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In The Fifth At Malory Towers in a posh 1950s-English-schoolgirl voice.

      I try to look disapproving but fail (it was my favourite! After Anne of Green Gables, anyway) – and keep giggling. After a few minutes he stops reading, and we lie side by side on my bed with our eyes closed.

      I feel deliciously relaxed, and after about 20 minutes of hearing nothing but the occasional twitter of birds and the deep, even breathing of Robert next to me, I’m about to drop off to sleep when—

      ‘Did you hear that?’ whispers Robert, sitting bolt upright and looking at me in alarm.

      I shake my head, and, staring at each other, we both listen to the silence in the house. Then I hear it. From the bedroom above our head is the distinct sound of Luke and Sophie either playing vigorous tennis or—

      ‘RUN!’ I hiss at Robert, who’s already halfway out the door. ‘Let us never speak of that again,’ says Robert approximately 15 seconds later, when we’re safely out of the house.

      ‘Deal,’ I say. I link my arm through his and we walk up through the village. ‘Let’s have a cafe crème,’ I say. ‘Ooh! And a brioche.’

      ‘Ooh,’ echoes Robert.

      The first walk through Autignac is always slightly surreal. After the noise of London, the silence of a tiny French town is almost scary. The streets are slightly wonky, the houses a little higgledypiggledy, and the effect – though charming – is like being in a fairytale.

      We can’t hear anything except the birds, and very occasionally the sound of French radio or TV comes floating down from open shutters. And we don’t see anyone on the walk to the boulangerie, except two old ladies in black who are gossiping on a corner. Both have walking sticks and scrappy little dogs, and stop talking as we approach to take a good hard stare.

      ‘Bonjour!’ I say cheerfully. Don’t you think French sounds like a pretend language when you just drop into it like that? I do.

      ‘Bonjour,’ they both mutter suspiciously.

      I shoot a look at Robert as we pass them. ‘Such friendly locals.’

      ‘I wouldn’t like us either, if I was them,’ he says. ‘This is a beautiful town. How did your folks find it?’

      ‘A lot of holidays in France,’ I say. ‘They’re dedicated researchers.’

      ‘So that’s where you get it,’ he says.

      I grimace. I don’t want to think about work. It’s been stressful recently: a lot of projects and meetings with people asking questions to which I’m meant to know the answers. Plus, Andre’s been sitting with us and is very chatty. He’s always asking me about projects and clients as well as non-work things, like travel and my social life. I’m not sure if he’s flirting: he’s professional, but the intense eye contact is verging on ridiculous.

      Charlotte and I have escaped for a couple of lunches. She works harder than anyone I know. She told me that a horrible teacher in Birmingham once said she shouldn’t even try to do A-levels, so she always thinks of her when she’s tired of working. She also said she never felt pretty because she’d been chubby as a teenager, and her ex was the only guy who’d ever asked her out so that was probably why she stayed with him for so long.

      I wonder why I lived with Peter for so long. I don’t think it was a confidence problem. I’m just un peu lazy and très indecisive.

      Ooh, pastries.

      With warm brioches in hand, and a pocketful of Carambars for Robert (‘I just love them so much,’ he says), we walk across the little sun-drenched square and sit at a table outside the Bar du Sports.

      ‘Man of few words,’ comments Robert, when the owner and bartender Frank accepts our request for two coffees with a curt nod.

      ‘When he speaks, it’s worth it,’ I say. ‘I wish I could be like that.’

      ‘I wish you could be like that, too,’ says Robert. I throw a bit of brioche at him, and he catches and eats it. I narrow my eyes at him and pretend to frown, and he smiles smugly at me.

      ‘Dave is here in . . . one hour!’ I say, making a manic-happy face. ‘He’s so pretty, Robert. He’s like that guy from The Fast and the Furious.’

      ‘Vin Diesel?’ says Robert, taking out his phone.

      ‘No, the other one . . . You know, you’re not being very helpful. Are you in love with Dave, or something?’ I say.

      Robert puts his phone back in his pocket, and looks me straight in the eye. ‘Look, Abby, about Dave . . . he had a fling with Luke’s sister,’ he says. ‘When we were younger.’

      ‘So?’ I say. ‘And how much younger?’

      ‘Uh, five or six years ago . . . So, I’m just saying . . . it could be awkward. If you were to, you know, hook up with him tonight. In front of her.’

      ‘Hook up with him? What are you, a cheerleader?’ I say. ‘And it was six years ago! Why would she care? She’s got a serious boyfriend now. Ollie, isn’t it? He’s coming along this weekend.’

      ‘I know, but . . . Look, I feel awkward, and Dave and Luke and I have an unspoken agreement not to . . . get involved in each other’s, uh . . .’

      ‘Love lives? Sex lives? Fuck ups?’ I suggest, realising we’re not just talking about Bella and Dave. I always wondered how Dave handled it when his sister Louisa dumped Robert and broke his heart. Apparently he ignored it.

      ‘Exactly,’ he says, unwrapping a Carambar and taking a big chewy bite. ‘I feel weird even saying this stuff to you. Just be careful. OK?’

      ‘Yes, Daddy,’ I say. ‘And he’s definitely not seeing that girl in sequins that he left the party with?’

      ‘Emma? Definitely not,’ he says, through a mouthful of Carambar. ‘I met her for coffee yesterday, actually. She works near me and I wanted to explain to her why I didn’t want, uh, a relationship.’

      ‘I’ve never seen a man eat five Carambars at once. You’re so butch,’ I say. ‘Hang on. I thought your policy was “never apologise, never explain”,’

      ‘It was,’ he says, chewing. ‘But I started thinking about what you said. About making her feel better. And I started feeling, I don’t know, guilty . . .’

      ‘Wow. You’re evolving,’ I say. ‘We should take a photo to commemorate this, or engrave a plaque, or something.’

      He shakes his head. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have told you. Anyway, she’s fine. She said she tends to cry after a few drinks and that she wasn’t helplessly in love with me, contrary to what you assumed.’

      ‘Oh, well. That’s nice,’ I say.

      ‘She did, however, say Dave—’

      I put my hand up to stop him. ‘It was a one-off, right? Apart from that, I don’t want to know. Anyway, it’s no wonder he didn’t pay any attention to me at that party when I avoided him all night, thanks to you.’ I decide to change the subject. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing Vix.’

      ‘That’s Sophie’s best friend, right?’ says Robert.

      ‘Yep,’ I say. ‘She’s hilarious. I’ve known her since she was eight. She and Sophie were best friends through the three key phases of girlhood: ballet, friendship bands, and Pacey from Dawson’s Creek.’

      Robert puts his sunglasses on and smirks at this. I knew he wasn’t really in a bad mood.

      Over the last two weeks, in addition to my internet stalking-I-mean-research, I’ve grilled Robert on Dave’s interests (skiing, surfing, sailing), favourite drink (red wine), film (‘Are you serious? I don’t fucking know, Abby’), where he lives (Camden), where he works (an American bank) and his taste in women (‘drunk, usually’). I wrote everything

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