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

clothing. I keep buying them and then forgetting to put them in the car.

      Unfortunately, the little angels choose that moment to leap from Sophie’s lap onto my chest, and soon I’m mobbed with the full force of twelve scrabbly paws and three licky tongues. Soulful brown eyes reproach me as though I’ve been gone for years and left them to face unimaginable horrors.

      As if I haven’t just seen them cuddled up quite happily with Sophie.

      “Little fraudsters,” I mutter, but as usual they put a big smile on my face.

      Once they’ve calmed down sufficiently, I put them on the floor and attach their leads.

      “Thank you so much for helping me out.” I smile at Sophie.

      “You’re welcome.” She beams back. “Any time. I wish I could have a dog, but I work full time. It would not be fair.”

      “Well, you can always borrow mine when you want a dog fix.”

      Sophie raises an eyebrow. “Dog fix?”

      “Dog cuddle?” I offer instead. The addiction metaphor is a bit too complicated for translation.

      She smiles back, and I wish I had the courage to suggest I buy her a drink sometime to thank her for looking after the dogs, but it seems a little desperate after two brief meetings. I might as well just say “I need new friends. Will you be my friend? “

      I’m quite sure Sophie already has plenty of friends.

      I’m still annoyed with Pete for refusing to take a couple of days off to fly down and meet up with me so we could do this together. Then he could’ve looked after the dogs. I told him it would be far too hot to leave them in the Mini, but he refused, even though he had holiday owing to him, saying he had too much on at work to take any holiday time.

      I pat my jeans pocket to check the house keys are still there, then I head off into the village square.

      Despite the warm patches of sunshine, it’s cool beneath the dappled shade of the trees as I cross the square, passing elegant buildings with pale blue shutters and roses trailing up the walls. I pause briefly on a wrought iron bench beneath a leafy tree and let the dogs sniff around while I check my phone. I’ve got one text from Mum, one from Dad and one from Pete.

      I look at the texts from Mum and Dad first to get them out of the way.

       Are you at the house? Have you got water and electricity yet? I do wish you’d waited and gone with Pete, I don’t like to think of you abroad all alone. Mum xx

       How are you coping with driving on the wrong side of the road?

      The second text from Dad is meant to be a joke. I hope. The first is a typical Mum text, full of worry and always assuming I can’t cope on my own. It’s not as though I’m eighteen years old and have just left home. I’ve just turned thirty, and I’m tired of being labelled as the dreamy one of the family. Just because I went to art college instead of “a proper university” like my older sisters doesn’t make me incapable. Of course, I then compounded their view of me by choosing to illustrate children’s books instead of doing “real art.” By “real art” they meant an in-house industry career that would have slowly sucked the spirit out of me.

      I suppose it didn’t help that I missed a year of school with glandular fever and post viral fatigue when I was younger. After that I was the “delicate one” who needed looking after. I was a problem to be dealt with, and nothing I did after that could get them to see me differently.

      Gran was the only one in our family to take me seriously. She loved the little stories and pictures I created in notebooks and encouraged my “doodling.” That was what Mum called my art. For all I know, she still does. Gran bought me my first set of watercolours and proper brushes to work with, as well as a good quality sketching pad. I can still remember the excitement that seeing those blank pages stirred in me.

      Today is a blank page waiting to be filled with this new life I’ve chosen.

      Gran was always so interested in my work and would send me flowers or chocolates whenever I got a new commission. She bought every single Fenella Fairy book and displayed them proudly on her living room bookshelves. She showed them to anyone she managed to lure onto her sofa with the enticement of tea and a piece of cake. She once accosted the meter reading man “who said I was lucky to have such a talented granddaughter.”

      I swallow down the lump that rises in my throat. I miss her so much. It’s been ten months since she died, but the time that’s supposed to heal all wounds hasn’t done anything for mine so far.

      I did try to explain to Mum that I had to come to France in person to sign the papers. Well, I could’ve elected a representative, but I really didn’t want to wait anyway. I wanted to do this stage in person. I sigh. I’ll reply to Mum later.

      I open the text from Pete.

       Sorry Poppy, but I won’t be joining you in France. I’ve been waiting for a good time to tell you, and I can’t put it off any longer – when I went to hand my notice in at work, they offered me a promotion with lots of extra money. I couldn’t turn it down. I would’ve been an idiot to say no. France is more your thing than mine anyway. I hope you’ll be happy.

       Pete

      What the … What? WHAT?!

      I stare at my iPhone, unable to take it in. Peanut, the most sensitive of the three dogs, stops sniffing at the tree with the others and puts her tiny paws up on my legs, soulful brown eyes shining with concern. I scoop her onto my lap and chew my lip pensively. My mind is blank. I can’t think of a single thing to type in reply to my boyfriend. Or I suppose that should be my ex-boyfriend. How can my life be turned upside down by one text? It’s not just like having the rug pulled out from under me but also discovering that underneath is an open trap door and I’m falling.

      Pete was waiting for a good time to tell me? And he considers today, once I’ve finally committed myself to the house purchase, to be a good time? From his point of view, maybe, given I’m currently too far away to make a scene or cause actual bodily harm. I’ve never actually hit anyone – well, except my sisters when we were all little, but as an adult I tend to stay away from conflict. But I think I’d be prepared to make an exception in Pete’s case.

      Has he met someone else? That’s the only explanation that would make sense right now.

      Dumped by text. I’m a clichéd statistic. It’s one of those things you hear about but think will never happen to you. Just a few symbols on my phone screen, and Pete has burst the bubble of happiness I’ve been floating along in since I put in an offer on the dream house. Supposedly “our” dream house. He has brought me back down to earth with a nasty bump.

      It looks like Mum and Dad are right. I am “the dreamy one with her head in the clouds.” How else could I have missed this coming? My cheeks burn, but I feel strangely cold.

      I look down at my hands. They’re shaking. I put my phone away before I drop it but stay rooted to the bench. I stroke Peanut absentmindedly, still reeling.

      How could he … How?

      Watching A Place in the Sun should come with a health warning. I used to record all the programmes and watch them on my iPad at night. I fell asleep dreaming of picturesque villas with mountain views and vivid turquoise swimming pools shimmering in the heat. Vibrant images danced in my mind, luring me away from everything I was used to. Taking me away from a world that was safe.

      I would imagine having breakfast on a sun-drenched terrace, my dogs lying contentedly at my feet. Then I’d drink wine as the sun slipped down, streaking the mountain skyline with crimson as I headed off to work in my purpose-built art studio, converted from an outbuilding.

      Only now does it occur to me that Pete didn’t feature much in my daydreams. He was there in some of them – walking hand in hand with me through the markets and then us sitting