Poppy's Place in the Sun

by Lorraine Wilson

  “You get up quite early.” I hope I don’t sound too accusatory. It might be reasonable to be irritated at being disturbed so early, but now I’ve heard the story I can’t be cross.

  “I like to walk Maxi early in the day. It’s so peaceful just after dawn. It helps me start the day in the right frame of mind. We get all kinds of emergencies, and I never know what to expect, so having a relaxed start is important.”

  “I can see that. I get that you need a quiet start to the day. I’m lucky that I have the kind of job where if I get something wrong I can start over again with no consequences. Except missing a deadline, maybe.” I hesitate. “I really don’t mind Maxi coming over. It’s okay. It was just that first day I’d only had an hour’s sleep. Now I get to see the sun rising over the Pyrenees. It’s wonderful to be able to see the skyline. One of the benefits of country versus city I suppose.”

  “You can join me, if you like. If you feel like it one morning we could walk the dogs together.” Leo’s suggestion surprises me, and I get the weird feeling he surprised himself too. “Or I can take you down to the lake. You get it all to yourself if you go early.”

  “I might do that, thank you.” I’m equally surprised to find I’m actually considering it.

  I don’t do early. The dogs don’t do early. Pickwick in particular hides under the duvet until he can’t cross his legs any longer. But there’s something about the idea of a peaceful walk in the stillness of dawn, seeing the world as it wakes up, that appeals to me.

  Seeing it with Leo isn’t exactly unappealing either.

  I sense the gesture is a kind of peace offering. It would be rude to reject it.

  “I meant it last night about being happy to show you around, you know.” Leo straightens up from where he’s leaning against the wall and faces me.

  There’s an intensity in his dark eyes that unnerves me. Does he know the effect he’s having on me?

  Regardless, if he wants to help me then why should I struggle on alone? I could cry into my chihuahuas about Pete and facing a new country alone, or I could accept the offer of a drop dead gorgeous vet to show me around. Really there’s no contest.

  I’m still wary of invisible spiders’ webs though.

  “Are you sure it’s okay? I don’t want you to feel you have to…” I shut up quickly, before my English politeness can talk me into the crying into my chihuahuas option.

  “I know I don’t have to. I would be happy to show you around,” Leo replies simply.

  Okay then.

  “That would be nice, thank you.” I accept quickly before I can say anything else that will talk me out of something I actually want to do.

  Leo looks down at the dogs. Maxi is lying on his side, and Peanut is sitting on top of him. Leo shakes his head, then looks up at me and smiles. I mirror him again. I can’t help it. I like this glimpse of happy Leo – a Leo not burdened with grief and loss; a Leo without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  Our eyes lock, and I feel it again: a connection. A visceral, gut tugging, inexplicable connection. I’m sure, from the way he looks at me, that Leo feels it, too, but there’s a dark thread winding through the connection; a tangled thread. I wonder if the attraction is as inconveniently timed for him as it is for me.

  That’s assuming he feels anything at all. I couldn’t even say for sure that he likes me. Michelle would say I’m being fanciful; that men aren’t all that complicated, and they either want to shag you or they don’t. But … there is something strange happening here. We’re silent for several beats too long. Our eyes stay locked in a bizarre kind of staring contest.

  It’s only broken by Peanut squeaking loudly and jumping up and down on her hind legs like a baby kangaroo.

  I pick her up.

  “I should’ve called her Mimi,” I say, not sure if I’m glad of the distraction or not.

  “Oh?” Leo quirks a thick, dark brow and whistles for Maxi, who trots to his side and sits at attention.

  Show off. Leo, I mean.

  “Because with Peanut it’s always all about me, me, me.” I smile. “She rules over the boys as though she’s their queen. Funny thing is they let her do it.”

  “She seems to have another adoring subject in Maxi,” Leo replies. “I’d be careful, or he’ll be round expecting a treat every day now.”

  “I meant it when I said I don’t mind,” I reply a little too quickly. I look down at Peanut, not wanting Leo to know I’ve been told the history behind the Maxi visits.

