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Chapter Twenty

You won’t believe what happened at the airport this morning. We got to Gatwick at an ungodly o’clock, for the 7.05 am flight to Montpellier. It was just the four of us – Luke and Sophie, Robert and me. Luke and Sophie were zombies after a late night with too much wine. But Robert and I watched 30 Rock, ate takeaway Thai and went to sleep early, so the 4.45 am wake-up call wasn’t difficult at all. (We were ever-so-slightly smug about it.)

So there we were, in early-morning airport hell, slumped against each other with bad coffees and unopened papers, when a shrill voice screamed ‘Robbie!’

We all turned at once. The voice belonged to Antonia, the impossibly beautiful Italian girl I saw Robert breaking up with that night at The Engineer.

‘Antonia!’ he said in surprise.

He walked over to her and kissed her on both cheeks. She was wearing – 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 outside.

‘Hmm,’ says Robert, walking over to the bookshelf. ‘Milly Molly Mandy. All the Famous Fives, in order, of course. All the Roald Dahls, including Kiss Kiss? That’s a bit racy. Oh, smashing! I love Malory Towers.’

He lies down on the bed and starts reading 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 down in my notebook, but backwards and in French so no one would know. (I should have worked on the Enigma project, honestly.) He really does seem perfect.

I take a moment to check my notebook singledom list, as I have many times over the past three months.

Be cool

Be detached

Act brutal

Stay in control

Bulletproof

Always leave them before they leave you

I wonder if I’ll find him as knicker-droppingly gorgeous as I did last time. The memory of meeting his eyes across the empty tequila shot glasses makes me squirm with excitement (and a tiny bit of revulsion – tequila, ew).

I’ll be far more in control this time, of course. I shall be myself (in a calm-cool-collected kind of way), and he shall find me irresistible, and we’ll flirt and kiss and then I will take him as my lov-ah. Right?

God, it feels nice to relax. I’ve had a hectic week. I was at a client dinner on Thursday that didn’t finish till almost midnight, then was in the office for 6.15 am for a trader announcement on Friday. Suzanne almost smiled at me towards the end of the client dinner. That’s got to be a good sign, right?

‘Why are you thinking about work on a weekend?’ says Robert, coming back outside with two more coffees.

‘Fucking well stop that,’ I say. ‘Your telepathy freaks me out.’

He grins. ‘Want to talk about it?’

‘No,’ I say, chewing my lip. ‘I mean, it’s fine. I’m working as hard as I can. I’m doing everything just like I’m supposed to.’

‘Do you mind if I ask why?’

I gaze at him for a second. What does he mean, why?

‘It’s a job. That’s what you do. You do your best. I can’t just quit and navel-gaze till I find something better.’ I sound a little harsher than I mean to, but his needling questions are clearly intended to make me question my place in the world. ‘Work is just work.’

My phone beeps. It’s a text from Plum.

Dan invented a new swearword. Fuckwart. Isn’t he talented?

I show Robert and we both start laughing. ‘God, she makes me laugh,’ I say. ‘And she’s so fucking happy. I love it.’ Dan is utterly enchanted by Plum, who seems to have become an uber-version of herself in the past two weeks: happier and more calmly confident.

‘How’s the H-Bomb?’

This is the nickname that Henry made up for himself last weekend, and insisted that everyone – especially Robert – call him that.

‘Yep, he’s a smitten kitten with Charlotte,’ I say. ‘I think your advice helped; he really was the worst single man in England . . .’ I pause for a second. ‘Hang on. Are you telling me that I’m the only single one left?’

Robert leans back in his chair, sunglasses on, hands folded behind his head. ‘You tell me.’

‘I cannot fucking believe this,’ I say in shock. ‘For seven years, Henry and Plum and even my sister have been almost constantly single whilst I was in a relationshit. Now I’m finally able to have some fun and they all fuck off and desert me.’

‘Relationshit? Nice.’

A frantically beeping horn makes us turn to see a Hertz rental car squealing to a halt in the centre of the square. The driver beeps a few more times for good measure and jumps out.

It’s Dave.

