L'amour Actually Read Online Free Page A
Author: Melanie Jones
new footwear, I suppose.' It was clear that killer heels would be completely impractical in rural France. I bent down and removed them, planted a kiss on each toe and with all my strength, hurled them into the undergrowth. They might make a nice home for a mouse or something. Brushing my hands together, I hitched up my skirt and with a helping hand from Julien and a push from behind from Louis (though I did wonder if he really needed to touch my bum), I scrambled into the tractor, a knot of childish excitement in my stomach. I'd never been in a tractor before.
  'It is not very comfortable,' said Julien, 'and you must hold on tight.' I looked for something to hang on to. ' Non , you must hold on to me,' he smiled.
  Oh well, if you say so I thought, wrapping my arms around his muscular chest and feeling the warmth of his back pressed into my breasts. I was sure I could feel his heart beating a little faster than was normal and I smiled to myself. There had definitely been a frisson of something between us.
  We bumped along in the tractor, every rut in the road making me more aware of the hard muscles of Julien's body pressed up against me, separated only by my filmy blouse and his work shirt. I wondered how long it would take to get to Les Tuileries, secretly hoping that it would be a while. As we continued along the road for several miles, I had a panoramic view of the countryside from my vantage point in the cab. It stretched on endlessly but was worryingly devoid of any people. Where on earth were they all? I was just starting to wonder if I had picked the only part of France where cows outnumbered humans three to one when the tractor turned sharply up a hill.
  'This is the road to your new home,' smiled Julien, a broad grin spreading across his face. 'That is our farm.' He pointed to a crop of buildings spread across the lower slopes.
  'We are almost... voisins , how you say, neighbours. St Amans is just at the top of the hill.' His accent turned my knees to jelly.
  The road wound its way up the hill, crossing over a little river that, Julien told me, gave the valley its name. Finally, we rounded a sharp bend into the hamlet. A cluster of pale stone houses of various shapes and sizes lined the main road, if you could call it that. A little lane led off to the left and what appeared to be a very grand house, almost a mini-chateau, sat shielded behind a dense row of poplars.
  ' Salut , Martine!' Julien called to a middle-aged woman tending chickens in her garden. She waved gaily to him and continued with her work. I couldn't help noticing that she appeared to be wearing a nylon housecoat topped off with a nice pair of pink, fluffy bedroom slippers. My friend Charlotte had a family holiday home in northern France and had told me about the dreaded nylon housecoat. God, French chic certainly did seem to have bypassed this little corner of France. ' Salut , Laure,' he called to a younger woman who had appeared at the door of the house. She didn't respond, preferring to look out at the world through a curtain of stringy hair.
  I looked around, a rising sense of panic gripping me. Where was the local shop, an épicerie or boulangerie or something? Where was the village café where I had imagined myself spending lazy afternoons sipping a chilled glass of rosé ? In fact, where was everything? All I could see for miles around were fields and cows and more fields. It was all very beautiful but I had no idea that it would be so remote. Maybe I should have put a bit more thought into choosing where to live rather than just relying on places I'd heard of and the number of hours of sunshine. Apart from Martine and Laure, I still hadn't seen a soul and I somehow didn't think that they would ever be up for a night of clubbing. 'Um, where's the nearest shop... magasin ?' I asked.
  'Rocamour is the nearest village but it only has a post office and an épicerie .
  'It is not very comfortable,' said Julien, 'and you must hold on tight.' I looked for something to hang on to. ' Non , you must hold on to me,' he smiled.
  Oh well, if you say so I thought, wrapping my arms around his muscular chest and feeling the warmth of his back pressed into my breasts. I was sure I could feel his heart beating a little faster than was normal and I smiled to myself. There had definitely been a frisson of something between us.
  We bumped along in the tractor, every rut in the road making me more aware of the hard muscles of Julien's body pressed up against me, separated only by my filmy blouse and his work shirt. I wondered how long it would take to get to Les Tuileries, secretly hoping that it would be a while. As we continued along the road for several miles, I had a panoramic view of the countryside from my vantage point in the cab. It stretched on endlessly but was worryingly devoid of any people. Where on earth were they all? I was just starting to wonder if I had picked the only part of France where cows outnumbered humans three to one when the tractor turned sharply up a hill.
  'This is the road to your new home,' smiled Julien, a broad grin spreading across his face. 'That is our farm.' He pointed to a crop of buildings spread across the lower slopes.
  'We are almost... voisins , how you say, neighbours. St Amans is just at the top of the hill.' His accent turned my knees to jelly.
  The road wound its way up the hill, crossing over a little river that, Julien told me, gave the valley its name. Finally, we rounded a sharp bend into the hamlet. A cluster of pale stone houses of various shapes and sizes lined the main road, if you could call it that. A little lane led off to the left and what appeared to be a very grand house, almost a mini-chateau, sat shielded behind a dense row of poplars.
  ' Salut , Martine!' Julien called to a middle-aged woman tending chickens in her garden. She waved gaily to him and continued with her work. I couldn't help noticing that she appeared to be wearing a nylon housecoat topped off with a nice pair of pink, fluffy bedroom slippers. My friend Charlotte had a family holiday home in northern France and had told me about the dreaded nylon housecoat. God, French chic certainly did seem to have bypassed this little corner of France. ' Salut , Laure,' he called to a younger woman who had appeared at the door of the house. She didn't respond, preferring to look out at the world through a curtain of stringy hair.
  I looked around, a rising sense of panic gripping me. Where was the local shop, an épicerie or boulangerie or something? Where was the village café where I had imagined myself spending lazy afternoons sipping a chilled glass of rosé ? In fact, where was everything? All I could see for miles around were fields and cows and more fields. It was all very beautiful but I had no idea that it would be so remote. Maybe I should have put a bit more thought into choosing where to live rather than just relying on places I'd heard of and the number of hours of sunshine. Apart from Martine and Laure, I still hadn't seen a soul and I somehow didn't think that they would ever be up for a night of clubbing. 'Um, where's the nearest shop... magasin ?' I asked.
  'Rocamour is the nearest village but it only has a post office and an épicerie .
Readers choose
Berengaria Brown
Frederick Forsyth
Takerra Allen
Michael Eric Dyson
Jennifer Beckstrand
Heather Hiestand
Desiree Holt
Jean Plaidy
Alex Berenson
Nancy Krulik