A French Escape

I take another deep breath and try to put Peanut down, but she clings to me like a baby koala, as though she’s picked up on my barely suppressed panic. She probably has. I remember reading that dogs can smell our stress pheromones. Peanut acts like she’s big and tough, and the other two boy dogs accept her as pack leader without a quibble, but she’s often insecure. Both she and Treacle are rescue dogs and hate me leaving them. Pickwick is more confident, but then he was Gran’s dog. He’s always known what it means to be loved. She left him to me when she died, along with the money to help me make this move.

I cuddle Peanut back, her affection and vulnerability making it even harder not to cry. I don’t feel like moving but am aware of the penetrating stares of an old lady in a housecoat sitting outside her house opposite the bench. There’s something about her suspicious, hooded eyes that gives me the jitters. She looks like she thinks I’m a serial murderer or burglar or both and will set about me with a broom if I don’t move on.

I gather up the dog leads and head for the village market before going back to the car. It’s not as big as the Monday market in nearby Mirepoix that all the tourists flock to, but it has everything I need for the moment. The desire to get supplies in so I can lie low and lick my wounds has kicked in.

I haven’t got much of an appetite, but the market manages to distract me. The aroma of freshly baked bread draws me towards a stall laden with baguettes, freshly baked cakes and pastries. I buy a baguette, a quiche Lorraine and a golden, flakey pain au chocolat that doesn’t resemble anything like the more pallid, additive-packed offerings in the supermarkets back home. Then I head to the fruits and vegetables and buy some of the reddest cherry tomatoes I’ve ever seen, still on their vine. I’m tempted by the watermelons bigger than cannonballs but haven’t got a bag suitable for carrying one back to the car, so in the end I settle for ripe, luscious peaches and local cherries.

The dogs’ noses are up in the air, and as one they tug me towards the butcher’s van. I relent and buy a remarkably cheap steak for us all to share tonight. After all, the dogs need cheering up too. Pete has abandoned them as well as me. He said he adored them. But then he also said he loved me, and that obviously wasn’t true.

By now I’m finding it a strain keeping up the “I’m here to support the local economy and not to drive up house prices and leave your children homeless” smile. It’s a tough sentiment to portray with faltering French and sore cheek muscles, not to mention a sore heart.

I ignore the stalls selling intricately patterned scarves and handmade jewellery, quickly buy some free-range eggs and head back to the Mini before the smile slips. There’s a tightness spreading through my chest, making it hard to breath. By the time I’ve put the shopping and dogs in the car, the sensation is developing into a full-on panic attack.

Being on my own shouldn’t feel so terrifying. After all I’ve lived on my own for years. I’ve been happily single before. But that was in a country where I had a support network around me. Where I speak the language well enough to handle any crisis thrown at me.

I get in and start the engine. It won’t be as terrible as I dread. I’m just feeling bad because Pete has dumped me. By text.

And also because I don’t know a single sodding soul in this country except for a lecherous notaire and his receptionist who is beautiful, elegant and far too cool for me.

Once I’ve remembered how to breathe again, I ring the only person it was a real wrench to leave behind in England – my best and oldest friend Michelle. I use my hands-free set in the car. I had wondered if I’d get a follow-up grovelling text or call from Pete, but there’s nothing. I think about ringing him, but my finger hovers over his contact details without actually touching the screen. Something is holding me back. I don’t know what to say to him. Partly because I’m still winded, and also because I’m too proud to beg, and I’m afraid I might resort to it in a moment of weakness. Or worse I’ll cry, and he’ll be condescending. Then I’ll feel like hitting him and won’t be able to…

As the phone rings at Michelle’s end, I vaguely register how pretty the main road through the village looks. Plane trees line both sides of the street, and sunlight filters down through silvery-green leaves onto honey-coloured stone buildings. There are more of the painted shutters I love and a small café with people sitting outside, enjoying the sun and chatting with friends over coffee with the shopping from the market piled around their feet. It’s as though what I love about France is trying to nudge me through my shock and panic to remind me why I’m here. Also, I’ve got to remember this is not just about the picturesque villages and markets but the all-important sunshine my body needs if I’m going to be able to carry on working.

