‘You know I would love to but … well, it doesn’t seem fair to the dog, given I don’t know when I’ll have my own home again or where I’ll end up. Say I had to get a full-time job somewhere and had to leave the dog at home or try to afford dog day care. It doesn’t seem right when I’m not settled.’
‘You’ve got a home, here with me.’ Poppy uses her no-nonsense tone. ‘It’s your home for as long as you want it to be. And I promise there will always be a job for you here. With The Barn opening we’re going to have more work than ever.’
I wish I could be sure of her words, but I don’t even know where Poppy and Leo are going to be living after their wedding. I don’t think they even know yet. The last time I asked Poppy she replied vaguely that they hadn’t talked about it yet. They’re not going to want me hanging around if they choose to live here instead of in Leo’s barn conversion. And there’s the fact they’ve brought Callum O’Connor in. Who knows how he’s going to upset the status quo? I have a feeling I can’t shake that things are going to change now he’s here.
Thinking about what all the changes might mean for me makes my stomach clench. Until I arrived in France and found St Quentin sur Aude I didn’t even know I wanted this. No one in my family has ever lived abroad but now I’ve got a taste for life in France I can’t imagine going back to England. Despite what I said to Poppy this does feel like home. The truth is, now I’ve got a lovely home with people I care about and a job I really enjoy in this sunny corner of rural France, I’m terrified of losing it.
I think about all the things I’ve come to love – my early morning runs around the lake, drinking wine on the terrace, watching the sun set behind the mountains, putting dance music on and dancing with Poppy and the Chihuahuas, shopping at the markets and cycling past field after field of sunflowers in the summer, revelling in the feel of warm sunshine and fresh country air on my skin.
Not to mention that the French really couldn’t care less who I am, something I’m wholeheartedly appreciative of.
‘Thanks, Poppy. What you said means a lot to me.’ I force a smile. I know she means it now, but things change and maybe Leo won’t want me around once they’re married. Has she even asked him? Knowing Poppy, probably not. I don’t want Leo to feel like I come as part of a job lot with the house, like a resident elderly aunt no one can face putting in a home.
‘I really do mean it, you know.’ She stares at me thoughtfully in the uncanny way she has sometimes of seeming to read my mind. ‘You know you can trust me, don’t you?’
‘What’s not to trust?’ I reply honestly. Poppy has well and truly earned my trust over the past year. Her total lack of interest in all things celebrity has been pretty refreshing too.
Pickwick is tapping determinedly at my leg again, asking for a cuddle. I reach down to scoop him up, easily forgiving him for succumbing to Callum O’Connor’s charm. His little pink tongue is sticking out as usual and he’s looking particularly cute. I plant a soft kiss on the top of his head. I love him but at the back of my mind there’s the reminder that he isn’t really my dog, he’s Poppy’s. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a bond with my own dog too? The seed Poppy has planted has already taken root and I think she knows it. I’m already wondering about the puppy and worrying that he might be feeling sad in the dogs’ home, wondering why his humans have disappeared.
Arghh, she’s got me, well and truly hooked me.
I try to focus on making sure dinner is as perfect as I can get it. I haven’t planned anything pretentious or showy because I didn’t want it to look like I was out to impress the celebrity chef. Even though I kind of do. Who wouldn’t? Hopefully my grilled goat’s cheese and cherry tomatoes on brioche French toast, spinach and ricotta risotto and individual strawberry tarts will do the trick.
We eat out on the terrace. It’s a beautiful temperature for outdoor dining. Poppy and I have decorated the table with wild flowers from the meadow and Leo provides the wine from the Château cellar. I’m hoping Cal will comment on the food but as we eat he and Leo spend the time catching up about their time together in Paris. Cal entertains us with stories about harsh training conditions with verbal abuse often reinforced by a bit of physical abuse in the form of flying saucepans or fists.
‘So why are chefs seen as so bad-tempered?’ Poppy asks.
