Poppy’s Place in the Sun: A French Escape. Lorraine Wilson
see you at the chateau later on?” She asks before she walks away. “I’m on call, but I’ll be there.”
“Oh. Yes. See you later then.” I cross my fingers there won’t be any vet emergencies this evening. Having Angeline there this evening might help.
“Leo will be there too, of course.” Angeline heads off to continue her survey of the field boundaries, but I swear I see a gleam in her eye as she turns.
Hmm.
I get my phone out to Google where I can buy chicken wire.
I want to be Angeline when I grow up.
‘There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure’
Paulo Coelho
A nap leaves me in a better mood. After wondering what I should take to the Dubois’ this evening, I decide to put Fenella aside for the afternoon and give them a watercolour sketch of the chateau instead. I work from the journal sketch I did earlier, but this time I add the donkeys. They give the picture movement and a foreground focal point. I can’t do anything too complicated in the time I’ve got, but my fingers seem to fly over the paper, and I’m pleased with the end result.
A donkey sticks his head over the hedge and eyes me suspiciously. The dogs dart over, so I go with them, wanting to get them used to the animals. I wonder how Maxi got into my garden this morning. Maybe from the woods at the back. I sigh at the thought of plugging every gap where foxes and cats have pushed up the fence or dug beneath it for their nighttime manoeuvres.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Donkey.” I walk over and offer him the back of my hand to sniff. It only seems polite to say hello, and if I’m going nuts why not go the whole hog? At least this is one neighbour I can bribe to like me with a carrot.
Unfortunately I’ve not got any carrots on me, and the donkey soon gives up when he realises I’m not going to feed him. I sit and watch them trotting around the field and keep a gimlet eye on Peanut, head of pack mischief. There’s an old football in the field, and I watch, fascinated, as the donkeys kick it around the field. Thankfully the dogs can’t see, or they’d be in there wanting to join in, regardless of the fact the football is bigger than they are.
I imagine texting Mum:
“Hi Mum, don’t worry about me being on my own, I’ve got a wolf-dog knocking on my door to give me wake-up calls and donkeys in the next field playing football to keep me entertained!”
Ha. She’d try to get me home and sectioned under the mental health act.
I’m jittery at the idea of facing Leo again. My stomach is doing weird acrobatics now that I’ve finished painting. I’ve never been keen on arriving at social events on my own, and knowing I’m going to face animosity makes it much worse.
I decide to do some yoga to relax before I change, glad I managed to fit the yoga mat in the car. I’m keen to use as many non-drug alternatives as possible to help with the arthritis. I know I’m going to need drugs eventually, but I’m keen to delay the inevitable. I’ve been given some modified routines by a physiotherapist who’s also a yoga nut. I can’t stop my joints deteriorating, but I can strengthen my muscles and give my body as much help as possible. There are poses that help relieve the pain, too. They soothe the knotted muscles that contract as a reaction to the pain and help me to relax.
As usual, Peanut joins me on the mat and executes a perfect Down Dog pose next to me. When I lower myself to do the lying down poses, it descends into the usual farce. I never have the heart to shut the dogs out of the room. It adds to the challenge when you have chihuahuas scaling your legs like they’re a climbing frame or you stretch down to find a Yorkie appearing from between your legs to lick your nose.
As usual, I end up laughing myself silly at their acrobatics and give them all lots of fuss. It makes me feel better, anyway.
Determined to wear the dogs out before I leave them alone in a new house, I put some party music on so we can have doggy disco night. The dogs adore it. They love finally getting my full attention after I’ve been doing boring work all day. Peanut loves to dance around on her hind legs, and Treacle is almost as good, but poor Pickwick has to make do with spinning round in mad circles while woofing his peculiar woof that makes him sound like a toy.
I feel a pang when I remember how Pete used to join in with our impromptu disco sessions, but I try to suppress it – I refuse to feel pangs for someone who can be so cold and so cowardly.
I feed the dogs and then put Katie Melua’s album on loop on the iPad, hoping the dogs won’t howl when I go. Then I make sure I’ve got the chateau sketch protected and slip out quietly, setting off for aperitifs.
It’s a relief when I spot Sophie walking towards the Chateau. I’ve been dreading turning up on my own. Especially given that what I initially assumed would be thirty minutes of awkward chitchat with Madame and Monsieur Dubois is turning out to be a meet and greet with any number of unknown villagers, all keen to check out the latest “big news.” I smooth down my dress. It’s a jersey sundress; I didn’t pack any smart clothes, not thinking I’d need them. But I have added a delicate cream scarf I embroidered with gold coloured thread to dress it up a bit.
My stomach still lurches when I think about seeing Leo again. I don’t know why I’m making such a big deal about it. If he doesn’t like me, so what? He’s only one villager.
Oh crap. I wish I hadn’t been so irritable this morning, but his belligerence tipped me over the edge, and he got the misdirected anger I really should’ve taken out on Pete. Anger I will take out on Pete if he ever answers his bloody phone again. I suppose I could try using a different phone to ring him to see if he answers. But I do have some pride. I’m not a stalker, I just think I deserve a proper explanation.
The idea that someone I’ve been sleeping with, someone I’ve shared my hopes and dreams with and trusted, would actually do this to me … It makes my head ache, like it’s in a vice and Pete’s casually turning the screw.
“Poppy, hello.” Sophie leans in and effortlessly guides me in the air kiss dance, taking the lead like a pro who’s used to gawky English novices. Actually, if she works in the notaire’s office she probably meets a good few of us. “Where are your beautiful little dogs?”
“At home,” I reply, surprised she was expecting to see them.
“Pouff. They would have been welcome at the chateau.” Sophie pouts. She looks elegant, even though she’s only wearing dark indigo jeans and an asymmetric black top, the kind that looks amazing on someone like her but would just make me look wonky.
“They’re very skilled at making me feel guilty if I go out without them.” I grimace, remembering all the synchronised howling sessions I’ve had to break up in the past before discovering the magic of sticking a Katie Melua album on repeat and virtually emptying the cupboard of dog treats to distract them. I’ve tried introducing other singers, but the dogs insist it has to be Katie.
“We could go back and get them?” Sophie looks hopeful.
I hesitate but then shake my head. “No, we’re almost there, and they’d be bound to try and scent a priceless rug or something.”
They would show me up in front of Leo again. It would just add to my stress, trying to make sure they behaved. I’m so glad the village has two vets in the practice so I can choose to see Angeline when I have to take the dogs in.
Sophie seems disappointed.
“You’re welcome to come round for dog cuddles anytime.” I smile. “You can pop in on the way back if you like?”
“That would be nice, Poppy. Thank you.” Her English is perfectly pronounced but has a lovely musical