Poppy's Place in the Sun

by Lorraine Wilson

  Leo’s tone has that slightly too casual, forced air again. I wonder if he knows that he’s totally crap at being subtle. I get it. Les Coquelicots is his sister’s house still, at least in his mind. Though I can hardly keep it as a shrine. It is my house now, but I want to avoid saying that. It’s such a sensitive subject.

  “I’ve done almost nothing but consider it,” I admit. “Often at three a.m. There’s something about three o’clock in the morning. If you don’t find something else to occupy your mind, it can go to dark places, don’t you find?”

  Leo nods curtly.

  “Well, I’ve not been sleeping much lately, and I prefer to do something useful with the time rather than get grumpy about the fact I’m not asleep. I’d only just got to sleep that first morning Maxi came. That’s why I was a bit … you know.”

  Leo’s lips twitch into a smile. “That’s okay, I was ‘a bit … you know,’ too.”

  “Are you making fun of me?” I raise my eyebrows, but I’m smiling.

  “Maybe, just a little.” Leo shrugs, his smile widening. “I like the way you talk, the things you say. You’re different.”

  “Oh, right. Thanks, I suppose.” I eye him speculatively. I don’t know how to feel about that statement. “Different” can mean all sorts of things from utterly unique to being “two stops on from Dagenham,” i.e. Barking. I consider trying to explain that joke to Leo but know it would be too complicated. I spent ages trying to explain to Sophie why I said Peanut was nuts the other day. I suppose there must be all kinds of French idioms I’ll find weird. I’m not sure I’d like being referred to as someone’s little flea, for example, but it’s apparently a term of endearment.

  We’re interrupted by the waiter, who’s ready to take our food order. I don’t order cassoulet as the dish seems too heavy a meal for a warm evening, but instead I ask for duck with a honey glaze accompanied by salad and frites. Leo orders a steak.

  Once the waiter has left the table I dial the conversation back to the mundane instead of unpicking Leo’s comment.

  “I was thinking I could run a Chambres D’Hotes instead,” I say. “Inside the house just needs a bit of updating. Some redecorating, and maybe seeing if it’s feasible to put small ensuite shower rooms into the guest bedrooms. The rooms are a decent size.”

  “Would you mind having your space invaded by guests?”

  “I don’t know. Given I’m on my own it might be good for me to have some company, to be forced to be sociable, you know?” I ask. “I suppose it’s different for you as you see people all the time at work, but working from home when you also live alone, well … It might suit some people, but I don’t think it’s good for me.”

  “Would you do the evening meals too?” Leo’s gaze has softened.

  He doesn’t seem unduly horrified by the idea of Les Coquelicots being turned into a guesthouse. Is he responding to my inference of loneliness? My shoulders relax now that I feel less like an interviewee, or a criminal on trial for committing the crime of unwittingly buying a house that means so much to Leo.

  I shake my head. “I wouldn’t have time for that with my illustration work too.”

  “A guesthouse can be really hard work, you know. Doing the laundry and cleaning as well as the breakfasts. People often underestimate the work, and then overestimate how much income they can make from it.”

  A familiar spike of irritation rises up in me, my patience stretched so thin it snaps. “I know it’s going to be hard work. I’m not an idiot.”

  “I don’t think you’re an idiot,” Leo says earnestly, leaning forward and not flinching at the sharpness of my tone. “I just wanted to warn you. Look, if you’re serious about doing it, I could come over and have a look. I know the location of the pipes and the drainage, so I might be able to tell you whether the ensuites will be easy or a complicated, expensive job. I can also recommend a plumber, and we could see if it would be possible to partition off some private space for you, separate from the guests.”

  He places a hand over mine and squeezes. His desire to be helpful seems sincere. Perhaps I’m being overly sensitive, my parents’ niggling and disparagement making me prickly.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, slithering down from my high horse rapidly. “I would appreciate that.”

  “Any time.” Leo’s stare is piercing, like he’s trying to breach the barrier to my soul. I’m startled again by the connection I feel, by the sensation of the world diminishing and receding around us. By comparison, Leo comes into laser sharp focus.