‘It’s a high-pressured environment. It’s the chef’s reputation at stake so if an underling messes something up or isn’t mindful of presentation they are effectively ruining the reputation of the chef. Also, most chefs really care about producing good food that will be appreciated and take pride in it. I know I do.’ Cal’s eyes gleam and he leans forward towards Poppy. There’s something of the animation, the passion he displays in his television shows, evident in his features and hand gestures. ‘If you’ve busted a gut in a hot kitchen getting a dish perfect and then someone lets it get cold or drops it you can imagine why tempers flare.’
‘Yes, it would be like someone smudging one of my illustrations.’ Poppy nods thoughtfully.
I can’t help wondering, with all this talk about producing food that will be appreciated, if he might say something about my risotto but beyond a polite thank you when I served him he hasn’t said a word directly to me. I wasn’t imagining the slight coolness to his attitude towards me. It’s not there when he talks to Poppy and I can’t help feeling miffed. I should be used to being prejudged by people, but it still annoys me just as much as it ever did. I might be ready to start over and face the world again but I’m not sure the world is necessarily amenable to giving me the fresh start I want.
I wish I could say that I don’t care what Cal thinks, that his opinion doesn’t matter, but the fact is I do care. I serve the dessert, trying my best to keep my feelings undetectable. Poppy obviously picks something up because she gives me a big thumbs-up and raves about the strawberry tartlet. If she’s hoping Cal might take the hint and praise me it doesn’t work but I do appreciate her making the effort.
Pickwick is under the table, rubbing himself against my legs like he thinks he’s a cat. I’m sure it’s his way of offering support, not just him making his presence known in case there’s any spare food going.
Feeling awkward I decide to turn the conversation away from food.
‘How is Only Dogs and Donkeys at Christmas coming along?’ I turn to Poppy and try to give her all my attention but a part of me is still hyper-aware of Cal. I’m wearing another of the sundresses Poppy found for me at the market in Mirepoix. It’s red with a tiny floral print, feminine but also a little bit sexy.
Now I feel like the girl who tried too hard which is doubly annoying because I’m not out to snare Cal but to learn from him, something I hoped would develop naturally and easily given we’re going to be working together.
Hmm. That fantasy is dissolving fast, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth that no amount of strawberry tartlet can fix. I guess my hope that the labels I was given last year had worn off was a vain one. It’s like Cal has already decided I’m not worth getting to know, like he decided that before he even met me.
You don’t know me.
I feel like interrupting his conversation with Leo to tell him so but just about manage to restrain myself, clearing the plates and heading inside to make coffee instead. Quite how people come to the conclusion they know who I am from the heavily edited highlights on Sex in the Suburbs or a sex tape filmed without my consent, I don’t know. I deposit the plates in the dishwasher rather more heavily than I should but the thunk of crockery and clatter of cutlery is strangely satisfying and one way of expressing my irritation without mortally offending Leo’s friend.
‘He obviously hated my cooking.’ I frown morosely at the clearing up waiting to be done, the dishes that need soaking before they can go in the dishwasher and the few obstinate items that insist on remaining in a previous century and want to be washed up by hand.
‘Why on earth do you think he hated it?’ Poppy helps with loading the dishwasher.
�
�When I asked him if everything was okay he said the meal was “fine, thanks”.’ I scowl at the detritus in the kitchen, and all the effort it represents. All that work dismissed in one sentence and by someone who knows what he’s talking about, that’s what really bites.
‘You’re upset because he said the meal was fine?’ Poppy laughs. ‘Seriously?’
‘Yes, seriously.’ I sigh. ‘He didn’t even do me the courtesy of a proper critique. I’d rather be told what was wrong than be dismissed and damned with faint praise.’
‘So, you’re annoyed he didn’t praise you and you’re also annoyed he didn’t criticise you?’ Poppy frowns and stares at me, biting her lip thoughtfully.
‘I know it sounds a bit loopy when you put it like that, but you haven’t seen his programmes.’ I squirt washing-up liquid into the sink and turn the hot tap. I prefer to get all cleared up before I sit down to relax in the evening. Leo and Cal are still outside, lingering over the coffee. I can’t escape the nagging sensation that they are talking about me but that’s pure paranoia and I try to ignore it. ‘In his programmes he comes down quite hard on the amateur chefs, and he’s even more forceful about it in the shows where he’s going into restaurants. The point is it’s always constructive criticism, aimed at helping them to be better chefs. The fact he didn’t bother with me makes me feel … well, not great. But it’s okay, really. I’ll get over it.’
