Poppy’s Place in the Sun: A French Escape. Lorraine Wilson
hoped for more here in Saint-Quentin-sur-Aude. I wanted to find other people who might believe in community. I’m really going to need “more” now, especially given Pete won’t be joining me.
I pull out a chair and sink down at the wrought iron table, tears pricking at my eyelids. I don’t usually drink during the day, but today I think I’ve got a good excuse. I’m trying to forget the champagne in my Kir Royale was supposed to be shared with Pete to toast our new home, but it’s not working. Thoughts tumble violently through my flimsily constructed barriers, smashing them to shards.
We’ve been practically living at each other’s flats for over a year, taking it in turns to have the convenience of having our own things around us. Did Pete get cold feet about moving in with me? I’m sure now his change of heart isn’t about France at all but about committing to me.
If so, he picked a bloody inconvenient time to come to that particular realisation.
I gulp down the uncomfortable thought that Pete’s cold feet are to do with me, not our French adventure. I drown it with delicious, rich blackcurrants and bubbles of champagne that tickle my tongue. A comforting warmth spreads through my chest like a sigh, releasing tension.
I take another gulp, trying to swallow down the emerging doubts and fears. Now that I’m not occupied with practical tasks, they threaten to break through and swamp me, to convince me not only that I’m a naïve fool but that now I’m a single fool, too.
I make a quick trip to the kitchen to grab the pain au chocolat and, to equalise the bad food points, a peach. It’s not the first meal I imagined eating here, but it’s what I fancy, and if I drink and don’t eat anything that’s not going to help anyone.
I take a bite of peach first, and it’s so juicy and succulent the taste hijacks all my senses. It’s got to be the nicest peach I’ve ever tasted, and I’m momentarily distracted from everything else. I’ve not yet got into the mindfulness trend, but for the moment all I can think about is how deliciously juicy it is. Then I tuck into the pain au chocolat, the layers of buttery, flakey pastry melting in my mouth and contrasting with the sharp layers of chocolate.
Oh my God. This is nothing like I’ve ever bought in an English supermarket; it’s even the best I’ve ever tasted in France. If this is from the local bakery my waistline might be in trouble.
I ponder starting up a food-based mindfulness programme. Now that I could go for.
I’ll stop thinking scary thoughts and try concentrating on how good the market food tastes and also how the warmth of the sun seems to penetrate my bones. I’ll remember why I came here. The sunshine soothes me, unknots and unfurls me deep inside like a pent-up sigh. I pretend not to notice the dogs licking up the odd bit of flaky pastry. I’m sure the odd crumb won’t harm them, and the dogs seem as bewitched by French pastries as I am.
This feels too incongruous – on the one hand I’ve got this glorious sunshine, delicious local food and the idyllic country scene on my doorstep, and on the other I’ve got Pete’s text and the spike of fear twisting and turning inside me. I’m just too damned tired to think. I should be planning what to do next.
Shouldn’t I?
I honestly don’t know, and, despite the fact I’m shattered from my very early start this morning and the stressful drive down from London, I’m not sure how I’m going to get through tonight, alone in a strange house.
I wouldn’t admit it to Mum and Dad, but getting used to driving on the right hasn’t been as easy as it was with Pete sitting in the passenger seat looking out for me. And I’m definitely not going to mention to anyone the panic attack I had when I realised the car’s sat nav was trying to take me through the centre of Paris.
As always, Peanut senses the downward shift in my mood and leaps elegantly onto my lap, where she curls up into a tiny little ball. The boys flank me, sitting on either side of my feet, ears pricked – my own personal, pint-sized bodyguards. My lips soften into a smile, and suddenly I don’t feel quite so alone.
Maybe I’ll stay up drawing. I never tire of sketching the dogs. I’d love to illustrate a story with them in. Maybe even write the story, too. Who knows? Maybe one day.
They might be tiny, but they’ll help defend me against depressive tendencies. I never understood why Churchill made his depression a black dog. I see my dark thoughts as crawly spiders that try to creep up on me under cover of shadows.
My phone beeps, and I look to see what the message is. My heart thumps wildly until I see it’s an email from Michelle. Of course it’s not from Pete. I bet his phone is switched off, the coward.
I take a deep breath. If Pete is capable of what he did today, of forward planning this, then I’m glad he’s not here. He can stay on his own little island and good riddance.
Now I can have my French adventure my way and find out why this house called me here.
I take a deep breath and open the email, smiling as I read the subject line.
From: [email protected]
Subject: 10 reasons why Poppy Kirkbride is a total star
1) She’s my 3am friend. Enough said.
2) She has the biggest heart of anyone I know. She’d do anything for anyone.
3) She’s a brilliant godmother who will be an inspiration to my kids.
4) She can put up with my mother (which is more than I can say!).
5) She listens to my moaning without complaining.
6) Her art is totally amazing. Her illustrations make me smile, and I think she’s a far better artist than she’d ever admit, even to herself.
7) She’s quirky and brave enough to be her own person.
8) She’s so creative and cool. She even makes her own clothes. Everyone else thinks the clothes are designer, and she’s too modest to admit she made them herself, so I have to tell everyone.
9) She used to stand up to the bullies at school if someone was being picked on, even though it made her a target.
10) She has no idea what a total star she is.
Poppy Kirkbride, you are a fantastic, strong and capable woman. Pete is a C word, but you can rise above this, and you will find a solution.
Sometimes fate gives us a shout because we’re getting it wrong. When you look back on this in a year’s time, I bet you’ll be glad Pete left you and there will be a gorgeous Frenchman in your bed.
For now, throw yourself into work and take the time to remember why you moved to France in the first place.
P.S. Are you really sure you don’t want me to sew rotten fish in Pete’s curtains? Let me know if you change your mind. I am more than happy to be your avenging angel ;-)
I look up from my phone to do a quick dog check and see Gilles Mariani’s ruder, wilder twin is walking back the way he came.
His shirt sleeves are rolled up to expose tanned forearms, and his gait is relaxed but confident. His expression isn’t relaxed, though; there’s a definite hint of glower, like he’s got a storm cloud over his head instead of the glorious sunshine I’m enjoying.
He must have seen me this time, surely? If the field is his regular short cut down to the main drive, is he going to ignore me every time he sees me? I shrink down into my chair. I’m amazed the dogs didn’t bark at him, but they’re still busy crumb hoovering.