculiar effect on my body that I’m afraid I can’t trust it to do as it’s told.

  I can feel the stares still on me, the back of my neck prickling, although I suppose that could be the rash from the hedge-gate incident.

  Thankfully Monsieur Dubois takes the not-so-subtle cue from his wife and draws me aside to sit next to him. He talks about all the artists who have come to the Languedoc region for inspiration and about the art collection in the chateau. I’m pleased to find a fellow knowledgeable art lover.

  “Maybe there is something in the air, in the quality of the light.” He shrugs.

  I’m suddenly horribly sure my little sketch isn’t worthy to be hung next to the other art in the chateau, and part of me regrets bringing it. Although I have got a commission for the vets’ surgery as a result, and I do need the money now.

  “’The quality of the light.’ Those are the words of Matisse, although many artists have said much the same thing,” I reply with a smile and am gratified by Monsieur Dubois’s impressed nod.

  If only his son was this straightforward and easy to talk to.

  “I certainly find the evening light on the hills quite magical,” I say, and it’s true; the hills glow a gorgeous rosy gold, no doubt tinged by the red Rousillon earth. “And the area is so rich in interesting history, too, as well as art. I can’t wait to explore it.”

  What little history I know about the area so far comes mostly from reading Kate Mosse’s Labyrinth, which informed me about the persecution of the Cathars. And then one time I accompanied Gran to a talk about the Maquis, the local Second World War resistance who risked their lives to help those fleeing from the Nazis.

  They are only two brief snapshots of history, but they show that this is an area steeped in resistance, used to bravery in the face of persecution, whether it’s Cathars defying the soldiers of the vile crusade launched against them from the north or the free French subverting the Nazis.

  It seems as good a place as any for me to stand up for what I want; for what I believe is best. It feels like I’ve been battling against people who wanted me to fit in with everyone else my whole life – my parents, my sisters, my teachers who saw daydreaming as laziness. Even Pete wanted me to be a bit more conventional and didn’t like me wearing clothes I’d made myself if we were seeing his friends. He kept buying me clothes with recognisable labels on. Now I’m free to label myself.

  I take a sip of my Kir Royale. The champagne is far better quality than the bottle I opened to toast the new house. The light, delicate bubbles dance on my tongue as the rich blackcurrant liqueur slips down my throat, spreading a pleasant warmth through my chest. Odd that Leo brought me my favourite drink. It’s the second time today he’s read my mind.

  I glance over at Leo to find his gaze fixed on me. The expression is intense but inscrutable. He seems to be a man of contradictions, but now that I know about his sister and niece, I think I understand him a little more.

  “You must show Sophie around the area, Leo.” Madame Dubois grabs her son’s arm, and I almost choke on my drink. I really hope he didn’t think I was angling for an invitation.

  “Oh, really, there’s no need,” I hurriedly interrupt. “Jacques the notaire has already offered to show me around the area and give me a guided tour of Carcassonne.”

  I don’t add that I’ve absolutely no intention of taking Jacques up on it. I just want to give Leo an easy out that doesn’t embarrass either of us. Not that I think he’s easily embarrassed, but I certainly am.

  In the following split second of tension I catch Sophie rolling her eyes, Madame Dubois’s look of alarm and something far, far darker clouding Leo’s expression. The silence must last only a second or two, but the moment feels elongated, almost unbearable. Like I’ve stumbled into the web of something truly awful – it must be a humdinger of a crawly spider. And it appears I’m the only one in the room who can’t see it. Fantastic, just what I need – a crawly spider with an invisibility cloak. I’ve got enough of my own to deal with.

  “I would love to show you around, Poppy. I could take you to some of the Cathar castles if you like.” Leo smiles at me, and his face is transformed, the dark shadow vanished. Something about his smile makes me smile back, even though I’m thoroughly confused. I’m mesmerised, like my body can’t help mirroring him, betraying my attraction.

  Now I’m confused by both the undercurrents and my body’s reaction to Leo. I’ve only been single for, what, all of two days? I shouldn’t be eyeing up other men already. Should I? Is that just another rule I’m supposed to accept? But I’m supposed to be making up my own rules now.

