Poppy’s Place in the Sun - Lorraine Wilson A French Escape

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“She’s the other village vet, although her sanctuary animals seem to be expanding in numbers each year.”

      “The donkeys help keep the grass down.” Madame Dubois touches her husband’s elbow, a gentle gesture that is obviously part of their secret couple’s language. “We must go now, Poppy. But also, we came to invite you to the chateau for aperitifs tomorrow evening at seven o’clock. So we can welcome you properly to the village.”

      “Oh, thank you, that would be lovely. It may only be me though. Pete is still in London working.” Heat blossoms in my cheeks and I wonder how much of the truth Madame Dubois sees in my eyes. I’ve never been good at lying and have nothing vaguely resembling a poker face.

      “Thank you so much for the gift and for all the things you left for me in the house.” I gabble on quickly before she can ask anything about Pete. I swing the gift bag nervously, wondering if we have to go through the kissing ritual again, determined not to muck it up and accidentally snog Saint Quentin’s mayor.

      “It is our pleasure.” Madame Dubois moves in to air kiss me again, and I feel the weight of all the things sensed but not acknowledged hanging between us. The words not said weave questions in the air, stories of pain and loss for another day and on better acquaintance.

      Monsieur Dubois lightens the mood by deliberately kissing me lightly on the lips with his third kiss.

      Even though it’s a very chaste kiss, my cheeks flame hotter, and Madame Dubois swats her husband’s arm and rolls her eyes. There’s an affectionate bond between them that makes me yearn for what they have. I manage to hide my tears by turning to scoop up Peanut who is deliberately ignoring my call for her to follow me in favour of a particularly interesting scent on a bush.

      Something about the stoicism of the older couple makes me decide not to waste time mourning “Pete the Prick” as I’ll now call him. There’s far too much on my to-do list for indulgent self-pity. I’ve got a deadline for the next Fenella Fairy book as well as everything I need to do with the house. Fenella is a feisty fairy with plenty of attitude. I’m going to channel my inner Fenella and get through this.

      Looking down at the gift bag, I feel something of the magnetic tug that I felt the first time I saw Les Coquelicots. I’m meant to be here for some reason. There is community here.

      There is connection.

      If I fainted here in Saint Quentin, someone would stop what they were doing and help me back up on my feet again, I’m sure of it. I think about the man I saw earlier scooping me up in his arms, à la Willoughby from Sense and Sensibility.

      Yes, because that worked out so well for Marianne, didn’t it?

      Still, the idea of it creates some of those interesting stirrings again. Perhaps every girl needs a Willoughby before she finds a Colonel Brandon.

      Soon the dogs distract me, and I try my most sensible idea yet – I turn up the music on my iPhone speaker and dance with my dogs. Peanut is great at dancing on her hind legs, and while they have no idea why I’m singing “I Will Survive” at the top of my voice, they join in enthusiastically and make me laugh – an infinitely better alternative to crying.

       Chapter Two

       Dreams are today’s answers to tomorrow’s questions.

       Edgar Cayce

      Despite being so tired that I keep bumping into unfamiliar walls and furniture, I can’t sleep. I’ve tried unpacking some of the bags from the Mini, but my heart isn’t in it. I also tried making a list of everything that needs doing in the house, outbuildings and grounds, but that drove me very quickly to drink. I also tried painting from the sketches I did earlier in the garden, but I had to give up when my fingers were too tired to hold the paintbrush.

      Too tired. Too stiff. Whatever.

      I ignore the pain in my hands. It’s because I’ve been gripping the steering wheel for too long and carrying boxes. A few months of what Gran used to call her medicine – the South of France sunshine – and I’ll be fine.

      I eventually get to sleep about five a.m. Then, at six a.m., Pickwick, Peanut and Treacle set off such a cacophony of barking and howling that I wake up, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. The noise, combined with a “where the hell am I?” panic about waking up in a new place, seriously weirds me out to the point that I sit still blinking hard for several minutes before my brain can kick my body into action.

      If you’ve never heard two Chihuahuas and a miniature Yorkshire terrier howling in unison, then you should probably consider yourself lucky. It’s hilarious the first time because the high-pitched noises are so comical, but on repetition it sounds less like comedy and more like a cat being fed through a shredder.

      Eventually my brain gets the signal that the reason for the racket is that someone is knocking at my door at frigging six o’clock in the morning.

      Who does that? Seriously?

      At first, I’m determined there’s absolutely no way I’m getting out of bed to answer the door to a complete stranger. Partly because I’ve only had one hour’s sleep, my eyes are red-rimmed and I look like crap. I’m wearing an old oversized T-shirt – the only item of clothing I could be bothered to retrieve to wear last night – and suspect I resemble a swollen blimp. On the upside, any burglar would take one look at me, listen to the earsplitting howling for a millisecond and decide to run in the opposite direction.

      I didn’t even make the bed properly last night. I just dragged the duvet out of the car, and the four of us piled onto the IKEA bed that had been left behind and still had a bedspread on it. Thankfully a clean one. The dogs burrowed beneath the covers and only stirred when they sensed me crying.

      I couldn’t help crying in the end. I’m only human, and stoicism and dancing only get you so far. A rejection is always going to hurt. Peanut is always the first to pick up any shift in my mood and is quick to comfort, crawling up onto my chest to lick away my tears with her tiny pink tongue. Her brown eyes shine with such concern I feel guilty and determined to hold it together. She and Treacle have been abused. Their growing trust in me is a gift, and I don’t want them to ever be afraid again.

      Eventually the knocking stops, and I bury back down under the duvet. It’s surprisingly cold at night here in the countryside. I’ll have to get some wood ordered in and get the log burner going in the evenings.

      My brief peace is shattered when the knocking starts up again, this time at the back door.

      Arghh.

      The dogs start howling again, and I only just restrain myself from joining in with them. My conscience gives me a kick though. I’d never answer the door in my old flat at night, even with the safety latch on, but…

      It’s potentially a little old lady knocking on the door because her house is on fire and she needs to use my phone, likely not a crime gang ready to storm the house and strip it of all my belongings. Not that I’ve got much for anyone to take. And if it is the little old lady, then I’ll be left with a neighbour who will never forgive me for ignoring her in her hour of need.

      Even if that hour is six a.m.

      Reluctantly I slip my feet out from under the warm duvet and make my way down to the back door. City habits are too entrenched for me not to check first, so I creep into the kitchen and peer out of the window that gives me a view of the back door.

      I have to blink hard several times and then bite my lip to check I’m actually awake before I’m willing to accept the knocking is coming from a dog the size of a wolf. Or possibly a wolf the size of a big dog.

      He’s standing on his hind legs and dropping the knocker down with his mouth. In that position he’s as tall as me, and his muzzle alone is bigger than any of my dogs.

      By now the littl’uns

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