I?
I honestly don’t know, and, despite the fact I’m shattered from my very early start this morning and the stressful drive down from London, I’m not sure how I’m going to get through tonight, alone in a strange house.
I wouldn’t admit it to Mum and Dad, but getting used to driving on the right hasn’t been as easy as it was with Pete sitting in the passenger seat looking out for me. And I’m definitely not going to mention to anyone the panic attack I had when I realised the car’s sat nav was trying to take me through the centre of Paris.
As always, Peanut senses the downward shift in my mood and leaps elegantly onto my lap, where she curls up into a tiny little ball. The boys flank me, sitting on either side of my feet, ears pricked – my own personal, pint-sized bodyguards. My lips soften into a smile, and suddenly I don’t feel quite so alone.
Maybe I’ll stay up drawing. I never tire of sketching the dogs. I’d love to illustrate a story with them in. Maybe even write the story, too. Who knows? Maybe one day.
They might be tiny, but they’ll help defend me against depressive tendencies. I never understood why Churchill made his depression a black dog. I see my dark thoughts as crawly spiders that try to creep up on me under cover of shadows.
My phone beeps, and I look to see what the message is. My heart thumps wildly until I see it’s an email from Michelle. Of course it’s not from Pete. I bet his phone is switched off, the coward.
I take a deep breath. If Pete is capable of what he did today, of forward planning this, then I’m glad he’s not here. He can stay on his own little island and good riddance.
Now I can have my French adventure my way and find out why this house called me here.
I take a deep breath and open the email, smiling as I read the subject line.
From: [email protected]
Subject: 10 reasons why Poppy Kirkbride is a total star
1) She’s my 3am friend. Enough said.
2) She has the biggest heart of anyone I know. She’d do anything for anyone.
3) She’s a brilliant godmother who will be an inspiration to my kids.
4) She can put up with my mother (which is more than I can say!).
5) She listens to my moaning without complaining.
6) Her art is totally amazing. Her illustrations make me smile, and I think she’s a far better artist than she’d ever admit, even to herself.
7) She’s quirky and brave enough to be her own person.
8) She’s so creative and cool. She even makes her own clothes. Everyone else thinks the clothes are designer, and she’s too modest to admit she made them herself, so I have to tell everyone.
9) She used to stand up to the bullies at school if someone was being picked on, even though it made her a target.
10) She has no idea what a total star she is.
Poppy Kirkbride, you are a fantastic, strong and capable woman. Pete is a C word, but you can rise above this, and you will find a solution.
Sometimes fate gives us a shout because we’re getting it wrong. When you look back on this in a year’s time, I bet you’ll be glad Pete left you and there will be a gorgeous Frenchman in your bed.
For now, throw yourself into work and take the time to remember why you moved to France in the first place.
P.S. Are you really sure you don’t want me to sew rotten fish in Pete’s curtains? Let me know if you change your mind. I am more than happy to be your avenging angel ;-)
I look up from my phone to do a quick dog check and see Gilles Mariani’s ruder, wilder twin is walking back the way he came.
His shirt sleeves are rolled up to expose tanned forearms, and his gait is relaxed but confident. His expression isn’t relaxed, though; there’s a definite hint of glower, like he’s got a storm cloud over his head instead of the glorious sunshine I’m enjoying.
He must have seen me this time, surely? If the field is his regular short cut down to the main drive, is he going to ignore me every time he sees me? I shrink down into my chair. I’m amazed the dogs didn’t bark at him, but they’re still busy crumb hoovering.
Thank God I wasn’t crying into my drink. That would’ve been the ultimate humiliation. I want to hate the stranger for being so rude, but instead I feel a definite stirring of … something 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