  Still. Pete might change his mind and come, maybe…

  I know I ought to speak, but I feel so tightly wound I can’t locate the words.

  Thankfully Madame Dubois is far too accomplished a hostess to let the silence drag on.

  “That is decided then.” She smiles tightly. “Leo is, how do you say in English, a history buff. He will be a perfect guide for you.”

  “Um, okay, thanks.” I give the only response I can in the circumstances.

  I would’ve said yes anyway, and I don’t want to upset Madame Dubois. I’ve spied something heartbreakingly vulnerable beneath her iron demeanour. She hid it more quickly than Leo. The Dubois family have been so kind to me it would be rude to refuse.

  I know without a doubt she’d hate any chink of vulnerability to be seen or acknowledged in any way. She reminds me of Gran, who refused to admit she was growing older or unable to do all the things she used to. Just getting her to wear reading glasses had been an almighty battle. The memory fills me with a fondness far gentler than the exasperation I felt at the time. Gran was formidable and, at her most haughty, a tiny bit scary. Madame Dubois is clearly made of the same kind of granite. I wouldn’t want to cross her.

  Madame Dubois rewards me with a proper smile. “Poppy, ma chère, Leo will definitely make a far better guide and companion for you. He can also tell you all about the chateau’s history and knows far more about the Languedoc than that … jumped up notaire. That man is not even from Saint Quentin. He was born in Lyon, I believe.”

  A sniff of contempt accompanies the steely glint in her eye.

  In a different era, I can definitely imagine her as one of the Maquis, machine gun on her back, acting as one of the female guides who helped British airmen and Jewish refugees escape over the Pyrenees on foot. There’s definitely a rod of iron in that spine.

  Sophie’s eyes glint with amusement, and I see Angeline hiding a smile behind a raised glass.

  Madame Gilbert looks disapproving, but then she’s had the same expression on her face all evening, so I take no notice of it, remembering Sophie’s warning.

  “Are you sure it’s no trouble?” I lower my voice and glance apologetically at Leo, my cheeks flushing hot.

  “It’s no trouble,” Leo says firmly.

  Okay then. It seems I have no choice. I have been given a direct order.

  I still feel flushed and awkwa
rd, so I head over to Angeline, who is so easy to talk to and isn’t harbouring any scary spider traps that I know of. I get her talking about her veterinary practice and all her sanctuary animals.

  “It is not about business to me. What matters to me is helping animals and that my surgery has a heart.” Angeline presses a hand to her heart, and I swear I feel ripples of the love, the heart, that she’s talking about. I’m bathing in her warmth, and it’s such a welcome, relaxing feeling after the tension earlier in the evening that I find myself finally unwinding and enjoying myself.

  Only occasionally do I feel out of it, mostly when the others talk in French so fast I can’t possibly keep up. I know most of the vocabulary, and when I’m communicating one to one it’s not so bad, but in a group it’s too fast to comprehend. I dread having to make phone calls in French and hope I can do most of the admin things by email, where I can check before I send and use translator apps on my phone if I get stuck.

  It will get better. It’s very early days.

  Soon it’s clear to me that it’s time to go. Monsieur Dubois is pale despite his olive complexion, and there are taut lines around his eyes. I’m not the only one to notice, and tactfully the goodbye kissing ritual commences. I long to say “Bye then, I’m off” and skulk quickly away like I would back in England.

  There’s a quirk at the corner of Leo’s lips when he approaches me to complete his part of the ritual.

  My heart thumps awkwardly in my chest. I’ve already managed multiple kisses this evening without mishap or unintended snogging. So many kisses I’ve lost count.

  But of course I’m so focused on not making a prat of myself that I accidentally brush the corner of Leo’s lips and his cheek, his five o’clock shadow making it more of a graze than a brush.

  Did he do that, or did I? Despite my suspicion that it was Leo who deliberately made lip contact and not my ineptitude, my cheeks grow hot. I so need to get a tan. If I’m going to develop a habit of blushing around this man I’m going to need a deep tan to hide it.

