My hair has stubborn kinks in it that I’ve learnt not to fight. So it waves and curls and does as it likes, and I’ve given up caring. The electric straightening tongs Pete bought me for Christmas have never been out of their box.
I’m certainly not in Jacques’s league. He’s from the “attractive, but by God he knows it” group of men who I find tend to make a lot of use of their bathroom mirrors and own more grooming products on one shelf than I’d get through in several years. He probably has a wife and a mistress yet still needs to flirt to boost his ego during the day.
I put him out of my mind as I go to fetch the dogs.
I smile to find both Peanut and Treacle curled up side by side on Sophie’s lap, one on each thigh, no doubt dispensing a mixture of cream and ginger chihuahua fur onto her smart black work skirt, while she contorts her arms awkwardly around them to reach her keyboard. I grin. I know that posture so well. The chihuahuas are so very good at looking so cute that moving them feels mean, and instead you end up with permanent backache. Pickwick the miniature Yorkie is sitting on top of the desk next to Sophie’s monitor doing a good impression of a paperweight so he can look out of the window. He’s watching all the comings and goings in the village square and looking extremely pleased with himself.
“Oh no, I am so sorry. Pickwick knows full well he’s not allowed on desks or tables.” I swoop in to scoop him up first, trying not to dislodge any papers. He perches on my shoulder like a parrot and continues his surveillance.
“It is fine Poppy, they are beautiful little dogs. Such little angels. I have never seen such tiny dogs.” Sophie speaks impeccable English, beaming as she strokes first Peanut’s head and then Treacle’s. She also looks flawless – a dusky Audrey Hepburn look-a-like, but seemingly unbothered by the dog fur on her skirt.
She’s probably very organised and has one of those sticky roller things in her drawer to remove bits of fluff from 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
