The French for Love Read Online Free PDF

while Ed was around I took it for granted that we’d have children eventually, but since he left, it feels like the alarm’s gone off on my biological clock. I’d never really thought about it much before, but now that having children with Ed is something that’s never going to happen for me, it’s as if my body’s suddenly taken over and I want a baby so badly it hurts. Perverse or what? I suppose it’s human nature, isn’t it, wanting what you can’t have.’
    ‘Well, I know the right man for you will come along. And anyway you have your career as well of course. How long have you been at Wainright’s now? Must be getting on for ten years isn’t it? Do you think you might want to make a move at some stage?’
    ‘I don’t know.’ I frowned and took another sip of my wine. ‘I love the company and I love what I do—and I was perfectly happy to keep jogging along until recently. I suppose because I thought Ed and I would be starting a family before too long. Under those circumstances, I’d have been content just ticking over at work. Easier to balance the whole motherhood thing too. But now all that’s changed of course.’
    ‘Ah, the eternal compromise of the working mother,’ said Liz sagely. ‘In my day you had to choose, but these days I thought you could have it all—the fulfilling career and the clutch of perfect children too.’
    ‘Hmm, I suspect the reality is still a little trickier to achieve, whatever it may look like on the pages of the glossy magazines. Anyway, I now appear to have neither.’
    ‘Well, there’s nothing to stop you applying for other jobs, is there? Any prospect of a promotion at Wainright’s?’
    ‘Only if Harry throws in the towel. As a France specialist, I’d need to go for his job. Or sell my soul and go over to the dark side. New World wines,’ I explained as Liz looked at me quizzically. ‘No, I’d have to look elsewhere to stay with French wines, and there are fewer of those jobs about these days. The New World is where the growth is now. Although the whole sector is battling a bit in the current climate. Sales are down across the board.’
    ‘Well, I’m pleased to hear you’re remaining loyal to your roots in spite of the challenges,’ Liz had raised her glass with a nod of approval.
    ♦ ♦ ♦
    Ah, yes, the eternal wisdom of hindsight. Our conversation rings especially hollow now that I have no job whatsoever.
    I take a sip of wine, holding up the glass to admire its colour in the last rays of evening sunshine. The bottle Mireille brought to welcome me to my new home is a Clairet, the local rosé. I remember helping Dad refill the bird feeder in our garden in the autumn, and hear him saying, ‘Look at those bullfinches, Gina. A good rosé should be the same colour as their stomachs—precisely that gentle coral pink.’ This wine is a bolder colour, more the orange-red of a robin’s breast, and its chilled, dry complexity is thoroughly refreshing.
    It was with Dad that I learned to taste wine. He made his living as a wine writer and became editor of Carafe magazine, so wine was always a feature at the dinner table in our house. From an early age he encouraged me to taste, in tiny quantities to be swirled around the mouth before spitting into a crachoir . Part of the delight in my childhood was to watch him send a perfectly aimed stream of wine into the spittoon with a nonchalant elegance which completely belied the crudity of the action, elevating it to performance art.
    He made me think about the different layers of flavours in each wine and encouraged me to describe what I could taste. ‘Don’t be bashful,’ he’d say. ‘There’s no right and wrong. It’s a personal thing. Do you like it or not? If so, why? If not, why not?’ He would bring a handful of small jars through from the spice rack in the kitchen and hold each one under my nose. ‘Think about what you can smell. That’s cinnamon—remember it. And this one that smells like sweaty