  “Sorry, I’m not used to this French kissing thing,” I babble. Then I realise what I’ve said, and my cheeks burn even hotter as I wish for the elegant silk rug beneath my feet to swallow me up.

  Oh, buggeration.

  Leo’s lips curve into a smile. I get the feeling it’s not designed to put me at ease. He’s really enjoying my discomfort. The sod.

  I take a step back and lower my voice so his mother can’t hear. “You know you needn’t show me around, really, if you don’t want to.”

  “Who said I didn’t want to?” He raises one sardonic eyebrow and moves deftly away to speak to his father, leaving me utterly bemused.

  In the meantime, Sophie and Angeline have appeared, one on either side of me, seemingly determined to escort me home.

  “So, what don’t I know?” I ask them once we are clear of the chateau. “What was all that atmosphere about back there?”

  I catch the look that passes between them. I know exactly what question they are signalling to each other – “How much do we tell her?”

  “There is always history between families in villages. I wouldn’t worry.” Angeline squeezes my arm.

  I turn more hopefully towards Sophie and raise my eyebrows, hoping she’ll be more likely to dish the dirt. Angeline is clearly too nice to say anything horrible about anyone, which is admirable but not much use to me.

  “Just one thing,” Sophie purses her lips. “Jacques is my boss so I’m trusting you. You didn’t hear this from me, okay, but…”

  When she pauses, I feel Angeline’s arm stiffen in mine.

  “But?” I prompt, my curiosity raging. Sophie hesitates, and I get the feeling she’s changed her mind about confiding in someone she’s only just met.

  “But I’d take up the offer of the tour with Leo, not Jacques.” Sophie presses her lips together, clearly unwilling to divulge any more.

  Angeline’s arm relaxes in mine and I wonder what she was so afraid Sophie would let slip. What is Sophie afraid to say?

  “Well, Leo didn’t really offer, his mother did.” I sigh.

  “Leo is definitely not a … how do you English say it? A ‘mummy’s boy.’” Sophie shrugs again, and I make up my mind to take up elegant French-style shrugging. I wonder if I could get Sophie to teach me. It’s got to be better than my oh-so-English blushing and apologising for existing. I suspect I need a whole attitude shift though, not a lesson in body language. When I grazed Leo’s lips – or he grazed mine, something I’m coming to think is more likely given how paranoid I was about not touching him – I felt very blush, not shrug.

  I felt a hell of a lot more than blush, if I’m honest. My hands are still a bit trembly, but I’m hoping Angeline and Sophie can’t see. Our only light comes from the external lights on the estate buildings and the outside light of Leo’s converted barn and my house.

  My house. I feel a warm, contented glow at the thought of my shabby, soon-to-be chic house and the little bundles of fur, tongues and claws about to hurl themselves at me like I’ve been gone for years, not just a couple of hours.

  “I agree with Sophie,” says Angeline. “If Leo didn’t want to show you around he would’ve said so. He would’ve come up with a polite excuse though.”

  “Does anyone ever say no to Madame Dubois?” I laugh. “I don’t think I’d dare to.”

  “It has been known to happen.” Angeline grins. “Though I can probably count the times on just one hand.”

  “And they still haven’t found the bodies.” Sophie laughs.

  As we walk down the track to my house I can vaguely hear the strains of Katie Melua still singing about the number of bicycles in Beijing. I consider explaining why the dogs are listening to her album, but I’m well aware I’d be labelled “une Anglaise excentrique” at best or “fou,” nuts, at worst. Maybe when I know Angeline and Sophie better I’ll be less worried about being labelled by them. I’ve got to get out of the whole labelling mindset and stop caring so much what other people think.

  “I insist on my dog cuddles. My dog … fix, as you called it.” Sophie stays by my side as I do my lift up the door handle, jiggle the key and pray to get the door to open ritual. I really must get some oil.

  “Be careful what you wish for.” I snort. “They’ll go nuts.”

  Needless to say, three tiny, furry cannonballs come hurtling out of the door. I crouch down to greet them, and once I’ve been thoroughly mutt-mobbed they recognise Sophie and Angeline and move onto them to get extra cuddles. Because clearly they don’t get enough from me.