  I don’t understand it. I barely know him. I don’t believe in love at first sight.

  At least I didn’t.

  Maybe I was looking in all the wrong places. I settled for less – for companionship with benefits – because I didn’t believe in more.

  I don’t know how long we might have stayed like that, just staring at each other, only at that moment our food arrives. Leo has to let go of my hand to make room for the plates and bread basket. The dogs have been remarkably quiet until now, lying beneath the table. The arrival of the food sends several noses straight up into the air, and I feel Peanut stirring from where she’s lying on my feet.

  The breaking of the spell reminds me I can’t afford to get caught up in feelings I don’t understand. There are questions I still need answers to.

  “What’s the history between you and Jacques?” I blurt out, startling Leo who is about to take a bite of his steak.

  Perhaps I should’ve led my way up to it gently.

  Leo chews slowly and it’s a long time before he replies.

  “Jacques was Amelie’s father.” He stares down at his plate.

  “Oh. I thought he wasn’t from this area, from what your mother said.” It’s the only thing I can think of to say.

  “He isn’t. He moved here with his parents when he was seventeen years old. When he was eighteen he got Madeline pregnant and didn’t want to know.”

  “I’m so sorry. That must’ve been awful for her.”

  “Jacques told her to have an abortion.” Leo’s voice hardens. “He was going off to university to study law, and a baby didn’t figure in his future.”

  “Bastard,” I say.

  “Madeline had a place at university, too. She deferred her place but ended up never taking up her studies.”

  “But when Jacques came back to the village … he didn’t spend any time with Amelie?” I ask cautiously.

  “He didn’t want to know her. He … blanked them.” Leo’s jaw tenses, and his knuckles on the hand holding the knife whiten. “Do you know he didn’t even come to their funerals?”

  “Oh God Leo, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I wish I hadn’t brought it up.” I reach out to touch the clenched hand, lightly squeezing it until I feel his tense muscles relax. “It was just that, after that day in the café, I didn’t understand what was going on.”

  “I couldn’t bear the thought of you going out with that prick,” he says, eyes darkening.

  “I actually wasn’t going to. I’d already picked up enough to know he might be bad news. Thank you for protecting me, but if that’s the only reason you asked me…”

  I shut up, a few seconds later than I should’ve.

  Leo lays down his cutlery and takes my hand in both of his. He gently caresses my palm with his thumb, sending tingling sensations dancing over my skin. I’m glad I’m sitting down, because my legs go a little wobbly.

  “I’m here because I want to be here.” Leo says simply.

  I exhale with relief. Maybe Michelle was right after all and things aren’t as complicated as I thought. The intensity of the moment is broken when Peanut’s head rises up above the table. She’s climbed up onto my lap without me noticing and now eyes up my duck and Leo’s steak in a way that plainly says if we don’t plan to eat them she’ll be happy to help out.

  We both laugh, and I withdraw my hand to put Peanut back under the table.

  My heart softens just a little bit more when Leo cuts off four taste-s
ized chunks from his steak, one of them bigger than the other three, presumably for Maxi.

  “They’ll be your friends forever now,” I remark once the steaks have been devoured and there’s much licking of lips beneath the table.

  I can’t decipher the look Leo gives me. The news about Madeline and Jacques makes sense of certain things, but I still don’t know what’s going on in Leo’s head or whether what’s happening between us is going anywhere. Or should go anywhere, for that matter.

  Is it too soon?

  My instincts are drawing me in, saying there’s no other way to interpret Leo’s long looks or the way his thumb caressed my palm. Maybe I should just go with it, dive into the current and be brave. Isn’t that why I’m in France? To live a life not ruled by fear, but live instead by listening to my instincts and following them?

  Leo skilfully draws the conversation back to less emotional subjects as we eat. I ask him about Paris, and he talks about his American partner in the practice, a good friend. Then he mentions his plans to sell his share to her.

  “Will you buy into the practice in St Quentin?” I ask.