  “I need to get back to work.” Leo nods at me. No kissing ritual to worry about this time, but I swear there’s a gleam in his eye, as though he’s reading my thoughts and remembering our half kiss from last night. “I’ll see you around.”

  “Okay.”

  I turn around and head back to the other dogs before they decide to start howling. While I’m walking back to the house, a seed of an idea is taking root in my thoughts. I’ve already examined the barns and the crumbling ruins of the old church.

  Even without getting a builder’s quote I know I can’t afford to convert any of them into accommodation without decimating my savings. If I ever have the money, I’d love to convert the old church into an artist’s studio. If I could get planning permission for it, that is.

  But the house itself, well, that is another matter. With a little decorating and a few trips to IKEA to make my money stretch further, I could run a Chambres D’Hote, the French equivalent of the English B&B. I could also go to the flea market in Limoux and see if I can pick anything up there. I’ve heard there are still a few bargains to be had.

  I walk around the house making mental notes of what needs doing. Okay, make that a whole heap of decorating, not just a little bit. I suppress the dart of fear that sanding window frames and gripping a thicker paint brush, on top of my usual illustrative brushwork, would be extremely painful and might make my arthritis worse. I have to be able to work.

  I’ll cope. I can do it.

  Although I’m not sure I could do the full Table D’Hote – cooking and eating my evening meal with the guests. I’ve never been that great with recipes. I get distracted or decide to experiment when I discover I’m missing some of the specified ingredients. Sometimes it works out really well, other times not so much, and that wouldn’t be good for guests who would expect a three course meal showcasing the local cuisine.

  I’ll just do B&B.

  I wonder if there’s scope to create separate accommodation for me so I can keep some privacy. Or maybe I should convert the downstairs rooms that have French Windows looking out onto the woods behind the house. Then guests could have their own outside entrances to their rooms.

  It’s daunting, but I suppose it might be doable if I aim for next season. It’s way too much to manage for this summer coming. I set the seed of the idea aside and let it germinate while I work on a Fenella watercolour. For some reason the donkeys keep coming into my mind; another seed, this time a story idea, pushing doggedly at the back of my mind. Trying to break through.

  I’ve got work to do, a house to decorate and renovate, and somehow I need to organise getting my belongings down here. Pete was going to hire a van.

  Huh.

  I certainly don’t have time to write and illustrate my own children’s story, something that has absolutely no guarantee of being published. When I was fresh out of art college, my parents kept telling me that trying to get into children’s publishing was very risky and to try for something that provided a regular monthly paycheck.

  The thought of illustrating industry brochures for the rest of my life was enough of a spur to make me push to do what I really wanted. Then I was incredibly lucky to get the Fenella contract, a brand for which there is a seemingly endless demand for add-on products. I’ve designed Fenella Fairy notepads, colouring books, sticker books, you name it. It’s turned out to be safe, despite what my parents originally thought.

  Though, if I’ve already taken one step into the unknown by coming here, then why no
t take another? I’ll think about it. I’ll add it to my to-do list along with the donkey watercolours for Angeline. I feel a twinge of pain in my right hand about the same time I notice my stomach is growling. Time for a break. I’m going to have to go to the bakery for some bread, if it’s open. Madame Gilbert seems to keep capriciously erratic opening hours and closes at lunchtime, which always seems odd to me, closing just as people are getting hungry.

  I put leads on the dogs, and they spin like little tops as though I’ve never given them a walk ever, ever, ever in their entire lives. Oh well. At least they’re easily pleased. Much easier to keep happy than men. Easier to train, too.

  It’s a beautiful day, and the sun bathes me with a warmth that makes my whole body relax with a sigh of contentment – like the “ahh” sensation you get when you slip into a hot bath at the end of a long day. The sunshine has already brought out several hundred freckles on my face in just a few days. It’s nice to be able to put summer clothes on every day and not worry about cardigans or umbrellas. Maybe my freckles will eventually join up, and I’ll have a version of a tan.

