A French Escape

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © Lorraine Wilson 2018

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Cover illustration © Shutterstock.com

Lorraine Wilson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008285289

Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9780007544080

Version: 2018-03-19

This is for Holly, aka Squeakerdog, who sadly died while I was writing this book. It’s also for her best doggy friend Poppy, my first ever rescue mutt.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

‘Only Dogs and Donkeys’ by Peanut the Chihuahua and Poppy Kirkbride

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

Prologue

Daydream Designs – Poppy’s Blog

‘My Place in the Sun’

So, it’s official. No more watching A Place in the Sun and wishing it were me. Tomorrow it will be me – I’ve found my place in the sun and I’ll be making the last leg of the long drive to Saint-Quentin-sur-Aude. It’s a smallish village in the Languedoc, a region in Occitanie in the South of France. It’s Provence’s lesser known neighbour and as a result it’s not as posh, it’s not pretentious and, thankfully, it’s not too pricey. I’ve only had to empty my bank account, not sell my soul to gain a piece of it. According to Vogue, it’s the “true South of France – and one of the country’s best kept secrets”. Having toured Provence and the Cote D’Azur I can say the region of Occitanie is every bit as gorgeous, with chateaus, picturesque hilltop villages and vineyards stretching all the way across to sandy beaches and the sparkling Mediterranean Sea.

Imagine a kaleidoscope patchwork of sunflower fields and vineyards, bustling markets brimming with fresh local produce and wall-to-wall glorious sunshine – then you’ll get the picture. What’s not to like?

Soon you won’t need to imagine anyway; I’ll post my journal sketches on the blog. I fell in love with the area last summer. Listening to the audiobook of Kate Mosse’s Labyrinth as my other half and I walked along the cobbled streets of the medieval city of Carcassonne, Cathar country resonated with me on a deep level. I might be English, but my great grandmother was French, so perhaps something is calling me back, telling me this is my true home. Who knows? Sorry, didn’t mean to get all philosophical on you ;-)

I’m torn between selling the destination to you, my lovely blog followers, and also trying to keep it to myself. Although, the Vogue article may have made that last option impossible.

Today I’m off to the Notaire’s office to sign away my sanity, a.k.a. put my signature to the forms making me the owner of an old ‘Mas’, a farmhouse on the outskirts of the village. At least that’s how my parents view my plans.

I’m not having any doubts though; this has been my dream forever. Maybe moving from a city ground floor flat with tiny garden to a house with lots of outbuildings and land should daunt me. God knows there will be tonnes of work ahead to get it earning an income as tourist accommodation. Thankfully I’ve got my other half Pete joining me once he’s worked out his notice period. He’s pretty handy when it comes to DIY, amongst other things ;-)

I hope you like the watercolour sketch of my little red Mini laden with my most important worldly belongings, and with Peanut, Treacle and Pickwick hanging out from the front windows. Naturally they were first on the list to be packed! The dogs practically burst with excitement when I began to fill the car. Pickwick almost wore out his squeaky woof!

I’ll be writing my next blog post when I’m in my new home. Think of me sitting outside in the sunshine with a glass of wine, painting my next Fenella Fairy illustration while the dogs explore their new garden.

Wish me luck :-)

Chapter One

Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country.

Anais Nin

“So, your boyfriend, he is not here in France with you?” Jacques, the notaire, opens the door for me and places a hand on my back as he sees me out of his office into the corridor. He’s the official who has been handling my house purchase, and he’s been noticeably friendlier in Pete’s absence.

A little too friendly, really.

“Er, no, he’s still working in England.” I ease forward as inconspicuously as I can, aware the palm of Jacques’s hand is resting firmly over the bra clasp beneath my cotton top but still not wanting to give offence. It might be an accidental palm placement, you never know.

“When will he be joining you?” Jacques takes another step forward, seemingly glued to me.

“Um, I’m not sure exactly.” My phone beeps, and I fish it out of my bag, cursing the English politeness that runs through my bones like the message inside a stick of rock. It’s so ingrained I actually apologise when someone else walks into me or spills a drink over me.

And I’ve never had it in me to tell a man to sod off.

I take a swift step forwards out of Jacques’s reach. “I think I’ve got a message from Pete now, actually. Also, I really should get back to the dogs.”

I crane my head towards reception where I managed to persuade Sophie the receptionist into dog sitting, not that she took much persuasion. Of course, now I could actually do with the dogs kicking off with an eardrum-splitting howling session to necessitate my speedy removal, they are being quiet and well behaved.

