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

that phrase I am always Sophie, not Soph, so I know I’m in trouble. It reminds me of being told off at school and makes me feel about seven years old. It is usually followed by an LIC (lecture in car).
    A tour of the dining room next door followed. I kept my mouth shut, half sulking and half worried. I really didn’t want an LIC. Mr Vorst would probably drive us into the ditch.
    Then came the sitting room, which had a vast fireplace in it – proof, I guessed, that it must get cold here. I imagined us all snuggling around it in our pyjamas with cups of Horlicks playing card games, and wondered if by next Christmas we would be leaving brandy for Father Christmas here. Even Nick couldn’t hide the fact that he was impressed with the fireplace, or maybe that look was more dread at the thought of chopping logs big enough to fit in it?
    We climbed the stone staircase and onto the first floor, the agent going on ahead to open the shutters. Each opened shutter revealed another part of the house. The stairs were broad and worn smooth but looked like they would last at least another five hundred years. I loved the feeling of space; I could stretch out both my arms and still not touch the walls.
    We walked into the master bedroom. This is where Madame Gréco had her boudoir, bathroom and dressing room. The floors here were wooden, giving it a warmer feel than downstairs. There was a large Victorian bath on a raised platform at one end of the bedroom and a double sink.
    “I can’t believe it, I’ve always longed for a Victorian bath,” I whispered to Nick, unable to contain my excitement any longer. I had to stop myself from jumping up and down on the spot.
    We opened the large shutters in the middle of the room and walked out onto the balcony. Mr Vorst was fiddling around with something inside so Nick came and stood next to me.
    “This view reminds me of a postcard,” he said. “Just look at the vineyards. I think I can see more shades of green than there are in Ireland.”
    He was right. There was everything from the bright grass to the olive trees to the oak and the plane trees lining the road that leads to the village and the cypress trees leading up to Château de Boujan. There were vineyards in every direction, perfectly planted rows of vines with leaves on the cusp of turning from green to autumnal bronze and red. They seemed to be a couple of weeks behind those closer to the sea. The lines of the vines led to the mountains in the distance, inviting me to walk between them towards the deep green hills.
    I noticed a perfect rose bush growing from a chipped blue ceramic pot. It had worked its way up the soft light stone and looked like it was part of the masonry. It had wax-like petals that at the tips were almost black, the red was so intense.
    The plant was about three feet higher than me. I asked Nick to take a picture of me in front of it. An Alsatian dog wandered past the house beneath us and Nick took a picture of him too.
    “He’s beautiful,” said Nick. “Where is he from?”
    I sensed that Nick was keen to adopt an animal before we even bought the house. He grew up with lots of dogs in the countryside and misses not having them. I had vetoed a dog in London. Partly because I think it would be cruel to have a dog cooped up all day but also because I don’t know anyone who has one who doesn’t find walking them a chore. Apart from my friend Carla, the one who is having an affair with her tennis coach. She uses the walks as an excuse to call him.
    When we had coffee mornings together, she told the rest of the amazed mothers all about her trysts; in the car, at the tennis club, even in her own broom cupboard.
    “Has your tennis got any better?” I asked her once.
    “No darling, I gave up tennis when I discovered sex. I found I was much more talented at it and I never lost. Surely you realise that tennis coaches are not really there to teach you to play tennis?”
    She didn’t seem remotely ashamed or even