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

indefinable waking inside me. Maybe that’s just the Kir Royale talking. Maybe it’s more definable than I want to admit. It’s too confusing and embarrassing to feel that kind of attraction today of all days.

      Great, I finally join the rest of the human race and feel attraction to someone. To someone who appears to hate me already.

      Just for existing.

      I mean, I haven’t even spoken to him, so why would he hate me already?

      Maybe it’s a weird rebound thing. I’ve never been that into sex. I mean, I like it, it’s perfectly nice and all that, but I don’t really get what all the fuss is about. I came to the conclusion long ago that sex was hyped up in books and films. Either that or I’m abnormal. I’ve only ever had two lovers. I don’t usually admit that though. I get the impression I should be ashamed of my lack of experience.

      All very confusing.

      I’ve tried to broach the subject with Michelle, but she just says she hasn’t had sex since she gave birth to Kitty and starts talking about the kind of gruesome details that make me wonder if I really do want to have kids after all.

      I try to remember the last time Pete and I had sex. The fact that I’m struggling to recall it is a bit telling. How did I not notice the warning signs?

      I remember reading somewhere that if your man isn’t having sex with you he’s probably getting it elsewhere. Great that I’m remembering that now. I take another large gulp of my drink, unsure why I’m still thinking about sex. I’ve just split up with Pete. It’s not even been twenty-four hours yet. Why on earth would I willingly choose to expose myself to more humiliation?

      I quash the ridiculous thought of anything other than permanent spinsterhood as I glimpse an older couple walking along the path that links the chateau with Les Coquelicots. They are very well dressed, the man in a suit and the woman in a smart dress. They are also walking extremely slowly. When they’re closer, I recognise them as Monsieur and Madame Dubois, the couple who own the chateau and sold me the house. They came to the first meeting at the notaire’s when I signed the first offer papers but couldn’t attend today because of a hospital appointment. I get up and decide it would be polite to meet them halfway. The dogs race along behind me but don’t go too far from me, unsettled by new surroundings and wary of losing sight of me.

      “Bonjour.” I smile warmly when I get to them. They were kind to me at that first meeting, and the house has been left spotless. Not to mention full of all kinds of useful bits and pieces like crockery and cutlery and furniture left behind that wasn’t specifically included in the sale.

      They smile back, but there’s a deep sadness in Madame Dubois’ eyes that startles me, resonating with my own sadness. They embrace me. Flustered, I forget it’s supposed to be three kisses in this part of France, not two and get caught out, almost kissing Monsieur Dubois full on the lips, something he’s polite enough to pretend didn’t happen, though I do notice a slight twinkle in his eyes. I don’t feel anywhere near as awkward as I did with Jacques the notaire, though.

      I’d imagined the Mayor of Saint Quentin would be scary, but Monsieur Dubois reminds me a little of my Grandad, which helps me to relax. I manage to air kiss Madame Dubois with better timing. Her perfume engulfs me – Chanel no 5, Gran’s favourite. She said you couldn’t go wrong with a classic.

      There’s nothing for it. If I’m going to fit in around here, I’m going to have to get used to kissing complete strangers, even if it does feel a little odd. My family aren’t exactly tactile. I can’t remember the last time my parents hugged me. It’s a bit weird that I’ve had more physical contact with my new neighbours in the past few minutes than with my own flesh and blood in the past few years.

      “We are very glad to welcome you to the village,” Monsieur Dubois declares in slow, carefully pronounced English.

      I’ve noticed that whenever I try to speak French people reply to me in English. I’m going to have to work on my accent; is it really that bad?

      “Thank you, I’m very happy to be here.” I look anxiously at his rigid frame, his hand rests casually on a fence post but I can see it’s holding him up. “Would you like to come and sit down or…”

      I hesitate, aware that he’s only covered half the distance to my garden, not wanting him to now feel obliged to finish the journey.

      Madame Dubois catches my eye. There’s a canny gleam in the way she sizes me up, as though she’s reading my mind. She gives me an almost imperceptible, approving nod.

      “No need my cherie. We will go back in just a moment. Is everything okay with the house? Do you need anything?” She arches an eyebrow, and I catch a glimpse of the imperious, grand persona I imagine her bringing out on official occasions or when she talks to her staff.

      “Everything is perfect, thank you. I’m sure we’re going to be happy here,” I reply, not quite ready to admit that “we” has shrunk to just me and the dogs.

      Madame Dubois is peering over my shoulder, no doubt looking for Pete. I do wish I were better dressed. My denim skirt and handmade jersey top contrasts unfavourably with Madame Dubois’s elegant silk dress. She’s so beautifully turned out, I can’t imagine her ever eating dinner in her PJs.

      The image that thought conjures in my mind is so amusing that I wish I had my sketchbook to hand. I suppress a smile and get the impression that our curiosity is mutual, but we’re both too polite to voice our questions.

      When our eyes meet I feel a connection, like there are undercurrents we are both aware of. She is wondering where my boyfriend is and what I’m doing here, and I’m wondering what made them sell the house, why they are sad and if her husband is seriously ill.

      “We have this for you, just a small welcome gift for a new neighbour.” She presents me with a gift bag.

      “Oh, thank you, you shouldn’t have.” I peek inside the bag and spy a bottle of wine from the Saint-Quentin-sur-Aude vineyard along with a box of some very nice-looking chocolates.

      Monsieur Dubois smiles back indulgently. “De rien cherie.”

      Their kindness knocks my fragile control of my emotions and I blink hard.

      “So, are you my nearest neighbour?” I ask briskly, trying to keep the conversation firmly on the small talk tracks. “Does someone live in the converted barn over there?”

      The barn is about equidistant between Les Coquelicots and the Chateau. It looks intriguing. I long to have a nose round, maybe get some ideas. Along with A Place in the Sun, I’m also a big fan of Grand Designs. Pete and I used to watch that together and discuss how we would design our own renovations. I try to push those memories firmly away.

      “Our son Leo lives there. He is a vet,” Madame Dubois replies proudly. “He had a very successful practice in Paris, but now he has come back to live at home.”

      I wonder if he’s come home because Monsieur Dubois is sick. I also wonder if he’s the scowling man I saw earlier. Maybe he was just preoccupied with bad news and not up to being friendly to a stranger. I get that.

      “I hope it will not be too quiet for you here.” Madame Dubois is watching me closely with an interested gleam. She’s definitely fishing. “You come from London, yes?”

      “Yes.” I’ve given up trying to distinguish Greater London from Central London when talking to anyone outside of the UK. “But I’m sure it won’t be too quiet. I love it here, and so do the dogs.”

      I’ve been trying to keep an eye on them as they race back and forth. I’m going to have to go round and check all the fencing. I sigh, feeling suddenly very tired.

      “It won’t be quiet when Angeline moves the donkeys back into this field.” Monsieur Dubois cracks a side smile and gestures to the field bordering my garden. “She’s the other village vet, although her sanctuary animals seem to be expanding in numbers each year.”

      “The