  “Perhaps.” Leo shrugs and I feel him retreat a little from me.

  Instead I turn the conversation to the chateau and vineyard and to his father’s art collection.

  “I will give you a proper tour one day if you like.” He smiles. “Did you know there was once treasure found in the chateau? I can show you the place in the walls where the builders found a sack of gold coins. They were putting plumbing in at the time or it might never have been discovered.”

  “Really? How exciting.” I grin, and he grins back, one history buff to another.

  The mood has been lifted, like we have both tuned into a more positive frequency.

  Like we are finally in tune with each other.

  The journey home is quiet but companionable. When there’s a silence it’s peaceful, not charged or awkward. Leo points out the supermarket where I can get my phone repaired on Monday. At some point I fall asleep and am startled to be woken by Leo’s hand gently shaking my shoulder.

  “Oh, are we home? I can’t believe I fell asleep.” I blink hard and struggle to wake up.

  “I’m totally wounded. My company was clearly not very scintillating.” Leo smiles.

  “I’m sorry, I did say I haven’t been sleeping much lately.” I rub the crick at the base of my neck.

  “That’s okay.” Leo’s hand is still resting on my shoulder. My skin tingles, and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. My heartbeat is wild and erratic.

  “Thanks for today,” I say, barely able to breathe.

  I do hope I didn’t snore or drool or talk in my sleep. Then a twinge of pain reminds me of my swollen lip. Will he kiss the other side of my mouth, or is my car crash victim look too off-putting?

  “There was one thing I wanted to ask you, Poppy,” Leo says seriously, moving his hand and laying it lightly on top of one of mine.

  “Oh?”

  My heart is beating so hard now I’m sure he can hear it. I still can’t breathe properly. All my previous intentions are crumbling, and I know that if Leo wants to kiss me, or more … well, I won’t resist.

  Not even a little bit.

  “If you do decide to sell Les Coquelicots, would you give me first refusal?” He asks, breaking the silence, his gaze trained on my face to see my reaction.

  I’ll give him a bloody reaction.

  I wrench my hand away, embarrassment flooding my cheeks with a searing heat. How could I have been so stupid? Of course he doesn’t fancy me. And that line about wanting to be my friend was just that: a line. He’s been softening me up to get to this point. He’s so sure I’m going to fail he wants to get his claim in, to have first dibs on the house so I don’t put it up for sale with an agent.

  All those searing looks and hand holding, not to mention his confiding in me about his sister to break down my defences and get me to feel sorry for him … It was all a con.

  Do I have “idiot” stamped on my forehead?

  “Thank you for today,” I snap and quickly whisk the dogs and all my belongings out of Leo’s car at warp speed.

  “Poppy, I think you’ve misunderstood, I…” Leo frowns and seems genuinely dismayed as he tries to reach for me. I dodge him.

  “Yes. Too right I misunderstood. It seems I have a talent for misjudging men. I should add it to my CV.” I shut the car door a little too firmly. Okay, I slam it. It wasn’t exactly intentional, but the door does close with a satisfyingly heavy thunk. Once I’ve unlocked my front door I hear his car engine still running, but the car doesn’t move. I can’t help turning around to see Leo still watching me. He looks … sad. Heartbreakingly sad.

  “Join the club,” I whisper, and I have to harden my heart to keep my feet from turning around and going back out to him.

  Leo just wants the house back. I must keep that at the forefront of my mind. He flirted with me to soften me up, to make me compliant. And I fell for it. I took the bait and let him reel me in. I believed what I wanted to.

  The desire still coursing through my body shames me. It wasn’t reciprocated. There was no connection, just a surfeit of imagination.

  My biggest failing. Not a talent, but a flaw.

  My phone beeps. No doubt it’s Michelle asking for another update. I simply don’t have the heart to reply. It’s only when I’m curled up beneath the duvet, my furry canine hot water bottles cuddled up to me and conked out from their day out, that I check my cracked phone.

