The French for Love by Fiona Valpy Read Free Book Online Page B

immerse yourself in wine? Within reason of course,’ she finished with a smile.
    We sat in silence for a few seconds while I took all this in. I turned to her with a wry smile. ‘Heavens, you have been giving my life a good deal of thought.’
    ‘Of course I have, darling, I’m your mother.’
    She looked off into the distance. ‘Dad would have given you the same advice, you know. He’d have been delighted if you got your MW. Now,’ she says, gathering up the mugs and tray, ‘I’m going to leave you to sit in the sun and think things over while I get our lunch ready.’
    A while later, as I took my leave, I hugged my mother warmly. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I said, and she smiled and stroked the side of my face with a gesture that was utterly tender.
    ‘You’re a gorgeous girl, Gina, and a wonderful daughter. I’m so proud of you, you know. Now get back out there and start living.’ Then she bent her head to rummage in her red Mulberry bag for her car keys.
    So we each got into our cars—my mother to go off to her afternoon of Bridge, sandwiches and small talk, and I to see a letting agent and get a life...
    And so I’ve ended up here, installed in my new home in France. And today is the first day of the rest of my life.
    I reach for my Filofax and write my To-Do list for the day, but then Lafite shoulders the bedroom door open and jumps up onto the bed, meowing enquiringly. I stroke his wise old head. ‘Quite right! That’s enough lying around; we’ve got things to do. Starting with breakfast for you, I know.’
    A couple of hours later, I’m sitting at the desk in Liz’s study—my study, I mean—the reality of my new situation slowly sinking in.
    I’ve been speaking to the phone company and feel a huge sense of achievement and relief, as I’ve managed to negotiate the tortuous push-button system (frequently pressing the button to ‘ répéter les options ’ as I strain to understand the alternatives being offered me in rapid-fire French), and am assured by the real human being I finally managed to speak to that my Internet connection will be up and running in a week’s time. I feel stranded without this link to the wide world and I’m going to need it to start ordering the books and plan the studying I need to do for the Master of Wine programme. Not to mention keeping up with the latest electronic gossip from Annie and my other friends across the Channel.
    I jump slightly at the sound of tyres on the gravel outside. Looking at my watch, I smile. Ten thirty. This must be Celia coming to check up on me. She hasn’t wasted much time. I thought she’d consider afternoon tea a more socially acceptable point at which to call. But then, looking out of the window, I see a huge cream-coloured Mercedes cruise into the courtyard like an ocean liner, dwarfing my little car as it docks in the shade of the lime trees.
    As I watch, a dapper, middle-aged man steps out, wearing a pair of trousers that would be described in the ads at the back of the Daily Telegraph as ‘permapress slacks’, and a navy blazer with two rows of glittering gold buttons down the front. He pauses to look up appraisingly at the facade of the house and then smoothes back his suspiciously shiny hair at either temple. He walks briskly to the front door and knocks on it with three confidently sharp raps.
    Flustered, I hesitate, ruefully aware of the fact that this morning I pulled on the first clothes that came to hand from the top of my holdall. I’m dressed, somewhat skimpily, for a morning of unpacking, cleaning, weeding the woefully neglected garden and, most importantly, a little sitting in the sun in between it all, in a halter-neck top and a pair of worn jeans that I now deeply regret cutting off at upper-thigh level last summer. It’s a look that’s definitely more Daisy Duke than Doris Day.
    Can I pretend I’m not here? But to my horror, the man is now opening the door and he sticks his head through to call, ‘’Allo. Ees zere