  Tiny wild daisies and vivid blue cornflowers mingle with the late wild poppies in the hedgerows to make walking into the village a total delight, so much so that I’m not looking where I’m going and end up bumping smack into Sophie.

  “Ouff, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” I ask, aware that most people bump into others on pavements because they’re glued to their mobiles, not admiring the wildflowers.

  “I’m fine.” She crouches down to make a fuss of the dogs. “Bonjour, mes petites.»

  “Oh, your skirt. I’m sorry.” I gaze in dismay at her suit skirt, navy this time, now covered in tiny, dusty paw prints.

  “It’s okay.” She brushes it down, but I take a baby wipe out of my bag and offer it to her. I swear I buy more baby wipes than people who actually have babies. I use them for everything from dog emergencies to shoe cleaning, house cleaning and removing make-up.

  “Are you on your lunch break?” I ask, providing an empty doggy bag for the used wipe.

  She raises an eyebrow at my preparedness. Funny how I’m more organised when it comes to the dogs than myself.

  “Yes, I’m treating myself to lunch in the café today. I always do on a Friday. How about you?” she asks.

  “I was going to buy bread,” I say, knowing I should do the sensible, economic thing but really wanting to go to the café.

  “The Boulangerie is shut now. Come and have lunch with me.” Sophie links her arm through mine, and I’m touched.

  She hasn’t grilled me about Pete yet, but her kindness shows she knows how I’m feeling. I’d thought it would be really hard to make friends in France, and without the kindness I’ve been shown so far, I know I’d be finding everything a lot harder.

  “Your dress is beautiful, Poppy, so unusual,” Sophie comments, eyeing my cotton tunic dress with approval. I made it myself with fabric I ordered from India on the internet, but telling Sophie that sounds too … boastful, I suppose.

  Anya and Jacob’s café is a welcoming sight. A striped red awning covers the tables and chairs outside so there’s a choice of shade or sunshine. The door to the café is wide open, and inside is colourful. There’s artwork and posters covering the walls. I peer through and can’t help noticing some of the paintings have a price card displayed below and the label “local artist” in English as well as French. That plants another seed in my mind. Could I sell some of my watercolours here? The idea of being free to pursue whatever artistic direction I like, no deadlines except for perhaps commission work agreed with the buyer, is liberating. It feels too good to be true.

  Perhaps without Pete and my family tugging me back down to earth, I’m in danger of letting my dreams carry me away. I feel their tug, like a giant helium balloon, wanting to carry me up into the clouds.

  “You are very quiet, Poppy.” Sophie eyes me speculatively. “Where are you? Not back in England with your merde-for-brains boyfriend?”

  “God no.” I laugh at her franglais idiom. “I’m just daydreaming. I’m always being told off because my head is in the clouds.”

  “But you are an artist,” Sophie replies solemnly. “You are made to dream, to see things differently and capture what other people cannot see. It is not a fault.”

  I smile. “Where were you when my teachers kept telling me off for daydreaming in class?”

  “But not your art teacher, no?” Sophie smiles as we sit down at a table in the sun.

  “You’re right. My art teacher was great, a real inspiration. She made me believe in my abilities and encouraged me to go to art college.” I pick up the menu and am glad to see that bacon rolls are on offer. I put the dogs under the table and will them to stay there and be good. If they do misbehave, I can always bribe them with bits of bacon.

  I like how dog friendly France is compared to England. Whenever I ask if it’s okay to bring my dogs into a café, the owner looks at me like I’m mad. I’ve already seen someone else with a toy poodle on her lap, so I don’t bother to ask Anya if it’s okay.

  Once we’ve placed our order, Sophie explains why she took the job at the notaire’s office, and that she’s studying law part time. The dogs strain at their lead beneath the table. I glance up to see what’s caught their attention and notice Leo walking into the café. Thankfully Maxi isn’t with him. I can do without another Peanut escape.

  Leo nods over at us but doesn’t come over. Again I feel the intensity of that strange connection between us. I’d swear he was attracted to me if it weren’t for his diffident air. For all I know he’s staring at me planning how to turf me out of a house he still sees as Dubois property.

