Poppy’s Place in the Sun: A French Escape. Lorraine Wilson
the one going off and having adventures while I’m the one living in bloody suburbia with kids and a huge mortgage that keeps us awake at night. I always thought of the two of us that…”
“Michelle. I…” I cut her off mid-stream before my head explodes. It feels like it might, anyway. Can aneurysms be triggered by stress? My chest hurts as well, swollen with a too-tight feeling, like I’ve swallowed a rock and it’s lodged in my rib cage.
“What’s wrong?” Her tone changes immediately.
“It’s Pete. He’s. He’s…” I choke on my words and almost miss the turning next to the chateau down the private gravel track that leads to Les Coquelicots.
“Is he ill? In hospital? What is it, Poppy?” Michelle asks sharply.
I try to take another deep breath, but it morphs into a deep sigh.
“He’s not coming.” I pull up in front of my gate and turn the engine off. I want to, need to, tell her he’s dumped me, but I think saying the words aloud would definitely unleash the tears.
“But I thought you weren’t expecting him yet,” Michelle sounds puzzled. “You said you were driving down to the South of France on your own. Hang on a second.”
The background noise of a children’s cartoon fades.
“That’s better, I can hear you properly now. I’m as much of an Ardmann fan as the next person, but I’m getting bored of Shaun the Sheep on endless repeat. Tell me what you said again. What’s wrong exactly?” Her calm, no-nonsense tone soothes me a little. I picture her sitting, legs tucked up gracefully beneath her on the faded IKEA sofa we used in our flat share before she got married. It’s now covered with child-friendly throws, but the familiarity of the image is comforting.
“He’s not coming here. Ever.” The words have a horrible finality to them. It’s as though it’s only now I’m speaking it out loud that I can really start to believe that I haven’t just imagined the whole thing. “It seems he lied about handing in his notice. They offered him more money to stay, and he took it.”
There’s a slight wobble to my voice at the end of the sentence. Being valued less than a fatter pay check isn’t very complimentary. That’s if it’s really about the money. Yes, Pete threw himself wholeheartedly into the project idea once I’d won him round, but he’s right, it was always my dream first, not his.
Or perhaps he just wanted to dump me, and waiting until I’d signed the final papers was an easy out for him. No messy emotional dramas to deal with if I’m in another country.
“And he told you this when?” Michelle’s tone hardens as she morphs from bored mum to best friend ready to go into battle.
“Just now. He timed it so I got the text right after I signed the final papers and got the keys.” I half laugh, half sob. Then I have to reassure Peanut who turns her anxious, big, brown eyes on me, ever watchful for a sign of distress. Poor thing. For all her bravado, she’s pretty vulnerable underneath.
A bit like me really.
“Fuck,” Michelle says.
“Fuck indeed,” I repeat solemnly, staring through the gate at my new home.
Its shabby chic elegance inspired me when I first saw it. It has wooden shutters on every window that I plan to paint duck egg blue, and the upstairs bedrooms all have elegant wrought iron balconies. Back in England, whenever I pictured the house, it was with its beauty restored, adorned with pretty window boxes and shiny, copper planters full of lavender.
But now I see a few patches of peeling paint around the front door, window frames that need sanding down and repainting, and the odd straggling weed encroaching on the pretty cottage garden. And that’s just what I can see from here.
If I can’t restore the chic, will I just be left with shabby? I’ll still love it, but getting paying guests to feel the same might be a tad difficult.
On its own I might just about manage to cope with the house. Maybe.
It’s the fact I’m now also the owner of a large barn, several stone outbuildings, a ruined chapel, ten acres of land and two acres of woodland that scares the pants off me. That was the part Pete got so excited about though, and he kept enthusing about all the money it could make us once we’d done the conversions.
“No problem,” he’d said. “You’ve got me to handle all that side of things for you. I’ll pay for it all. That will be my contribution.”
Remembering the words, I snort, feeling hysterical laughter bubbling up inside.
“Are you okay, sweetie? Are we still at the fuck stage?” Michelle asks cautiously.
“Definitely, absolutely,” I say. “As in I have been, and not in a good way.”
“You can do it without him.” Michelle sounds like she’s trying to inject enough confidence for the both of us into her words.
“Yes, I know I can,” I lie.
“Of course.” Even Michelle doesn’t sound convinced.
My own best friend isn’t sure I can make it. My parents certainly think I can’t. Something stirs inside me as I look at The Poppy House, like the house is reproaching me. I’m filled with an indignation, a determination to bloody well prove everyone wrong, even myself, and succeed.
“Other people do this and make it work, so why shouldn’t I?”
I deliberately move away from talking about Pete. I need to focus on something positive. The statistics about the numbers of Brit expats who don’t make it and return home briefly flit into my mind, and I soundly bat them away again. I only know about them thanks to Mum, who made sure I saw the article in the newspaper when she was trying to talk me out of the move.
Instead I think about Gran and how much she would’ve loved this house. It was Gran who inspired my love of France. When my older sisters were off doing the Duke of Edinburgh award or building orphanages in Africa, I used to travel with Gran – Champagne, The Alps, Côte d’Azur, Provence and the Pyrenees. She took me on my first trip to the medieval fortified city of Carcassonne. I was only twelve, but it made a big impression on me. She told me that Walt Disney was inspired to create the famous Disney logo when he visited the city with its cobbled streets and fairy tale spires.
Something about this area called me back when we were house hunting.
Then, when I walked up the track to Les Coquelicots for the viewing, I knew instantly. The certainty was so absolute I cancelled all the other viewings.
I know Gran would love this house.
My house.
She wouldn’t care that inside there’s no kitchen to speak of – just an ancient range backed up by an old electric cooker, a butler’s sink and a few shelves. The plumbing and electricity “need updating,” as estate agents put it. It just needs some TLC. As I stare at the house with its wild cottage garden leading up to the woods and the jagged mountain peaks in the distance, my heart does skip, just a little.
So it’s not broken then. Not irrevocably, anyway.
In spite of its sheer impracticality, I love it all. The house crying out to be loved and filled with life. The land that’s bigger than my local park back home. The impossibly wild, tangled woodland I don’t know how to care for.
This feels like coming home. I just wish I wasn’t coming home alone. It’s a big old house for one person and three miniature dogs.
“Are you still there, Poppy?” Michelle’s anxious tone cuts into my thoughts. She’s used to me drifting off. From our very first day of secondary school, when Michelle decided I was going to be her best friend. Her mum used to say I was having a “fairy” moment when I drifted off into a daydream, as in I was “away with them.” So, when I got the commission for the Fenella Fairy books, it seemed kind of appropriate.
“Yes.