Christmas at the Chateau: (A Novella). Lorraine Wilson

and occasionally from people I don’t know at all.

      It feels like Mum is still influencing me, despite my best efforts and the helpful distance I’ve put between us. I’d say we are definitely getting on better now that we live in different countries but given my current mood that isn’t saying much.

      I could have told Michelle that I’ve just had my first row with Leo but it would have struck an odd note given I was going on about how well everything is going.

      And it is. The row is just a blip. Not even that, a blipette at most.

      I sigh and put my phone away, a signal that the dogs know all too well. It means I am now fair game for fuss, walks, games and maybe a treat, if they are lucky. I am instantly mutt-mobbed but as the mob is comprised of two miniature chihuahuas and a miniature Yorkshire terrier it’s not too bad really.

      Now, if Leo’s dog Maxi joined in I would be far more worried given he is a Pyrenean mountain dog.

      “It’s your fault you know,” I tell Peanut, who is sitting up on her hind legs in her best meerkat impression.

      Treacle shoves his nose under my hand.

      “Okay, okay, it’s your fault too.”

      Pickwick the Yorkie deposits his dinosaur toy at my feet, looking up at me with his most appealing, hopeful expression. He’s been working on it for years and is very good at it.

      I roll my eyes and fling the toy across the room, almost hitting Joanna as she walks into the living room.

      “What’s their fault?” She picks up Pickwick’s dinosaur and throws it for him again. He bounds across the room in pursuit. “I don’t believe it. They are totally blameless. Look at those angelic furry faces.”

      “Well, maybe not totally their fault.” I pull a face and then show her the package I’m keeping down behind sofa – the cause of the argument. “Leo said it was a waste of money buying these. That I would be undermining his serious reputation as a vet. I don’t know why, it’s not like I’m asking him to wear one.”

      “Dog hoodies?” Joanna asks incredulously. “That’s what you fell out about?”

      “Not really fell out. We were debating, discussing … Agreeing to disagree.”

      Though the discussion hadn’t been quite as mature as that.

      “The thing is, you know what Treacle and Peanut are like,” I appeal to Joanna. “They shivered when we put the fan on during the heat wave. And they spent the summer nights buried underneath the duvet while we sweltered on top.”

      That was another issue Leo and I have had to work out. Dogs on the bed versus dogs in the bed … But it turned out Leo’s will was no match for Peanut’s, and all the other dogs followed her lead. After a few mornings of waking up to find her cradled in the crook of his arm, her body under the covers, her head poking up above the top of the duvet, he sensibly accepted it as a fait accompli and nothing more has been said about it since.

      “But surely he knows that they feel the cold more than other breeds. Didn’t you tell me about chihuahuas having different physiognomy to other breeds?” Joanna asks.

      “Yes of course, but he thinks they should wear decent dog coats that look like dog coats and won’t embarrass him. I say the hoodies keep their necks warm as well as their chests, and having their names printed on the back just makes sense. It’s brand awareness for Peanut’s YouTube channel.”

      “And the fact that they’re going to look really cute in them …?”

      “Is just a bonus, yes.” We smile at each other and I’m glad she gets it. “I don’t know why I got so cross with him. I’d just had a bit of an email row with Mum about Christmas so that’s probably why.”

      “Where is Leo?”

      “He went off to the château. No doubt he’ll be telling his parents all about what the mad Anglaise has done now.”

      “And Monsieur and Madame Dubois will just put it down to one of the many whims of the creative but slightly eccentric artist who lives next door.” Joanna throws the dinosaur toy again, watching Pickwick as he bounces after it, springing rather than running, his crooked little front legs not holding him back in the slightest. “You can do no wrong anyway. You’ve put a smile on their son’s face.”

      I remember the way Leo glowered at me the very first time we met, and I can’t help smiling myself.

      “True,” I admit, “And even if they do think I’m nuts they are both far too kind and polite to say it. Anyway, are you looking forward to spending Christmas at the château? You’re not regretting not going home?”

      “No fear.” Joanna shudders.

      Joanna doesn’t talk much about her life back in the UK. I only found out that she used to be in a reality TV show when Michelle came out to stay and recognised her. Joanna says I’ve saved her life by giving her somewhere to hide and the space to get her life back together. I’m not convinced I was the one doing the saving though. I really don’t know what I would’ve done without her help with the guest house. It’s a lot of work for one person, even more when you consider that the whole house had to be decorated and transformed into a chambre d’hôte.

      I hadn’t planned on doing it alone though. Last Christmas I was binge watching, A place in the Sun and get-off-your-arse-and-change-your-life-type programs with my boyfriend at the time, Pete. I’d thought we would be doing this together, but it turned out he didn’t want to change his life after all. I guess for him watching the programmes was a bit like watching cookery shows but never actually intending to cook.

      I bite my lip. It’s odd how much life can change in twelve months.

      “Are we getting a tree today?” There is a plaintive note in Joanna’s voice that makes me think she might be missing home more than she admits and certainly far more than I am.

      “Of course, we are,” I say. “I wasn’t sure at first if we wanted to bother given we will be up at the château for most of the festivities but of course we must.”

      I remember decorating a tiny tree in my London flat last year and Pete moaning about having to listen to my Michael Bublé Christmas album while we did it.

      What else will Leo and I fall out about I wonder? The thing is, it’s all been so utterly lovely with Leo that I’m almost waiting for something to go wrong. I’m convinced I’ll wake up and find that this has all just been an amazing dream – and a pretty saucy sex dream at that.

      “Earth to Poppy.”

      “Erm, sorry?” I look blankly at Joanna.

      “Shall we pretend you were having a creative moment there and not just daydreaming about your hot boyfriend?”

      “Let’s go and get a tree then.” I pull a face at her and do my best to look creative and inspired. “There is one proviso though.”

      “What?”

      We have to give the dogs the opportunity to be naughty and mess things up. I need more inspiration for Only Dogs and Donkeys at Christmas.”

      “Does that mean you’ll be stopping every five minutes sketching and taking photos?”

      “Of course,” I say. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep the Kir Royales coming. Got to keep the help happy.”

      She rolls her eyes at that but good-naturedly. We both know she runs this place really and I just waft about, doing my arty-farty stuff, as she calls it, and getting in her way.

      I wonder if Leo is coming back here later or if I should text and check if he’s going to his place. Things are okay between us, I’m sure.

      Almost sure anyway.

      “It will be fine. Stop fussing.” Joanna gives Pickwick’s toy a final