one would ever dare not invite her.” Sophie snorts and then lowers her voice. “Anyway, she runs the bakery in the village. We wouldn’t want to have to drive to Mirepoix for our bread.”
Thanks to Sophie, I’m still laughing as I enter the grand entrance hall of the chateau. It has an actual chandelier and exquisite tapestries hanging on the stone walls. I can’t imagine living in a place like this. I’ve stayed in a few chateau hotels with Pete, one where our room looked out over the moat, something that thrilled me. Now I remember I think Pete complained about the lack of air conditioning and the smell from the moat, and we argued.
Here in the Dubois’s chateau there’s a huge old tapestry almost covering one wall, its colours still rich and vibrant. It displays a hunting scene and has an intricate decorative leafy border I intend to copy into my journal later on. A huge staircase leads up out of sight. I’m itching to explore. I’ve always loved castles. I could stand forever even in a ruined room and imagine the past coming to life around me in vivid detail. It used to drive my family and then Pete nuts. I was forever being told to hurry up and stop day dreaming.
I was always ridiculed for living in my own world, but for me the daydreaming was magical. I’d hate to live in their cold, one dimensional worlds. I absentmindedly reach out to touch the stone wall, wanting to feel the connection, and I’m mid-daydream when Madame Dubois walks in.
“Bon Soir, Sophie. Good evening, Poppy.” She smiles. “It is a very special place, no?”
“Yes, it’s amazing. How wonderful it must be to live in a place like this.” I look around the entrance hall. “I would love to know the chateau’s history.”
“Leo can tell you all about the history. He’s done a lot of research and created a website all about the chateau and the village.” She smiles proudly. “Have you seen it?”
“No, I must look it up.”
Leo. My stomach lurches as we walk through to what must be their living room, but really it’s a great hall with a minstrels gallery. The fireplace is so huge I could walk into it and not even bump my head.
Leo nods over at me but goes back to an animated discussion he’s having with his father.
Madame Dubois tightens her lips, and instead I’m introduced to Jacob and Anya. They’re in their mid-forties, I’d guess. Jacob is virtually bald and has a strange moustache. It’s the kind villains in the old films used to stroke while working out how best to torture their enemies.
He’s very friendly and un-villain-like, though, and so is Anya. Her white blonde hair masks what little grey there is. I like the fact she’s confident enough not to dye her hair. Their English is very good, too; it comes from ten years of dealing with English tourists who only speak English, 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