  I smile to see Treacle pushing forward for a fuss. Only a few months ago he would’ve hid behind Peanut and trembled at the sight of a stranger, or anyone but me really. It’s so rewarding to see he’s finally making progress; that I’ve helped rebuild his confidence.

  I can’t help dwelling on Pete’s betrayal once Angeline and Sophie have left. Treacle may have new confidence in the human race, but my confidence in men has taken a battering.

  I thought I knew Pete. I assumed he was telling me the truth. I feel so bloody naïve. My ability to trust has taken a huge dent. Not least because I don’t feel able to trust my own judgment anymore. How did I miss the signs? I know I was dealing with selling the flat and putting things into storage and then swimming in the unknown waters of currency deals and the French legal system. It was all a bit stressful, particularly when it looked like my flat sale wasn’t going ahead and I’d lose Les Coquelicots. That felt like the end of the world. I sobbed my heart out while Pete shrugged and said there would be other houses. That was a sign. I would’ve picked up on it if I hadn’t been so distraught. Though Pete has never been a crier, so I hardly expected him to react in the same way as me. Luckily the Duboises gave me extra time, and it worked out. I’ve been understandably preoccupied for the past couple of months.

  But still. Why didn’t I know? Was it because my head was in the clouds, like I’ve been told my whole life?

  It’s too la
te now for these kinds of thoughts. It’s been a very long and testing day. Maybe I’ll actually sleep tonight. I’m woozy from the Kir Royales I had up at the chateau, so, once I’ve trotted the dogs in the garden and we’ve got to bed, I let them give me a second rapturous welcome. They’re clearly concerned the first welcome wasn’t effusive enough. I let them use me as a trampoline and join in their play fight for a while. Eventually I persuade them it’s snuggle time and lie curled up on my side, the dogs nestled up to my back and in the crook of my legs. The empty space on the other side of the bed feels odd, all wrong.

  Should I try to ring Pete again?

  Not bloody likely. I screw my eyes up tightly, give myself a mental slap and then toss that idea into a mental trash bin. As I fall asleep, my mind is focused on one thing only. One man only. A volatile, dark and handsome Frenchman who seems to despise me one minute and want to flirt with me the next. I can’t help wishing he were filling the empty space behind me.

  It might be too soon, too complicated and too weird to be thinking about Leo, but as I fall asleep the rational part of my brain loses the battle completely, and my subconscious replays the kiss and a whole lot more in my dreams with no reservations or angst.

  From leo@cabinetvétérinairesai‌ntquentinsuraude

  To sarah.sheldon@cliniqueamivet

  Subject: This is where you get to say ‘I told you so’

  Hi Sarah,

  I hope the temporary vet has worked out okay? Is her English up to scratch? I know you said you were a bit concerned most of our regular American and English clients wouldn’t take to her if it wasn’t.

  I suspect you know why I’m emailing. I can’t put it off any longer. I know I said ‘no way’ when you tried to buy me out and predicted I wouldn’t ever make it back to Paris, but…

  You were right. I’m going to have to bite the bullet and make St Quentin my home again, this time on a permanent basis for reasons I need to get off my chest.

  Dad is ill. It’s far worse than they told me. They said they didn’t want to worry me. As if the heart attack last year and broken hip this year weren’t enough to deal with, he’s developed a nasty infection in the hip replacement joint. They’ve taken a fluid sample so they can work out the best antibiotics to use, but it’s going to take time. The worst news of all is that top of all that he’s been diagnosed with Parkinson’s. That last diagnosis is being firmly ignored by both my parents. It does explain those dizzy turns he had that were written off as being stress-related. I only know because I took him in for his latest check-up yesterday, and I spoke to the hospital doctor myself. The fact they’re both ignoring the diagnosis is almost more worrying than the illness itself. I have to stay around and keep an eye on both of them. There’s no one else. Well, obviously you know that, but it’s at times like these that I really miss having someone else to share the responsibility. For all this to happen so soon after the accident is just too much. I should never have come back to Paris after that. I ought to have stayed here with them. It’s too late for regrets, but it’s time I put things right now.