My entire body does a back flip inside my skin, and my breezy plan to take him as my lov-ah collapses. This is like, the worst nerves in the world. Times a thousand. How the hell am I meant to handle this? I’m all hot. And sweating slightly. Are my sunglasses on? Yes. Good. Fine. Breathe. Smile serenely. Chin up. Stomach in.

‘Bonjour, mes amis,’ says Dave, coming over to kiss me – oh hot flush! – hello, and then leaning in to give Robert a loud smacking kiss on both cheeks too. ‘Robair,’ he says, pronouncing it as though he was French. ‘Don’t be shy, mon petit fleur.’ Robert pushes him away and starts laughing. Dave, with a satisfied smile on his face – oh perfect teeth, beautiful smile – stands up and looks back to the car.

I’m dazed by my body’s pathetically hormonal reaction to Dave, and fight the urge to give myself a good slap. Then I take an extra moment to check him out behind my sunglasses. Not super-tall but very fit and good God, he really is gorgeous. I wonder if he has those little muscle-lines above his hip bones. I’ve never seen them in real life. (I am so deprived.)

‘Come on, team, we haven’t got all day . . .’ he calls.

Vix and JimmyJames, and the two people who I surmise must be Bella and Ollie are slowly getting out of the car.

‘I tell you, if it wasn’t for my cheerful disposition, riding in the car with this lot would have killed me,’ says Dave, putting a piece of chewing gum in his mouth. ‘Fucking hell! I’ve met brick walls with more banter.’

Vix and JimmyJames are both wearing dark glasses and clearly suffering from very bad hangovers. Bella, despite her unhappy pout, is extremely pretty, with very long hair, the same flaxen blonde as Luke. Ollie has sandy hair and an open, freckled face, and looks like he’d probably be great fun, if it wasn’t for the fact that he looks ready to punch someone.

Hmm.

Vix and JimmyJames are speechless with relief to be out of the car, and Bella and Ollie take their tight little smiles and sit at opposite ends of the table. I’m unable to speak because the penny has just dropped that I fancy Dave about a thousand times more than I thought I did, and Robert has gone inside to order coffees for everyone.

Only Dave seems unperturbed, sitting back and swinging his feet up on the table.

‘Pretty town. Ugly locals. Typical France. Is there a bar scene here?’

‘This is it,’ I say finally, after several seconds, when it’s quite clear that no one else is going to speak. ‘Um, shall I walk down and wake the happy couple?’

‘No, no, you stay here, angel. I’ll take care of it,’ says Dave, standing up and taking out his phone from his jeans pocket. He puts aviators on at the same time, and gazes across the square waiting for Luke to answer. Oh. The chiselled jaw line.

‘Luke. What’s your poison?’ Dave pauses. ‘Well, we’re in the bar now, what’s the point in coming all the way back there? . . . OK, see you in five.’ He hangs up. ‘He’s coming.’

‘With Sophie?’ says Bella. Dave nods. ‘Then why not say “they”? Women count, Dave. We even have the vote now.’

‘I know! It’s so exciting. Well done, you,’ says Dave, smiling his blindingly perfect smile as he walks away from the table to make a phone call. I giggle, and Bella coolly lights a cigarette and starts texting someone. My giggle trickles off into a gurgle, and finally stops. I am an idiot.

I turn to Vix and JimmyJames, the hangover twins, and finally find my tongue. ‘Look at you reprobates. Honestly.’

‘I seem to have developed an allergy to alcohol. Whenever I drink it, I black out.’ JimmyJames coughs for several seconds, pauses, swallows, and looks up at me. His shirt is done up wrong, I notice, which doesn’t sit well at all on his short, stocky physique. ‘Right. Snack time. How do you say croissant in French?’ He wanders across the courtyard, looking like an unmade bed. The French housewives won’t know what to make of him, I think.

‘I had a fight with a bottle of gin last night,’ says Vix croakily. ‘I lost.’

‘Hair of le chien will sort everyone out,’ says Dave, returning to the table. He sits down next to me and gestures for Frank’s attention. ‘Garçon!’

