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

they tell me.

      I don’t quite know how to respond to that. The ribbing is good natured though, and I’m assured by Sophie and Madame Dubois that Anya’s cakes are to die for.

      This is an opinion disputed by a woman I assume to be Madame Gilbert. She snorts with great disgust and glares at me.

      I’ve answered all the “why have you moved to France” and “what are you going to do here?” questions. Well, I’ve answered at a superficial level. I’ve said I’m here for the beautiful countryside and sunshine, and that I’m an “illustratrice,” a word I looked up before coming this evening.

      “What do you illustrate, Poppy?” Monsieur Dubois asks intently, leaning forward in his chair.

      “Just children’s books,” I reply and mentally kick myself for using the word “just.” I’ve got a chance to start over here. I don’t need to carry the labels my family gave me.

      “I would love to see your work.” Monsieur Dubois doesn’t seem put off.

      “Well, actually, I’ve brought you both a gift. You’ve been so kind to me.” I fumble in my bag and bring out the sketch from between the two pieces of cardboard I was using to protect it, embarrassed at being the centre of attention. “It’s nothing much, I only had this afternoon.”

      I present him with the watercolour sketch of the chateau with the donkeys in the foreground.

      Madame Dubois looks at it and smiles. “It is beautiful, Poppy. We must have it framed. What a lovely gift.”

      The sketch is then passed around so everyone can get a good look. When Angeline sees the donkeys, she beams. “You must paint my donkeys, Poppy. I would love some watercolour sketches to put up in the practice waiting room. What do you think, Leo?”

      I’ve managed to mostly avoid Leo so far, although I’ve been constantly aware of his presence and known where he is in the room at any given time.

      “I think that’s a great idea,” Leo says, surprising me.

      I look directly at him then, our eyes locking and something passing between us. Something too complicated to put into words, but a definite sense that we both intend to put this morning behind us. At least, I think that’s the message he’s sending me. Maybe I’m wrong and he’s planning to send Maxi round in the middle of the night in an attempt to drive me out of the village.

      “We’ll pay you, of course,” Angeline says firmly.

      “Oh, thank you. I’d love to,” I reply. I sternly forbid myself to offer to do it for free. I could do with the extra income now.

      “When is that boyfriend of yours moving here?” Monsieur Dubois asks. Madame Dubois elbows him, none too subtly.

      I try to take a deep breath, but my chest is too tight.

      “He’s not coming. It’s just going to be me,” I say firmly, as casually as I can fake it.

      I can feel the stares and the barely restrained curiosity in the room. I just hope it’s going to stay restrained. I bite my lip and try not to meet anyone’s eye, silently praying someone will change the subject. Anyone? Please?

      “Here Poppy, I notice you don’t have a drink. Have this.” Leo breaks the silence and hands me a Kir Royale in a crystal champagne flute. “To celebrate your move.”

      “Thank you.” I clasp it tightly, confused. I thought Leo didn’t want me here. I’m half afraid my hands might shake, half afraid I might drop it. His presence has such a peculiar effect on my body that I’m afraid I can’t trust it to do as it’s told.

      I can feel the stares still on me, the back of my neck prickling, although I suppose that could be the rash from the hedge-gate incident.

      Thankfully Monsieur Dubois takes the not-so-subtle cue from his wife and draws me aside to sit next to him. He talks about all the artists who have come to the Languedoc region for inspiration and about the art collection in the chateau. I’m pleased to find a fellow knowledgeable art lover.

      “Maybe there is something in the air, in the quality of the light.” He shrugs.

      I’m suddenly horribly sure my little sketch isn’t worthy to be hung next to the other art in the chateau, and part of me regrets bringing it. Although I have got a commission for the vets’ surgery as a result, and I do need the money now.

      “’The quality of the light.’ Those are the words of Matisse, although many artists have said much the same thing,” I reply with a smile and am gratified by Monsieur Dubois’s impressed nod.

      If only his son was this straightforward and easy to talk to.

      “I certainly find the evening light on the hills quite magical,” I say, and it’s true; the hills glow a gorgeous rosy gold, no doubt tinged by the red Rousillon earth. “And the area is so rich in interesting history, too, as well as art. I can’t wait to explore it.”

      What little history I know about the area so far comes mostly from reading Kate Mosse’s Labyrinth, which informed me about the persecution of the Cathars. And then one time I accompanied Gran to a talk about the Maquis, the local Second World War resistance who risked their lives to help those fleeing from the Nazis.

      They are only two brief snapshots of history, but they show that this is an area steeped in resistance, used to bravery in the face of persecution, whether it’s Cathars defying the soldiers of the vile crusade launched against them from the north or the free French subverting the Nazis.

      It seems as good a place as any for me to stand up for what I want; for what I believe is best. It feels like I’ve been battling against people who wanted me to fit in with everyone else my whole life – my parents, my sisters, my teachers who saw daydreaming as laziness. Even Pete wanted me to be a bit more conventional and didn’t like me wearing clothes I’d made myself if we were seeing his friends. He kept buying me clothes with recognisable labels on. Now I’m free to label myself.

      I take a sip of my Kir Royale. The champagne is far better quality than the bottle I opened to toast the new house. The light, delicate bubbles dance on my tongue as the rich blackcurrant liqueur slips down my throat, spreading a pleasant warmth through my chest. Odd that Leo brought me my favourite drink. It’s the second time today he’s read my mind.

      I glance over at Leo to find his gaze fixed on me. The expression is intense but inscrutable. He seems to be a man of contradictions, but now that I know about his sister and niece, I think I understand him a little more.

      “You must show Sophie around the area, Leo.” Madame Dubois grabs her son’s arm, and I almost choke on my drink. I really hope he didn’t think I was angling for an invitation.

      “Oh, really, there’s no need,” I hurriedly interrupt. “Jacques the notaire has already offered to show me around the area and give me a guided tour of Carcassonne.”

      I don’t add that I’ve absolutely no intention of taking Jacques up on it. I just want to give Leo an easy out that doesn’t embarrass either of us. Not that I think he’s easily embarrassed, but I certainly am.

      In the following split second of tension I catch Sophie rolling her eyes, Madame Dubois’s look of alarm and something far, far darker clouding Leo’s expression. The silence must last only a second or two, but the moment feels elongated, almost unbearable. Like I’ve stumbled into the web of something truly awful – it must be a humdinger of a crawly spider. And it appears I’m the only one in the room who can’t see it. Fantastic, just what I need – a crawly spider with an invisibility cloak. I’ve got enough of my own to deal with.

      “I would love to show you around, Poppy. I could take you to some of the Cathar castles if you like.” Leo smiles at me, and his face is transformed, the dark shadow vanished. Something about his smile makes me smile back, even though I’m thoroughly confused. I’m mesmerised, like my body can’t help mirroring him, betraying my attraction.

      Now