Early onset arthritis. A bad diagnosis for anyone, but especially not good for an illustrator or artist. Gran always swore her winters here in the sun did wonders for her arthritic joints. It’s one of the reasons she left me the legacy to enable me to pay off my mortgage and make this move. She said I should buy a property that could earn me money if I become unable to work, but that I should do it now while I’m healthy enough and young enough to enjoy the adventure. Quite how I’m going to get the property earning money without Pete’s help, I don’t know.

I practically sob with relief when Michelle picks up on the fifth ring.

“Hi Poppy, or should that be Bonjour? How does it feel to be a French homeowner then?” Her voice is bright and chirpy. “I can’t believe you’re 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. I’m here. Just about.” I swallow hard, trying to forget how Pete and I toured the bedrooms and talked about what might make the best room for a nursery one day. Maybe.

One day.

My jaw clenches with the effort of holding it all in. How did I miss this? I feel so utterly stupid.

“I wish I could get on a plane and come straight over there, but it’s not that easy now with the kidlets and then Tom being away from home four days a week for work.” Michelle sighs. “Would you like me to go around to Pete’s flat and sew rotten fish into his curtain linings? Do you still have his spare key? Or I could just let the kids loose in it for a few hours. They’ll trash his flat, no problem.”

In spite of myself, I giggle. I’m not entirely sure she’s joking.

“No. It’s okay. Well, no, it’s not really, but I just needed to connect. To hear a friendly voice, you know. To remind myself that I’m not totally alone in the world…” The pain in my jaw increases, and my voice wobbles with the realisation that I know no one here, no one at all.

“Of course you’re not alone, you daft cow. Why do you think God invented the Internet?” Michelle exclaims indignantly. “I’m going to write you a long list of all the reasons why you’re fabulous and then a second one about why Pete is a rude word beginning with C I can’t say right now because of little ears. I’ll email it over, okay? Have you got a good enough phone signal for email? I assume you’ve still got to get Wi-Fi sorted out?”

I check the bars on my phone. “Yes, I’ve got a full signal on my mobile. Here at the gate, anyway.”

I hear a crash and shriek at Michelle’s end.

“I’ve got to go now.” Michelle sounds harried. “But I’ll email soon. I can breastfeed and type at the same time now. I’ve got it down to a fine art.”

“Thanks, Michelle. I’ll be okay, you know.” I’m determined not to let her hear the catch in my throat.

“I know you’ll be okay,” she replies emphatically, as though by saying it we can make it true. “Now go explore your new house. I hope you’ve got some booze in?”

“Uh, yes, of course. I’ll toast you.” I don’t mention it’s the champagne I was keeping to break open with Pete when he got down here to celebrate the new house and us moving in together. “I ought to go and let the dogs out anyway. Thanks, Michelle.”

Once I’ve disconnected the call and manoeuvred the car through the gate, I let the dogs out to explore. Within minutes of excited sniffing, there’s a three-way, miniature-Yorkie-chihuahua chase going on. They all seem to know the rules of the game of tag somehow, trying to fool each other by changing the direction as they hurtle around bushes. Peanut performs her usual acrobatics – a mixture of forward and sideways rolls as well as dancing around on her hind legs like a little meerkat ballerina. When I first got her from the rescue centre, I was sure she must be some kind of meerkat/baby kangaroo hybrid as she spent so much time hopping around on her hind legs. She never fails to make me smile.

She’s certainly the smallest dog I’ve ever seen, but with a personality so huge I don’t know where she can possibly be keeping it all. The other two boy dogs obey her without question.

The dogs didn’t have the space to do this kind of racing round back home. The garden was tiny, and I was always worried about bigger dogs at the park. Their sheer, unbridled exuberance lifts my spirits. Treacle, the other chihuahua, is also a rescue dog and is still quite timid with humans. Then, shortly after I adopted him, I inherited Pickwick from Gran. Luckily he already knew the chihuahuas and loves joining in with their games. They might all be tiny, but they like a large space to race around in as much as the next dog.

