L'amour Actually Read Online Free Page B
Author: Melanie Jones
You go that way,' he said pointing behind him to a road that wound up the other side of the valley.
  'Bussières is about five kilometres away. It is bigger and has a supermarket and a bank, a few restaurants, a pizzeria, that sort of thing.'
  'What about a nightclub... you know, dancing?'
  Julien laughed. 'Oh, you have to go about twenty kilometres to Villeneuve de Beaumont for that, well, unless you enjoy a thé dansant . They are very popular round here.'
  'Dancing tea? Oh, tea dances. Not quite my thing. So what do people do for entertainment round here then?' I asked, slightly nervous about his reply.
  'Well, we have the loto every month, I think you call it bingoâ¦'
  Oh God, it was getting better by the minute!
  '⦠we have the quatorze juillet fête for Bastille Day...'
  So that's thirteen days sorted. What about the rest of the year?
  '⦠we have the marché gourmand , the gourmet food market in July and Augustâ¦'
  More promising, I thought, but it certainly didn't sound like this place was the entertainment capital of rural France.
  'Voilà !' announced Julien as we turned into a long driveway. At the end of it was a gorgeous, pale-stone cottage, almost the colour of buttermilk. As we got closer, I saw a blowsy honeysuckle weaving its way up the stones and around the front door in a still life which was straight out of a Country Living (France Special) magazine.
  On the old stone wall opposite, a pale ivory climbing rose threatened to overcome me with blooms in a few weeks. There were hundreds of tiny rosebuds twisted up like sweets in wrappers. Faded blue shutters were fastened back to reveal windows hanging with hand-sewn linen café curtains and on every windowsill a riot of red, scarlet and white geraniums tumbled over the edges of faded terracotta pots. I was transfixed. More than that, the first stirrings of love for this little cottage fluttered in my heart like a butterfly. I silently thanked those French property websites which had been my guilty pleasure for the past few months and which had led me to Les Tuileries. I could hardly believe that I was renting this place for half the price of a one bed flat in London. And it had a swimming pool. In fact, I could sell my flat in Wandsworth, buy a farmhouse and a few acres in France and still have change to tide me over until I found a job.
  'You can let go now,' smiled Julien.
  'What? Oh, sorry.' For a few moments I had lost myself in the beauty of my new home and hadn't realised I was still hanging on to him.
  'Allez hop,' he said, jumping nimbly to the ground in one swift movement.
  I passed down my suitcase before hitching up my skirt to tackle the steep tractor steps. Thank goodness I'd ditched the Louboutins. I started to climb down, keen to show Julien that the city girl could handle a tractor like a pro, but unaware as I did so that my skirt had snagged on a sharp piece of metal. Jumping to the ground, there was a loud rip; it had torn from hem to waistband, a half-pace away from the lovely Julien, leaving me with my knickers on show for all the world to see. In horror, my face scarlet with embarrassment, I grabbed the remnants of my torn skirt and pulled the back together trying unsuccessfully to cover my modesty.
  'Oh là là ,' Julien laughed. 'You English girls are very, how you say, advanced?'
  'I think you mean forward,' I muttered, turning to find that we were not alone. An elderly French couple were huddled together, a look of total bewilderment on their faces.
  'Ah, Monsieur Brunel, Madame Brunel, je vous présente votre nouvelle voisine, Mademoiselle Jones.' Then to me, he whispered, 'Meet your voisins , your neighbours.'
  'This hardly seems the right moment,' I hissed back.
  Momentarily wrong-footed, I fixed my warmest smile on my face and
  'Bussières is about five kilometres away. It is bigger and has a supermarket and a bank, a few restaurants, a pizzeria, that sort of thing.'
  'What about a nightclub... you know, dancing?'
  Julien laughed. 'Oh, you have to go about twenty kilometres to Villeneuve de Beaumont for that, well, unless you enjoy a thé dansant . They are very popular round here.'
  'Dancing tea? Oh, tea dances. Not quite my thing. So what do people do for entertainment round here then?' I asked, slightly nervous about his reply.
  'Well, we have the loto every month, I think you call it bingoâ¦'
  Oh God, it was getting better by the minute!
  '⦠we have the quatorze juillet fête for Bastille Day...'
  So that's thirteen days sorted. What about the rest of the year?
  '⦠we have the marché gourmand , the gourmet food market in July and Augustâ¦'
  More promising, I thought, but it certainly didn't sound like this place was the entertainment capital of rural France.
  'Voilà !' announced Julien as we turned into a long driveway. At the end of it was a gorgeous, pale-stone cottage, almost the colour of buttermilk. As we got closer, I saw a blowsy honeysuckle weaving its way up the stones and around the front door in a still life which was straight out of a Country Living (France Special) magazine.
  On the old stone wall opposite, a pale ivory climbing rose threatened to overcome me with blooms in a few weeks. There were hundreds of tiny rosebuds twisted up like sweets in wrappers. Faded blue shutters were fastened back to reveal windows hanging with hand-sewn linen café curtains and on every windowsill a riot of red, scarlet and white geraniums tumbled over the edges of faded terracotta pots. I was transfixed. More than that, the first stirrings of love for this little cottage fluttered in my heart like a butterfly. I silently thanked those French property websites which had been my guilty pleasure for the past few months and which had led me to Les Tuileries. I could hardly believe that I was renting this place for half the price of a one bed flat in London. And it had a swimming pool. In fact, I could sell my flat in Wandsworth, buy a farmhouse and a few acres in France and still have change to tide me over until I found a job.
  'You can let go now,' smiled Julien.
  'What? Oh, sorry.' For a few moments I had lost myself in the beauty of my new home and hadn't realised I was still hanging on to him.
  'Allez hop,' he said, jumping nimbly to the ground in one swift movement.
  I passed down my suitcase before hitching up my skirt to tackle the steep tractor steps. Thank goodness I'd ditched the Louboutins. I started to climb down, keen to show Julien that the city girl could handle a tractor like a pro, but unaware as I did so that my skirt had snagged on a sharp piece of metal. Jumping to the ground, there was a loud rip; it had torn from hem to waistband, a half-pace away from the lovely Julien, leaving me with my knickers on show for all the world to see. In horror, my face scarlet with embarrassment, I grabbed the remnants of my torn skirt and pulled the back together trying unsuccessfully to cover my modesty.
  'Oh là là ,' Julien laughed. 'You English girls are very, how you say, advanced?'
  'I think you mean forward,' I muttered, turning to find that we were not alone. An elderly French couple were huddled together, a look of total bewilderment on their faces.
  'Ah, Monsieur Brunel, Madame Brunel, je vous présente votre nouvelle voisine, Mademoiselle Jones.' Then to me, he whispered, 'Meet your voisins , your neighbours.'
  'This hardly seems the right moment,' I hissed back.
  Momentarily wrong-footed, I fixed my warmest smile on my face and
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