to stand and stare” type of person. I think all artists are at heart. Dotted around my new garden are unfamiliar wild flowers hiding in hedgerows, the petals providing delicate bursts of red and blue in amongst the daisies. The poppies, both my new home’s namesake and my own, are still in full bloom and abundant. The vibrant, dancing red flowers always make me want to grab my sketchbook and watercolours. I love painting poppies. If you examine the Fenella Fairy books you’ll see they crop up a lot more frequently than other flowers. I suppose they’re a kind of secret signature.
Staring at them now, I’m struck by the symbolism of new life springing up from old and, inevitably, of remembrance. Memories of Gran flood in. The grief added to the loss and betrayal of Pete makes the wave of emotion feel dangerous. Like, tsunami dangerous. I need to focus on practical tasks before it sweeps me out of my depth.
I’d prefer to draw, to lose myself in my creativity as a way of dealing with the pain. My fingers itch to have a pencil, a pen, or even a stick of charcoal and my sketchbook, but I ought to put the shopping away and unpack the car. The dogs will want to be fed, and I need to keep an eye on them until I’ve had a chance to thoroughly check the fencing. I can’t lose myself in my sketchbook or travel journal, not now.
I struggle with the front door key for five minutes before I get the knack of holding up the handle, jiggling the key slightly to the right and then saying a prayer. The prayer was a last shot of desperation, but it worked, so I’m not going to knock it.
It’s beautifully cool in the house. It doesn’t smell at all musty. Someone must have aired it for me. The dogs trot in behind me and race off upstairs, no doubt eager to see if there are any beds to jump on. I place the shopping on surprisingly clean shelves and in the old but serviceable fridge. Once I’ve emptied the Mini, the hallway is lined with bags. I ought to unpack properly, but sod it, I simply can’t be bothered. Instead I grab the bottle of crème de cassis and the bottle of champagne I bought in a hypermarket just outside Calais. I take them with a glass outside to the terrace. The dogs hurtle downstairs, Peanut in the lead as they rush to follow me out. Either outdoor adventures are more exciting than indoor ones, or they’re anxious I’m going to leave them. They trot across the terrace in a little line of three at my heels like my own personal entourage.
Over my garden hedge I catch a glimpse of a tall man striding across the field towards one of the chateau’s outbuildings.
“Bonjour.” I step towards the hedge and muster a smile, carrying out an awkward half wave that I instantly regret when the stranger doesn’t so much as turn to acknowledge me.
Charming.
His flinty expression is almost as dark and wild as his tousled hair. He reminds me a bit of Gilles Mariani from Brothers and Sisters, only less groomed and without Gilles’ charming, self-deprecating smile. He strides towards the barn as though his long limbs can’t get away from me quickly enough and the only person he wants to deprecate is me.
My cheeks burn. After Pete’s rejection, this stranger’s refusal to even acknowledge me angers me disproportionately. If he’s my nearest neighbour then I’m screwed if I need help in an emergency.
Maybe he didn’t hear me? Yeah, sure, like Jacques’s hand on my bra strap was really an accident.
I thought villagers were supposed to be friendly and pull together to help each other. That’s how it works in the films. But then, I’m not a villager, am I? I’m an outsider. Maybe my hopes for a more connected life were just the foolish imaginings of a Londoner hoping real community still existed.
Sometimes I felt so disconnected in London, surrounded by people scurrying to their destinations, tutting if you held them up for a microsecond, or locked into their iPhones or kindles, preferring to live in a world of their own creation instead of the one right in front of them. I never even saw some of the neighbours in my block of flats back home, never mind knew their names. I used to seek out the quiet, peaceful places. The Rose Garden in Queen Mary’s Gardens in Regents Park, the National Gallery or the churches holding free lunchtime concerts. While I loved the exposure to art, I never felt like I fitted in or belonged in London.
One hot day last summer I was travelling on a London Underground tube train on my way to see a publisher, and I fainted. When I came round, no one had so much as moved to help me. One girl gave me some of her water, but not one person offered me a seat. That day fed the longing for more … There had to be more than this disconnection, this city anonymity. I tried to raise the topic with Pete, but I don’t think he got it.
I’d hoped for more here in Saint-Quentin-sur-Aude. I wanted to find other people who might believe in community. I’m really going to need “more” now, especially given Pete won’t be joining me.
I pull out a chair and sink down at the wrought iron table, tears pricking at my eyelids. I don’t usually drink during the day, but today I think I’ve got a good excuse. I’m trying to forget the champagne in my Kir Royale was supposed to be shared with Pete to toast our new home, but it’s not working. Thoughts tumble violently through my flimsily constructed barriers, smashing them to shards.
We’ve been practically living at each other’s flats for over a year, taking it in turns to have the convenience of having our own things around us. Did Pete get cold feet about moving in with me? I’m sure now his change of heart isn’t about France at all but about committing to me.
If so, he picked a bloody inconvenient time to come to that particular realisation.
I gulp down the uncomfortable thought that Pete’s cold feet are to do with me, not our French adventure. I drown it with delicious, rich blackcurrants and bubbles of champagne that tickle my tongue. A comforting warmth spreads through my chest like a sigh, releasing tension.
I take another gulp, trying to swallow down the emerging doubts and fears. Now that I’m not occupied with practical tasks, they threaten to break through and swamp me, to convince me not only that I’m a naïve fool but that now I’m a single fool, too.
I make a quick trip to the kitchen to grab the pain au chocolat and, to equalise the bad food points, a peach. It’s not the first meal I imagined eating here, but it’s what I fancy, and if I drink and don’t eat anything that’s not going to help anyone.
I take a bite of peach first, and it’s so juicy and succulent the taste hijacks all my senses. It’s got to be the nicest peach I’ve ever tasted, and I’m momentarily distracted from everything else. I’ve not yet got into the mindfulness trend, but for the moment all I can think about is how deliciously juicy it is. Then I tuck into the pain au chocolat, the layers of buttery, flakey pastry melting in my mouth and contrasting with the sharp layers of chocolate.
Oh my God. This is nothing like I’ve ever bought in an English supermarket; it’s even the best I’ve ever tasted in France. If this is from the local bakery my waistline might be in trouble.
I ponder starting up a food-based mindfulness programme. Now that I could go for.
I’ll stop thinking scary thoughts and try concentrating on how good the market food tastes and also how the warmth of the sun seems to penetrate my bones. I’ll remember why I came here. The sunshine soothes me, unknots and unfurls me deep inside like a pent-up sigh. I pretend not to notice the dogs licking up the odd bit of flaky pastry. I’m sure the odd crumb won’t harm them, and the dogs seem as bewitched by French pastries as I am.
This feels too incongruous – on the one hand I’ve got this glorious sunshine, delicious local food and the idyllic country scene on my doorstep, and on the other I’ve got Pete’s text and the spike of fear twisting and turning inside