I raise an eyebrow at him. ‘Robert’s getting coffees inside. And I don’t think they say garçon anymore.’ Yes! I spoke to Dave. High five to me.

‘Of course they do. “Je joue à la guitar.” “Où est l’auberge de jeunesse” and “Garçon, il y’a une mouche dans mon potage.” I passed GCSEs with these three sentences . . . Monsieur! Trois biéres, s’il vous plait, un carafe du vin rouge. Merci.’

He didn’t even ask who wanted beer. Just assumed he knew best. The arrogant take-charge attitude makes me wonder what he’d be like in bed.

Oh God. Blushing.

Robert returns with the coffees. Vix falls on hers with little cries of glee.

‘You shouldn’t have bothered, Robbiekins, I’ve got it covered,’ says Dave. ‘So, Abigail,’ he adds, turning to me. ‘What do you have planned for me, then? I’m assuming you’re in charge of administering fun.’

I hope Robert can’t really mind-read me, as I just thought exactly how I would like to administer fun for Dave. I open my mouth, and close it again. My tongue is in knots.

FuckingsaysomethingAbigailgoddammit.

‘Actually, Luke and Sophie are in charge. I’m just here for the ride,’ I finally say.

‘That’s practically my catchphrase,’ he says, eyes back to his BlackBerry.

I giggle slightly (OK, very) inanely, but no one else is laughing, in fact, the entire table is silent again. I look over at Robert for help, but he’s wearing sunglasses so I can’t catch his eye.

‘How’s work, Bella?’ says Robert, after a just-too-long-to-be-comfortable silence.

‘Marvellous.’ Bella, it turns out, is a paralegal for a leading divorce lawyer in Bath. ‘I help nail bastards to the wall all day,’ she adds, by way of explanation to Vix and me.

‘How wonderful that your job is also your hobby,’ says Dave sweetly.

There’s another long silence.

‘Does anyone want any peanuts?’ I say eventually.

‘Yes, please, angelface,’ says Dave.

Does anyone want any peanuts? I repeat endlessly to myself as I stand at the bar. Why not just say ‘I carried a watermelon’, Abigail, you fucking doofus?

Peanuts in hand, I walk back outside, just as JimmyJames returns with bags of croissants, Sophie and Luke arrive, and Frank brings out everyone’s beer and wine. The sudden injection of the happy couple, caffeine, alcohol, carbs and sugar, gives everyone a second (or in most cases, first) wind, and the table is happy and animated for the first time.

‘Right,’ says Luke, clapping his hands after a few minutes. ‘Welcome to Autignac. Thank you for coming all this way. Let the bridal games begin!’

‘Fuck me, is this a swingers’ party?’ says Dave in alarm. ‘I haven’t prepared. I need to freshen my manscaping.’

‘Manscaping?’ says JimmyJames.

‘Trim the undergrowth. Tidy the hedgerows so my bloom may grow, unfettered.’

JimmyJames stares at him blankly. Dave makes an exasperated face and points to his crotch. With serious effort, I control my giggles.

‘What? Are you kidding?’ says JimmyJames, astonished. ‘Rob. Do you do this?’ asks JimmyJames. Robert nods. ‘Bullshit! Luke? Ollie?’

‘It’s under control,’ nods Luke. Sophie grins at him and they snigger at a private joke.

‘I like to keep the playground clear of weeds,’ nods Ollie. It’s the first thing he’s said today, and we all laugh a little more than he deserves, to make him feel welcome.

JimmyJames is stunned. ‘When did this happen? Was there a memo? Why didn’t anyone tell me?’

‘All men should trim,’ says Vix. ‘I don’t want to floss and blow at the same time.’

I open my mouth to speak, but can’t find the words, so I close it again.

‘Right,’ says Dave. ‘Enough about your pube-fro. Let’s talk about my lunch. I want ice-cold lettuce, local cured ham, fresh-baked bread, creamy brie and lashings of wine.’

‘I think you mean lashings of ginger beer,’ says Luke.

‘I definitely mean lashings of wine,’ says Dave.

I giggle inanely again. Oh God, I hope I calm down soon.