LITMIR.BIZ

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– and I’m sorry, but this is worth relating, because no one should look this good at 6 am – white jeans that made her legs look endless, a white skinny knit top and a white furry gilet, with huge white-rimmed sunglasses pushing her long shiny hair back. Add tanned skin and a little Louis Vuitton bag in the crook of one arm, and the overall look was unquestionably Eurotrash, but on someone so beautiful, it worked. Sophie and I exchanged glances and scowled: we looked like scruffs.

      ‘Who the fuck is that?’ said Luke.

      ‘Robert’s ex,’ I said.

      ‘Fucking hell,’ he said.

      ‘Do you want a smack?’ said Sophie, and he started to laugh and grabbed her hand to kiss it.

      Robert and Antonia were too far away for us to hear anything, but after a minute or two of smiley-chats, the conversation clearly became more intense. Antonia seemed to be giving a little speech. She took her sunglasses off her head and put them on her face, then alternated between crossing her arms and using them to gesticulate wildly.

      No one was even pretending to doze. We were too mesmerised by Robert and Antonia.

      ‘Such a glamorous couple,’ I murmured.

      ‘I thought you didn’t fancy him?’ said Sophie.

      Then Robert started talking, and Antonia listened intently. Over the course of a minute, she took off her sunglasses, smoothed out her hair and even smiled. Then – surprise of surprises – they hugged.

      And a minute later, after another hug and a kiss on the cheek, Robert turned and walked back to us.

      ‘Are we ready?’ he said, as though nothing happened.

      ‘What the fuck was that?’ said Luke.

      ‘That,’ he said, picking up his overnight bag, ‘was Antonia.’

      ‘I meant, what happened?’ said Luke.

      ‘Nothing,’ he replied, walking off towards the gate. ‘Our flight is boarding. Come on.’

      The rest of the journey has passed without incident. We all fell asleep on the plane and woke up in sunny Montpellier, and if there is a better way to re-start a Saturday in November than speeding through the French countryside towards Autignac in a hire car that goes at – max – 60 km an hour, then I don’t know it.

      I’m dying to know what Robert and Antonia were talking about. Is that nosy of me?

      It’s only 10 am, and the whole weekend is stretching out in front of us in all its French deliciousness. Work troubles? What work troubles?

      Dave (Dave!) lands at midday, so my excitement is just about under control right now. Is it immature to have a crush like this? Fuck it, I’ve got one.

      I haven’t seen him since the speed dating/housewarming night two weeks ago, but his group emails – short, sarcastic, amusing – have made my crush even more, uh, crushing. I’ve Facebook stalked him, Googled him, and most of all, interrogated Robert about him. And he really does seem perfect. Sporty, does some charity stuff, works in finance, loves music festivals, took his mother to a holiday safari in Kenya for her 60th. You know: perfect.

      Luke’s sister Bella, and her boyfriend Ollie, JimmyJames and Sophie’s best friend Vix are also on the later flight.

      ‘We’re here!’ crows Sophie, as we turn off the motorway and along a little road surrounded by vineyards. Autignac is a very small village in the Languedoc region. My parents retired here three years ago, but they’re away this weekend.

      Their house is lovely: quite narrow, with peeling green shuttered windows and a big courtyard where they eat every day and night, unless it’s raining. My parents spent an age renovating the rather poky interior. It now has a big eat-in kitchen and a sofa-strewn living area, which opens up onto the large courtyard with a long wooden dining table. Stairs in the front hall lead up to two more floors with various bedrooms and a study. It’s still odd seeing all the family furniture from our old house in Surrey here; familiar and strange all at once.

      There’s a note on the kitchen table.

      Hello, my little darlings. Milk in the fridge! Ham, olives, cheese, crisps etc help yourself. Call us if any problems. LOL Maman et Papa.

      ‘I must tell Mum that LOL doesn’t stand for lots of love,’ I say thoughtfully.

      ‘I’m going to bed for a few hours,’ says Luke. ‘Sophie, I need you to help me sleep.’

      Sophie raises an eyebrow at him, and follows him out of the kitchen with a little grin on her face.

      I turn to Robert. ‘Ew.’

      ‘I know,’ he says.

      ‘Nearly time for Daaaaaaave,’ I singsong, bounding into the kitchen joyfully.

      ‘Why are you leaping like that?

      ‘It’s my nimble-footed mountain goat leap!’ I call back. ‘I was watching a David Attenborough documentary the other night, and these little goats were leaping and I thought, that looks like fun.’

      ‘And it does,’ he agrees. He attempts a manly leap and crashes into the wall.

      ‘You are not a nimble-footed mountain goat,’ I say sadly. ‘You are more like a bear . . . big and grumpy. Now that we’re alone, will you tell me about Antonia?’

      ‘Nope,’ he grins at me.

      ‘Fine,’ I say, exasperated. Why is he so private? What’s the point of having a male best friend if he won’t tell you gory ex-girlfriend details, or what he does for a living, for that matter? ‘Well, will you at least help me unleash my fiendish plan to make Dave my lov-ah?’

      ‘I don’t think you need my help, Abby,’ he says shortly. God, he’s moody. He was fine earlier. We shared coffees and papers before we slept on the plane. He did his gentlemanly folding-over-the-paper-for-me thing, as he always does these days. I shouldn’t have brought up Antonia.

      ‘You’re right. I am going to make this weekend, and Dave, my bitch.’ Robert doesn’t even react. ‘Gee whiz, tiger, you’re on great form today. Want to see your room?’

      ‘“Gee whiz”?’ he repeats incredulously.

      As we start walking up the stairs, we pass family photographs of Sophie and me as children. Robert pauses and stares at each one.

      ‘Childhood was difficult for you, wasn’t it,’ he says. ‘Ages, say, two through 14.’

      ‘Charming,’ I say, looking at photos of myself. ‘I was a late bloomer.’

      ‘You bloomed?’ he says in mock surprise, and I hit him on the arm. ‘Look at this one!’ He stops at my seventh birthday party. ‘You look like Grayson Perry. You know, the cross-dresser . . .’

      ‘I know who Grayson Perry is, thank you,’ I say, and lean over. ‘I remember that dress. It was my party dress. So much easier when you only had one.’

      Robert keeps walking. ‘Uh-oh! Nude shot. On the beach. Wearing nothing but . . . Elton John sunglasses?’

      ‘I was two. My parents thought that was hilarious,’ I say. ‘The bastards.’

      ‘Look at the tummy on you,’ he says, grinning. ‘And your legs! Seriously. Like John Candy.’

      ‘Right, that’s enough family history,’ I say, pushing him to the top of the stairs. ‘This is my bedroom. You’re across the hall.’

      Robert doesn’t even bother to look at his room, and just walks straight into mine. It’s pretty bare, with not much more than a double bed, a chest of drawers, and a bookshelf stacked with all my favourite childhood books. My parents have been meaning to hang pictures for the past three years, but I think my dad is saving it as a daddy-daughter activity for when I’m back at Christmas. The shutters are open on the large windows, showing the pale blue sky

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