  There’s a text from an unknown number.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry Poppy. I really enjoyed your company today, and my timing was lousy. I really would like to be your friend. Forgive me? L’

  I don’t know who gave him my mobile number and feel cross until I remember I gave it to him myself when I registered at the vets. I briefly consider not replying but then remember the bleak expression on his face again as he watched me in the gloom of the car. I don’t know if he was checking I got home safely or hoping I’d change my mind and turn around. I pull the duvet further up over me, practically hiding underneath it as I type back.

  ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for. Thanks for taking us out for the day, the dogs had a great time. I appreciate it because I know how busy you are. See you around. P’

  I have never, ever signed a text with a single initial, and rarely do I text or email without adding an x or two at the end. I want to match his clinical formality as a way to start distancing myself from him. My hastily constructed defences to protect my pride only consist so far of hiding under a duvet and sending a text message, but I’ll work on it before I see him next. Maybe put up a bit of scaffolding and a “KEEP OUT” sign.

  I have to be polite. Or polite-ish. What’s the alternative? Tell him I’d thought I was falling in love with him, that I’d hoped he felt the same and was expecting to be kissed?

  As if.

  I regret slamming the car door but feel humiliated. He played me so easily. I can’t help replaying all the times he held my gaze far longer than “friends” ever do, the casual contact of his thigh against mine and all the accidental hand brushes. Not to mention that thing he did to the palm of my hand with his thumb.

  He knew what he was doing alright.

  He wasn’t confused about me, holding back because there’s too much going on in his life right now. That was a fiction of my imagination. I was being the usual fanciful Poppy – daydreaming again, walking along quite happily and not seeing the door I was about to walk smack bang into.

  Humiliated yet again. How did I get back to the same place so quickly? I think I need to make my life a man-free zone for a while. Boy-dogs excepted, of course.

  I stroke Peanut’s tiny body, curled up against mine. Her tiny head pokes up from the duvet and lays on the pillow next to me.

  I know I won’t sleep, so I pick up a book. I’ve started on Kate Mosse’s Citadel, set in Carcassonne and the Languedoc during the Second World War. Despite my churning e
motions, the engrossing plot successfully distracts me, and I fall asleep while still holding the book.

  I wake early, before Maxi’s wake up call. My dreams were full of threat, betrayal and underlying soul-sucking fear. At one point I was strapped to a bomb on the Carcassonne ramparts, waiting for my resistance hero to come and rescue me. However, he never turned up, and I spent the rest of the dream trying to work out whether or not he’d betrayed me.

  I’ve never been big on dream interpretation, but even I get the message my subconscious is screaming at me – the only person I can rely on at the moment is myself. Pete has left me to deal with a whole pile of crap. Leo wants me gone.

  Instead of all this date/not-date nonsense, I need to get my head down and work out how to start creating extra income. I remember Leo encouraging me in my ideas to run a guesthouse and leave converting the outbuildings until later.

  Traitor.

  All along he was thinking ahead to me failing and having to sell up, working on me so I’d agree to sell to him. Stuff that. If I pace the decorating I can manage it on top of my illustration work. I think. I’ll just have to listen to my body, listen to the warning pain and rest instead of pushing through it until my body has to resort to screaming at me.

  Maybe I will do that children’s book idea too. Watching Peanut rushing around like a furry nutcase, bursting with personality, I get the idea of writing the story from her point of view. Ideas dance lightly at the corner of my mind, tantalising me. At this time of the morning it’s still chilly, so I pull on a cardigan over my leggings and t-shirt and sit outside on the terrace with a notebook. I’m chasing the tail of dawn, and the sky is streaked with the rose and amber. Despite the birds’ chorus, there’s a stillness to this time of day. Leo was right about that at least.

  I jot down the ideas, brief sketches and possible story lines I don’t have time to write yet but want to come back to when I can. Whatever I do next, it’s not going to involve waiting for Pete to change his mind, dates that aren’t dates with Leo and liaisons with men who have lizard lips and dubious morals. Frankly, I think I’d rather spend time with the donkeys.