Poppy’s Place in the Sun: A French Escape. Lorraine Wilson

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