I was given this book by a well-meaning friend who knows I'm an incorrigible francophile and thought I would enjoy it. Sixty pages into the book and I'm still waiting for it to get going. It never does. In vain I wait for a credible character but unfortunately the book is entirely peopled by two-dimensional stereotypes from the lifestyle section of a tabloid colour supplement. There's the lantern-jawed, patrician husband, the moody almost monosyllabic sculptor (those sensitive hands) and the protaganist - a blond, beautiful, Notting Hill media celeb and budding biographist. Success and typecasting, in the heady world created by Ms. Lewis are, apparently, a given.
I longed for a bit of snap in the prose but it droned like a teenager's diary. I wanted some resonance in the writing but it remained flat, contrived and resolutely superficial - overloaded with adjectives leaving very little to the imagination of the reader, and constantly ignoring the first rule of writing - show don't tell. The authoress's attempt at depth is to quote lines from Keats and chunks of prose from Irene Némirovsky.
Because the prose is so long-winded I wasted a lot of time hoping for the narrative to develop. I'm afraid it added very little to my knowledge of France (except for some information about the making and tasting of wine) or to my knowledge of how to handle love or grief which, I presume, are the themes behind the narrative, if, indeed, it was the intention of the authoress to tackle a theme.
Susan Lewis has written a slew of books and is, I'm sure, a commercial success and I admire her for that. However, from now on I'll be a little bit more careful when given any book which bears even the faintest resemblance to Romantic fiction. Life's just too short.