Typical.

Jacques smiles politely, finally picking up on my not-so-subtle cues now Sophie is in earshot.

“It was very nice to see you, Poppy Kirkbride,” he says, finally removing his hand from my bra strap. “Please feel free to contact me if you need anything or you’d like me to show you around. I could introduce you to the delights of Carcassonne and the surrounding area, show you the best places to eat. You’ve only visited once and briefly, if I recall correctly?”

“Yes, that’s right. Thank you, that’s … very kind of you.” I mutter and pretend to be oblivious to the predatory gleam in his eyes. Somehow, I doubt he’ll be less keen to give me a tour once I’ve got Pete out here with me.

Pete will laugh when I tell him about this. He’s never been one for the jealous boyfriend act. Which is good, sort of, but maybe a little bit unflattering. He usually makes a joke out of it, asking whether the other man had a white stick or a guide dog.

But who wants a man so possessive he thinks he owns you?

There’s an awkward moment when I wonder if Jacques is going for yet another French triple air kiss. I still can’t quite get the hang of the timing and Jacques seems to like to actually make contact with my cheeks or, on one occasion, my lips, taking advantage of my messed-up timing. It’s all very cringe-makingly awkward. I’m glad Sophie is in the room.

While the going is good, I make a dash for it before he can lunge. The stubborn streak of English running through my bones may be polite, but it also protests that a handshake is quite sufficient, thank you very much.

When I arrived alone at the office earlier, Jacques’s eyes gleamed as he insisted I call him by his first name. He also rose from his desk to treat me to a triple kiss of the full-on contact kind. From the amused look on the estate agent’s face, I’m not sure Jacques is usually that friendly with all the visitors to the office. I certainly don’t remember Jacques kissing me when Pete had been with me for the signing of the initial purchase offer papers.

Aren’t a lot of Frenchmen quite flirty though? I’m not sure it means anything. It feels big headed to read anything much into it. I know I’m nothing special. I’m not as thin as I’d like to be, but then I’ve never met a woman yet who’s one hundred per cent happy with her body. Even the really beautiful ones will point out a supposedly wonky nose or imaginary cellulite.

According to Marks and Spencer’s I’m an average size. In Top Shop I’m both obese and ancient. If pressed to find a good feature, I suppose I like my brunette gypsy curls, but of course they are extremely unfashionable. My hair has stubborn kinks in it that I’ve learnt not to fight. So it waves and curls and does as it likes, and I’ve given up caring. The electric straightening tongs Pete bought me for Christmas have never been out of their box.

I’m certainly not in Jacques’s league. He’s from the “attractive, but by God he knows it” group of men who I find tend to make a lot of use of their bathroom mirrors and own more grooming products on one shelf than I’d get through in several years. He probably has a wife and a mistress yet still needs to flirt to boost his ego during the day.

I put him out of my mind as I go to fetch the dogs.

I smile to find both Peanut and Treacle curled up side by side on Sophie’s lap, one on each thigh, no doubt dispensing a mixture of cream and ginger chihuahua fur onto her smart black work skirt, while she contorts her arms awkwardly around them to reach her keyboard. I grin. I know that posture so well. The chihuahuas are so very good at looking so cute that moving them feels mean, and instead you end up with permanent backache. Pickwick the miniature Yorkie is sitting on top of the desk next to Sophie’s monitor doing a good impression of a paperweight so he can look out of the window. He’s watching all the comings and goings in the village square and looking extremely pleased with himself.

“Oh no, I am so sorry. Pickwick knows full well he’s not allowed on desks or tables.” I swoop in to scoop him up first, trying not to dislodge any papers. He perches on my shoulder like a parrot and continues his surveillance.

“It is fine Poppy, they are beautiful little dogs. Such little angels. I have never seen such tiny dogs.” Sophie speaks impeccable English, beaming as she strokes first Peanut’s head and then Treacle’s. She also looks flawless – a dusky Audrey Hepburn look-a-like, but seemingly unbothered by the dog fur on her skirt.

She’s probably very organised and has one of those sticky roller things in her drawer to remove bits of fluff from clothing. I keep buying them and then forgetting to put them in the car.

Unfortunately, the little angels choose that moment to leap from Sophie’s lap onto my chest, and soon I’m mobbed with the full force of twelve scrabbly paws and three licky tongues. Soulful brown eyes reproach me as though I’ve been gone for years and left them to face unimaginable horrors.

