The French for Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

socks is cumin—you’ll often find a whiff of it in some of the very best wines. Along with just a hint of horse manure.’ I would giggle at the thought of sweaty socks and horse manure and my mother would tut disapprovingly.
    When I had applied for a job at Wainright’s as a sales assistant (‘Get in on the shop floor, literally,’ said Dad. ‘It’s the only way to learn if you’re serious about getting into the wine trade’), probably the name had helped. ‘Gina Peplow, eh?’ said Harry Wainright at my interview, peering sharply at me over his glasses. ‘Any relation to David?’ But if a spot of nepotism had helped me get my first job, ever since then I had worked hard and earned my subsequent promotions to shop manager, buying assistant and finally buyer in my own right.
    I miss my father terribly, even though it’s been over a year...
    He’d died much as he had lived, in a quiet, gentlemanly, considerate manner, falling silently to the ground in the back garden of my parents’ home in West Sussex. A massive heart attack, the doctors explained. Out of the blue. Nothing anyone could have done. My mother was her normal poised self when she’d phoned to tell me, and her cool, remote manner made me wonder, not for the first time, whether she had ever really loved him.
    We scattered his ashes at the edge of our garden, where our boundary gives onto neighbouring fields and the view southwards across the rolling slopes of the Downs, beside the bench where he used to come and sit to watch the sky turning from blue to rose to black on summer evenings, as swallows swooped and flitted overhead.
    I blink to clear the pooling tears from my eyes and give myself a little shake mentally. If I start crying now, for my father and for Liz, I just might not be able to stop. I lift my face to allow the warmth of the setting sun to dry the dampness on my cheeks. Finishing a last mouthful of my supper, I brush some crumbs from the table onto the terrace for the birds to come and peck at tomorrow morning.
    Lafite sits on the wall cleaning his whiskers and I suddenly feel a deep calm descend, the tension in my neck and shoulders relaxing as I watch the sky turn the same colour as the wine in my glass. The last swallows flit by, catching a few final flies in the warm evening air before slipping into their nests under the eaves for the night.
    Despite my exhaustion at the end of such a long day, for the first time in a very, very long while I feel at peace. Now that I’m finally here in France, it feels as if I’ve been able to put down a heavy load that I’ve been carrying. The sorrow of loss, the pain of betrayal and the terror of an uncertain future are all behind me now. And despite the fact that I’m so alone here, somehow I don’t feel as lonely and abandoned as I did back in England. Perhaps I’m going to enjoy rural life.
    In the oak trees an owl hoots gently.
    I raise my glass. ‘Thank you, Liz,’ I whisper.

CHAPTER THREE
    A Gentleman Caller
    To-Do list:
• Clean house
• Sort out Internet connection
• Order books on reading list for Master of Wine course
• Food shopping
• Weed garden
• Take car to car wash to get rid of mud from yesterday’s close encounter with ditch and Blue Pickup Guy
• Remember to ask Mireille about Blue Pickup Guy.
    T ime goes by, as Madonna observed in one of her more philosophical moments, so slowly. Especially when it’s two in the morning and the prospect of sleep has become as unlikely as the prospect of a reliable man or a steady job. Despite the fact that I’m exhausted after the long drive, I toss and turn all night, my mind abuzz with a jumble of thoughts and memories in the unfamiliar darkness of Liz’s bedroom. I’m a fully paid-up, card-carrying insomniac these days, ever since Ed left. And then losing Liz and being made redundant in swift succession thereafter haven’t exactly enhanced my state of mind.
    Keep taking deep breaths and letting go, I remind myself.