Love in a Warm Climate by Helena Frith-Powell Read Free Book Online Page A

children so all her five children inherited a portion each and couldn’t agree on selling it or keeping it, as is more than often the case with these old properties. Eventually the lawyers got involved and the decision to sell was taken. Meanwhile none of them were allowed to use it, so it is very dusty and obviously like all old houses there is some work to be done, but it is in fundamentally good shape, the fittings are excellent.”
    I looked at Nick to see if I could gauge what he was thinking. In the unlikely event that he hated it I’m not sure what I would have done. He gave me a short nod, which I translated to ‘Yes, Soph, I know it is fabulous but if you don’t stop grinning like a Cheshire cat on heat the price will double before we even get inside the door.’
    Mr Vorst opened the shutters and unlocked the front door with a key that looked like the one Mary Lennox used to unlock the secret garden in one of my all-time favourite books. He pushed the door open and immediately we felt cold air coming out from the house.
    “These houses are designed to stay cool,” he told us. “The walls are thick and there are shutters on all the windows. In the summer, people shut them during the day to keep the sun out.”
    We were in an entrance hall with large beige flagstones on the floor. On either side were walls with doors leading off into rooms. The agent walked into a room on the left and opened all the shutters. Light flooded in. It was the kitchen that was located in the extension we had seen from the outside.
    I could already see that it was a lovely house, that it had been loved and just needed a bit of attention. The kitchen didn’t look at all bad for somewhere that hadn’t been used for several months. There was a large flue at one end where the cooker must have stood. Several spiders had set up home there; they scuttled away, shocked into flight by the light. The sink was below the window, with a view over the vines.
    I started imagining shelves filled with over-sized jars where I would store everything from walnuts to cranberries. No matter that I never did in London – this house was going to be a new beginning. I might not find my inner French woman, but my inner domestic goddess was raring to get out.
    “I love this kitchen,” I told Nick. “The children’s chicken nuggets and chips days are numbered.”
    “They always show the kitchen first,” said Nick. “Kitchens apparently sell houses.”
    “Oh, I thought estate agents did,” I replied under my breath. “You’d better not be trying to put me off; it’s too late for that.”
    “They will leave the table and chairs,” said Mr Vorst, pointing at a large round oak table and matching chairs. “You are lucky; some people even take the light bulbs. There is a small fireplace in here too.” He pointed at a steel door in one of the beams that when opened revealed a little oven – perfect, he said, for wood-fired pizzas, whatever they are. “Madame Gréco’s children have divided up what they want, heaven knows how, and anything you see left here is included in the price. That also includes the barrels and machinery in the cave .”
    “The what?” I asked.
    “The cave ,” said Nick. “It’s the winery, where the wine is made and aged. Can we go on?”
    I was keen to linger in the kitchen cooking imaginary feasts for the children, but we walked out into the hall and crossed over to the sitting room.
    “It’s quite small,” said Nick.
    “That’s because it hasn’t got any furniture in it,” I protested, walking over to the window to touch the marble windowsill. I loved the fact that everything seemed so solid and well made. “Rooms always look smaller when they’re unfurnished.”
    If we had been sitting down I think Nick would have kicked me in theshins. Instead he shot me one of those looks I have grown to hate over the years. It’s his ‘Oh, how could you be so stupid, Sophie? I really am getting angry’ look. And in