As if I haven’t just seen them cuddled up quite happily with Sophie.

“Little fraudsters,” I mutter, but as usual they put a big smile on my face.

Once they’ve calmed down sufficiently, I put them on the floor and attach their leads.

“Thank you so much for helping me out.” I smile at Sophie.

“You’re welcome.” She beams back. “Any time. I wish I could have a dog, but I work full time. It would not be fair.”

“Well, you can always borrow mine when you want a dog fix.”

Sophie raises an eyebrow. “Dog fix?”

“Dog cuddle?” I offer instead. The addiction metaphor is a bit too complicated for translation.

She smiles back, and I wish I had the courage to suggest I buy her a drink sometime to thank her for looking after the dogs, but it seems a little desperate after two brief meetings. I might as well just say “I need new friends. Will you be my friend? “

I’m quite sure Sophie already has plenty of friends.

I’m still annoyed with Pete for refusing to take a couple of days off to fly down and meet up with me so we could do this together. Then he could’ve looked after the dogs. I told him it would be far too hot to leave them in the Mini, but he refused, even though he had holiday owing to him, saying he had too much on at work to take any holiday time.

I pat my jeans pocket to check the house keys are still there, then I head off into the village square.

Despite the warm patches of sunshine, it’s cool beneath the dappled shade of the trees as I cross the square, passing elegant buildings with pale blue shutters and roses trailing up the walls. I pause briefly on a wrought iron bench beneath a leafy tree and let the dogs sniff around while I check my phone. I’ve got one text from Mum, one from Dad and one from Pete.

I look at the texts from Mum and Dad first to get them out of the way.

Are you at the house? Have you got water and electricity yet? I do wish you’d waited and gone with Pete, I don’t like to think of you abroad all alone. Mum xx

How are you coping with driving on the wrong side of the road?

The second text from Dad is meant to be a joke. I hope. The first is a typical Mum text, full of worry and always assuming I can’t cope on my own. It’s not as though I’m eighteen years old and have just left home. I’ve just turned thirty, and I’m tired of being labelled as the dreamy one of the family. Just because I went to art college instead of “a proper university” like my older sisters doesn’t make me incapable. Of course, I then compounded their view of me by choosing to illustrate children’s books instead of doing “real art.” By “real art” they meant an in-house industry career that would have slowly sucked the spirit out of me.

I suppose it didn’t help that I missed a year of school with glandular fever and post viral fatigue when I was younger. After that I was the “delicate one” who needed looking after. I was a problem to be dealt with, and nothing I did after that could get them to see me differently.

Gran was the only one in our family to take me seriously. She loved the little stories and pictures I created in notebooks and encouraged my “doodling.” That was what Mum called my art. For all I know, she still does. Gran bought me my first set of watercolours and proper brushes to work with, as well as a good quality sketching pad. I can still remember the excitement that seeing those blank pages stirred in me.

Today is a blank page waiting to be filled with this new life I’ve chosen.

Gran was always so interested in my work and would send me flowers or chocolates whenever I got a new commission. She bought every single Fenella Fairy book and displayed them proudly on her living room bookshelves. She showed them to anyone she managed to lure onto her sofa with the enticement of tea and a piece of cake. She once accosted the meter reading man “who said I was lucky to have such a talented granddaughter.”

I swallow down the lump that rises in my throat. I miss her so much. It’s been ten months since she died, but the time that’s supposed to heal all wounds hasn’t done anything for mine so far.

I did try to explain to Mum that I had to come to France in person to sign the papers. Well, I could’ve elected a representative, but I really didn’t want to wait anyway. I wanted to do this stage in person. I sigh. I’ll reply to Mum later.

I open the text from Pete.

Sorry Poppy, but I won’t be joining you in France. I’ve been waiting for a good time to tell you, and I can’t put it off any longer – when I went to hand my notice in at work, they offered me a promotion with lots of extra money. I couldn’t turn it down. I would’ve been an idiot to say no. France is more your thing than mine anyway. I hope you’ll be happy.

Pete

What the … What? WHAT?!

I stare at my iPhone, unable to take it in. Peanut, the most sensitive of the three dogs, stops sniffing at the tree with the others and puts her tiny paws up on my legs, soulful brown eyes shining with concern. I scoop her onto my lap and chew my lip pensively. My mind is blank. I can’t think of a single thing to type in reply to my boyfriend. Or I suppose that should be my ex-boyfriend. How can my life be turned upside down by one text? It’s not just like having the rug pulled out from under me but also discovering that underneath is an open trap door and I’m falling.

