Lorraine Wilson - Poppy’s Place in the Sun

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.

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.