Poppy’s Place in the Sun. Lorraine Wilson

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.

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