Lorraine Wilson - Poppy’s Place in the Sun

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.