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 donkeys help keep the grass down.” Madame Dubois touches her husband’s elbow, a gentle gesture that is obviously part of their secret couple’s language. “We must go now, Poppy. But also, we came to invite you to the chateau for aperitifs tomorrow evening at seven o’clock. So we can welcome you properly to the village.”
“Oh, thank you, that would be lovely. It may only be me though. Pete is still in London working.” Heat blossoms in my cheeks and I wonder how much of the truth Madame Dubois sees in my eyes. I’ve never been good at lying and have nothing vaguely resembling a poker face.
“Thank you so much for the gift and for all the things you left for me in the house.” I gabble on quickly before she can ask anything about Pete. I swing the gift bag nervously, wondering if we have to go through the kissing ritual again, determined not to muck it up and accidentally snog Saint Quentin’s mayor.
“It is our pleasure.” Madame Dubois moves in to air kiss me again, and I feel the weight of all the things sensed but not acknowledged hanging between us. The words not said weave questions in the air, stories of pain and loss for another day and on better acquaintance.
Monsieur Dubois lightens the mood by deliberately kissing me lightly on the lips with his third kiss.
Even though it’s a very chaste kiss, my cheeks flame hotter, and Madame Dubois swats her husband’s arm and rolls her eyes. There’s an affectionate bond between them that makes me yearn for what they have. I manage to hide my tears by turning to scoop up Peanut who is deliberately ignoring my call for her to follow me in favour of a particularly interesting scent on a bush.
Something about the stoicism of the older couple makes me decide not to waste time mourning “Pete the Prick” as I’ll now call him. There’s far too much on my to-do list for indulgent