I swallow down my disappointment and try to hide just how upset I am from Poppy. She’d only want to fix things and that could be truly excruciating. I imagine Cal’s disdain if he was forced to take my cooking seriously and my jaw tightens. I know I’m just an amateur but so are all the people on his shows. Poppy’s passion is her art; my creativity has always been channelled into cooking and baking.
‘Perhaps when he’s not working he just keeps his opinions to himself?’ Poppy suggests. ‘He could just be trying to be polite.’
‘Because his real opinion would offend me so much?’ I ask.
Poppy looks stricken. ‘I didn’t mean that … I …’
‘You’re okay, Poppy, I know you’re just trying to cheer me up,’ I say. ‘Anyway, enough about Callum O’Connor. How about we have hot chocolate once we’re cleared up?’
‘If you do your white hot chocolate with salted caramel swirls I’ll do the rest of this clearing up,’ Poppy offers.
‘Okay, it’s a deal. Shall I do a dog count? They’ve been in and out begging all evening. Shall I make sure everyone’s back in?’ I offer.
‘Good idea, remember to check the cushion covers.’
Treacle took to using the cushion covers as sleeping bags last winter, climbing in and sleeping on top of the cushions. As he is so tiny he’s not actually visible once in place and, as Poppy discovered one particularly fraught night when she woke me to tell me he was missing, you actually have to pat all the cushions to find him.
Pickwick and Treacle are on the sofa in the living room together and Maxi and Barney are both squashed onto one dog bed in the kitchen. Peanut, however, is missing. She’s got into the habit of playing hide and seek lately, only she doesn’t ask us if we want to play first, which can be a cause of anxiety. I don’t tell Poppy as she’ll only stress, I’ll look in all her favourite hiding places first. At just over two kilograms she’s the smallest dog in the pack, the tiniest dog I’ve ever seen, in fact, and that means she can hide in the smallest of places.
I check under the sofas, one of her favourite haunts, and a place to hide treats from the other dogs who can’t fit underneath. I’m determined to let go of my bad mood. So what if Cal doesn’t take me seriously? We are going to have to work together and I’m determined he’ll come to appreciate my worth. I’ll just have to prove myself. I know I shouldn’t have to and I don’t have to but I’m determined to get praise from Cal’s lips if it bloomin’ well kills me.
I check the log pile, another of the dogs’ favourite places to play. I hear the faint tinkle of metal dog tags in a bush over by the terrace, approach quietly and kneel down to peer into the gap beneath the foliage. Cal and Leo are talking so I don’t want to call for Peanut and have to engage in conversation with Cal again. In my current odd mood, I might embarrass myself by insisting he tell me what was wrong with my risotto.
Peanut’s eyes gleam in the darkness. I stretch out but can’t actually reach her. Without equipment to cut away the branches or a way of shrinking myself, Alice in Wonderland style, I’m going to have to rely on her deciding to cooperate with me.
I tap the ground in front of me, frowning at her. She stares back, implacable. I try to look friendly instead of cross and tap my lap instead, the signal all the dogs know as an offer for a cuddle.
She remains unmoved. ‘Is that all you’ve got?’ her expression seems to say. It’s half battle of wills and half game.
‘What’s this?’ I whisper very quietly, pretending to fiddle with my pocket, as though just about to fish out one of her favourite duck treats.
She tilts her head, contemptuous of my bluff, the insult to her intelligence. It always works with Pickwick but then he is very stomach-orientated.
There’s a root digging into my bare knee and I am tempted to speak a little more sharply to her but then Leo and Cal would come and find me hiding in a hedge like a stalker.
That’s not going to happen.
I swivel round and turn my back on Peanut, pretending to ignore her. She’s bound to crack first. She loves her comforts, particularly going under Poppy’s duvet at night with her favourite weasel toy. She’ll crack first.