I’ve always been a “take the time to stand and stare” type of person. I think all artists are at heart. Dotted around my new garden are unfamiliar wild flowers hiding in hedgerows, the petals providing delicate bursts of red and blue in amongst the daisies. The poppies, both my new home’s namesake and my own, are still in full bloom and abundant. The vibrant, dancing red flowers always make me want to grab my sketchbook and watercolours. I love painting poppies. If you examine the Fenella Fairy books you’ll see they crop up a lot more frequently than other flowers. I suppose they’re a kind of secret signature.

Staring at them now, I’m struck by the symbolism of new life springing up from old and, inevitably, of remembrance. Memories of Gran flood in. The grief added to the loss and betrayal of Pete makes the wave of emotion feel dangerous. Like, tsunami dangerous. I need to focus on practical tasks before it sweeps me out of my depth.

I’d prefer to draw, to lose myself in my creativity as a way of dealing with the pain. My fingers itch to have a pencil, a pen, or even a stick of charcoal and my sketchbook, but I ought to put the shopping away and unpack the car. The dogs will want to be fed, and I need to keep an eye on them until I’ve had a chance to thoroughly check the fencing. I can’t lose myself in my sketchbook or travel journal, not now.

I struggle with the front door key for five minutes before I get the knack of holding up the handle, jiggling the key slightly to the right and then saying a prayer. The prayer was a last shot of desperation, but it worked, so I’m not going to knock it.

It’s beautifully cool in the house. It doesn’t smell at all musty. Someone must have aired it for me. The dogs trot in behind me and race off upstairs, no doubt eager to see if there are any beds to jump on. I place the shopping on surprisingly clean shelves and in the old but serviceable fridge. Once I’ve emptied the Mini, the hallway is lined with bags. I ought to unpack properly, but sod it, I simply can’t be bothered. Instead I grab the bottle of crème de cassis and the bottle of champagne I bought in a hypermarket just outside Calais. I take them with a glass outside to the terrace. The dogs hurtle downstairs, Peanut in the lead as they rush to follow me out. Either outdoor adventures are more exciting than indoor ones, or they’re anxious I’m going to leave them. They trot across the terrace in a little line of three at my heels like my own personal entourage.

Over my garden hedge I catch a glimpse of a tall man striding across the field towards one of the chateau’s outbuildings.

“Bonjour.” I step towards the hedge and muster a smile, carrying out an awkward half wave that I instantly regret when the stranger doesn’t so much as turn to acknowledge me.

Charming.

His flinty expression is almost as dark and wild as his tousled hair. He reminds me a bit of Gilles Mariani from Brothers and Sisters, only less groomed and without Gilles’ charming, self-deprecating smile. He strides towards the barn as though his long limbs can’t get away from me quickly enough and the only person he wants to deprecate is me.

My cheeks burn. After Pete’s rejection, this stranger’s refusal to even acknowledge me angers me disproportionately. If he’s my nearest neighbour then I’m screwed if I need help in an emergency.

Maybe he didn’t hear me? Yeah, sure, like Jacques’s hand on my bra strap was really an accident.

I thought villagers were supposed to be friendly and pull together to help each other. That’s how it works in the films. But then, I’m not a villager, am I? I’m an outsider. Maybe my hopes for a more connected life were just the foolish imaginings of a Londoner hoping real community still existed.

Sometimes I felt so disconnected in London, surrounded by people scurrying to their destinations, tutting if you held them up for a microsecond, or locked into their iPhones or kindles, preferring to live in a world of their own creation instead of the one right in front of them. I never even saw some of the neighbours in my block of flats back home, never mind knew their names. I used to seek out the quiet, peaceful places. The Rose Garden in Queen Mary’s Gardens in Regents Park, the National Gallery or the churches holding free lunchtime concerts. While I loved the exposure to art, I never felt like I fitted in or belonged in London.

One hot day last summer I was travelling on a London Underground tube train on my way to see a publisher, and I fainted. When I came round, no one had so much as moved to help me. One girl gave me some of her water, but not one person offered me a seat. That day fed the longing for more … There had to be more than this disconnection, this city anonymity. I tried to raise the topic with Pete, but I don’t think he got it.

I’d 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.