Free Last Resort by Susan Lewis

Marielle's, managed to achieve in that time was enough to make Penny's head spin. That she all too often felt like Quentin Tarantino might if he were asked to script Neighbours was something she forced herself not to dwell on. Instead, she reminded herself how refreshing it was to find such willingness and enthusiasm in Clothilde, when Marielle's sullen co-operation was beginning to make the telephonists at Electricite de France seem positively helpful. Unfortunately Clothilde could only work part-time, since she had a husband, three children and an ageing father to look after, but what she managed to get through during the hours she was there was enough to convince Penny that, come what may, she was going to keep her on.
    The most productive hours of all had been spent with the editor of Nice-Matin, who, amazingly, had yielded up a whole wealth of contacts with such disarming readiness and generosity that Penny had almost felt embarrassed. But that was the French for you, she remarked happily to herself: either all - as with the editor and Clothilde - or nothing - as with Marielle.
    She had left Marielle in charge of following up on possible contributors that morning while she went off on a last foray into the villa-strewn hills behind Cannes to look for a house before going back to London the next day. She'd visited so many villas and mas and private domaines that in her mind they were now all starting to blend into one blurry mass of stupendous luxury. But, despite the numerous appealing features and false-start excitements, nothing so far had felt
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    totally right. That was until the agent drove her through the meandering, leafy lanes around Mougins, to a villa that as soon as Penny clapped eyes on she knew she would take.
    It was fairy-tale time: a blushing, glowing, riotously fertile Eden of tropical colour and breath-taking splendour. The house, all Moorish arches and gleaming white walls, sprawled across the end of the long, curved drive like a secret haven enticing you to come and share its private view of the sea. The lawns flowed across the hillside like gentle, undulating waves, the palms soared and fanned against the backdrop of a brilliant blue sky: the giant cacti bristled with sturdy pride.
    As the agent let herself into the house Penny walked round to the south-facing terrace and let her eyes make the slow, entrancing journey from the turquoise-blue pool with a bubbling Jacuzzi at one end and a bougainvillaea-claimed pergola at the other, out to the distant, slumbering red rocks of the Esterel, across the sparkling Mediterranean Sea and on to the pine forest that hugged the boundaries of the property.
    As she wandered down the wide, semicircular steps to the edge of the pool she felt like Alice in a wonderland of unbelievable riches. Behind her the agent was pulling open the white slatted shutters to let the bright spring sunshine pour into the house. Penny retraced her steps and followed her from the farmhouse-style kitchen to the vast sitting room with its balustraded mezzanine, ivory grand piano and huge stone fireplace; then on into the two downstairs bedrooms and bathrooms. All the parts of the house were on different levels and each room had its own access on to the sun-dazzled terraces, which were linked by finely mosaiced steps and edged by bougainvillaeacovered balustrades.
    Back outside again, the agent showed her the summerkitchen, the utility room, the barbecue area, all the time keeping up her estate agent's spiel, her voice as crisp as
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    the air and her appearance as neat as the garden beds. Then, leading the way back in through the french windows to the dining area, she stopped as Penny stood on the threshold and marvelled at the seductive elegance of the place.
    The long, glass dining table for twelve with its brass legs and accompanying high-backed, pale linenupholstered chairs was on the upper level of the sitting room, and as Penny wandered down the steps, passing over antique silk rugs