Pete was waiting for a good time to tell me? And he considers today, once I’ve finally committed myself to the house purchase, to be a good time? From his point of view, maybe, given I’m currently too far away to make a scene or cause actual bodily harm. I’ve never actually hit anyone – well, except my sisters when we were all little, but as an adult I tend to stay away from conflict. But I think I’d be prepared to make an exception in Pete’s case.

Has he met someone else? That’s the only explanation that would make sense right now.

Dumped by text. I’m a clichéd statistic. It’s one of those things you hear about but think will never happen to you. Just a few symbols on my phone screen, and Pete has burst the bubble of happiness I’ve been floating along in since I put in an offer on the dream house. Supposedly “our” dream house. He has brought me back down to earth with a nasty bump.

It looks like Mum and Dad are right. I am “the dreamy one with her head in the clouds.” How else could I have missed this coming? My cheeks burn, but I feel strangely cold.

I look down at my hands. They’re shaking. I put my phone away before I drop it but stay rooted to the bench. I stroke Peanut absentmindedly, still reeling.

How could he … How?

Watching A Place in the Sun should come with a health warning. I used to record all the programmes and watch them on my iPad at night. I fell asleep dreaming of picturesque villas with mountain views and vivid turquoise swimming pools shimmering in the heat. Vibrant images danced in my mind, luring me away from everything I was used to. Taking me away from a world that was safe.

I would imagine having breakfast on a sun-drenched terrace, my dogs lying contentedly at my feet. Then I’d drink wine as the sun slipped down, streaking the mountain skyline with crimson as I headed off to work in my purpose-built art studio, converted from an outbuilding.

Only now does it occur to me that Pete didn’t feature much in my daydreams. He was there in some of them – walking hand in hand with me through the markets and then us sitting together having dinner at a restaurant in an elegant and sunny town square.

Part of the daydreams or not, Pete was a pretty essential part of the overall plan. He was meant to take charge of turning the outbuildings into gîtes. He’s the one with the project management skills, and his financial contribution to the project was meant to pay for all the renovations. We had it all planned.

Or at least I thought we did.

Why didn’t I question the fact that he didn’t want to be on the property deeds “for capital gains tax reasons”? He planned to hold onto his flat and rent it out. He didn’t want to be clobbered for tax and said his flat would give us somewhere to go back to if everything went wrong. A safety net. Ha!

I absentmindedly stroke Peanut, and she nestles into me.

It seemed to make sense at the time. Have I been selfish? Gullible, perhaps, but I don’t recall bullying Pete into the decision. I’ve been so busy getting my flat ready for sale and then getting my non-essential belongings into storage for Pete to bring down with him in a rented van. We haven’t spent much time together recently, but he always seemed very enthusiastic about moving. Why on earth didn’t he say something before now?

I pull the new house keys out of my pocket and finger them. The Estate Agent tag is still attached – it’s labelled “Les Coquelicots,” which roughly translates as “The Poppy House.” It seemed like such a good sign at the time. Not that I go around looking for signs, but the name jumped out at me from all the property details I had. None of the other options even came close.

I remember a phrase from the letter Gran put in with her will – “Find a home in France, Poppy darling, somewhere they aren’t afraid of ‘tall poppies.’ I’m convinced there is somewhere magical waiting for you – a place you can put down roots and grow to be the tall Poppy you are destined to be, without anyone trying to cut you down to size.”

So, the house name was more than a nice coincidence. When we viewed it, the wild poppies had just begun to flower. They flourished and dominated the cottage garden, and something deep inside me tugged me towards the property, almost like a magnetic pull. It was very strange. I just knew. This was my new home.

And we hadn’t even opened the front door yet.

Everything about it felt perfect, and as a possible holiday accommodation property it had great potential, Pete said. With the medieval walled city of Carcassonne to the north, easy access to the coast in the summer and ski resorts in the winter, it should make a perfect tourist retreat.

Should do. Could do. Will do?

I’m determined not to think in the past tense. I can do this on my own, right?

Oh, crap and double crap.

A knot of panic twists in my stomach like a physical pain. I take a deep breath and get a grip. There’s no point thinking about what I could’ve done differently. I now have the keys.

New keys. New house. New life.