Or I’ll be spending tonight under the stars.
I find myself tuning into Leo and Cal’s conversation.
‘She represents everything I hate about celebrity culture, everything I came to France to get away from,’ Cal says.
Is he … is he talking about me? My heart pounds and I feel very hot all of a sudden. Everything he hates? But he doesn’t even know me.
‘JoJo really isn’t like that,’ Leo protests. ‘She’s a total star. Poppy wouldn’t know what to do without her. Without JoJo she really would’ve struggled to get Les Coquelicots up and running.’
‘Really. That surprises me,’ Cal says and adds something in a lower tone I can’t make out.
‘God no, there’s no way she knew she was being filmed. She’s really not like that. She’s not some fame-seeking celebrity-chaser, you’re perfectly safe …’ Leo defends me. ‘Do you really think I’d saddle you with someone like that? When you get to know her properly, you’ll see I’m right about her. At least give her a chance.’
There’s a pause. My fingers dig into my legs and I burn with humiliation and anger. My chest is painfully tight until I remember to breathe. Peanut has crawled out of her hole and climbed onto my lap, snuggling into me. I know she senses I’m upset, she always does. For all her cheekiness she’s an affectionate, sensitive little creature.
‘I suppose I trust your judgement,’ Cal says, breaking the silence. ‘You can’t blame me for being careful. JoJo got famous dating a celebrity. I told you about the problems I had with Daria, my last girlfriend?’
‘What happened?’
‘All she cared about was going to parties and clubs where there’d be photo ops and she could see other famous people and be seen.’ Cal’s voice is scornful, but I can’t help wondering if he’s more hurt than he’s letting on. After all I’ve dated someone like that myself. ‘She really had me fooled and she’s part of the reason I wanted to take some time out. I need some time away from that scene, so I can work out what I really want from life.’
‘Well, it’s good news for us you’re taking that time here. Any help you can give us we’re very grateful for and of course you can stay as long as you like.’
My jaw clenches and I grind my teeth a little, seething silently. As long as he likes?
Peanut tilts her head back and looks up at me, her serious little eyes seeming to communicate vast depths of wisdom and knowledge. That or she’s telling me
it’s past her bedtime and asking me why we’re faffing about.
‘It’s probably just as well things are over with Daria,’ Cal muses. ‘Given I’m not sure exactly how long I’m going to be here. In my experience long-distance relationships don’t work, it just ends up being an incredibly slow and drawn-out break-up. Well, I’ve got other things on my mind at the moment, more important things. Did I tell you my twin sister Caitlin is pregnant? I can’t believe I’m going to be an uncle.’
Leo and Cal lapse into a lament for the days of their youth and are now talking about a mutual friend from their time in Paris together. I tune out. My heart is pounding and I realise just how awful it would be to be found eavesdropping, especially after that conversation, and decide to creep away while the going is good. My knee throbs painfully where I’ve been kneeling on the root and I bite my lip to prevent any vocalisation of the pain giving me away. There are plenty of other things I’d like to vocalise to Cal’s face. I have a hundred scathing but poised retorts swirling around in my head, as well as some not so poised insults. So Cal is worried I might be after him? Or rather after the reflected glory of his fame?
As if.
After all I’m ‘everything he came to the south of France to get away from’. After that remark I’m not even sure I can be polite to him, never mind wanting to be intimately involved with him.
You don’t know me.
How many times has that thought echoed in my mind over the past year? Enough that it stirs me up, disturbing the emotional silt I’ve been successfully keeping well below the surface since I moved here.
What about the fact that I came here to get away from the world Cal belongs to? He is the one disturbing my peace, not the other way round.
I was here first.
That childish argument almost makes me smile at my own belligerence but I’m too upset. I had hopes of a professional working relationship with a man I admire and want to learn from. I set out this evening to impress him and I failed. Big time.
Suddenly I’m really, really tired. I feel a familiar pressure behind my eyelids and squeeze my eyes tight shut. I refuse to let that man make me cry. He doesn’t know me, so his opinions mean nothing.
Jojo's French Escape Page 4