  I scold myself for being too fanciful and deliberately look away from him.

  “The café is very popular at lunchtime,” I remark to Sophie. “I suppose it doesn’t have any competition.”

  She smirks but doesn’t mention the charged look that just passed between me and Leo. She’s obviously going with the “he fancies you” option, given the way she’s smiling, but I’m not totally convinced. Yes, my confidence has been knocked by Pete dumping me, and sitting next to a glamorous Audrey Hepburn lookalike doesn’t help, but it’s not just that. It’s a feeling that things are far from that simple. They’re not even simple for me, and I know I’m attracted to Leo; it would be useless to deny it.

  But attraction and action are two very different things. One doesn’t necessarily have to lead to the other, even presuming it’s mutual.

  “They do takeaway baguettes here,” Sophie comments. “That’s something Madame Gilbert doesn’t do even when she is open.”

  I didn’t really speak to Madame Gilbert last night; the gimlet eyes put me off. I kept picturing her as part crow and wanted to draw her like that. I tried a few sentences in French on her, and I swear they weren’t too incomprehensible, but she pretended not to understand. Sophie says Madame Gilbert does actually speak some English but refuses to on principle.

  Luckily I’m not like Peanut. Despite feeling upset by Leo’s initial unfriendliness, I really don’t need the whole world to love me. Just more friendly faces than unfriendly faces would suit me fine, and on the whole Saint Quentin seems a friendly sort of place to live.

  “Uh oh,” Sophie murmurs under her breath.

  I look up and see Jacques has entered the café too and is queuing a couple of places behind Leo who seems to be getting a takeaway order for all the staff at the veterinary practice. Well, either that or he’s very hungry.

  “What’s up? Aren’t you allowed to come out for your lunch break?” I whisper back, leaning forward over the table so I can’t be heard.

  “No, it’s not that, it’s … Ah. Bonjour.” Sophie beams up at Jacques who has left the queue to come over. You’d swear she was delighted to see her boss. Thankfully we’re at a small table for two so there’s no room for him to join us.

  Treacle cowers behind my feet and trembles. He’s still not great with strange
men.

  “Bonjour.” I smile politely at Jacques, but my skin prickles. There’s something about the way he’s eyeing me up and down, his gaze lingering on my breasts and the exposed flesh above the neckline of my dress.

  Thankfully Anya brings our food and drink over at that point, and Jacques has to back off so she can put it down on the table.

  “How about I take you out for the day on Saturday and show you around the area like I said I would?” Jacques smiles but his lips look too thin. I imagine a lizard tongue darting out of his mouth and shudder inwardly. Sometimes a vivid imagination can be a curse.

  “Um.” I ponder how to say no without offending him.

  “I could take you to dinner at an amazing restaurant I know in Carcassonne. It’s situated in the walled medieval city.” Jacques’s voice carries, loud and confident. He seems so sure of himself.

  Just as I think I’m going to have to lie to get out of it, I feel a firm hand on my shoulder and turn around to see Leo glaring at Jacques. His hand on my shoulder seems to claim me. If everything wasn’t so complicated, I’d be flattered.

  “That won’t be possible. Poppy and I have plans for Saturday.” Leo continues to glare at Jacques and then adds something in French that’s far too fast for me to catch. From the sour look on Jacques’s face and Sophie’s widened eyes, I don’t think Leo was being particularly polite.

  Jacques licks his lizard lips, but there’s a flare in his eyes that tells me he’s livid with Leo, not necessarily about me but because he’s been shown up in public. For a bizarre moment it feels like we’re in a Wild West standoff.

  I’d be flattered if I didn’t get the feeling this is about far more than who gets to take out the new English girl first. There’s hatred in both men’s eyes, and I’m stuck in the spider’s web between the two of them.

  Behind me, Treacle creeps out to tentatively sniff at Leo’s legs. He’s clearly made his choice, and I’m in agreement.

  “Yes, sorry,” I apologise to Jacques. “I do already have plans. It’s very kind of you to offer though, thank you.”

  “Another time maybe?” Jacques shrugs, but his expression is strained.