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 tres 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. 'Garcon!'
I raise an eyebrow at him. 'Robert's getting coffees inside. And I don't think they say garcon anymore.' Yes! I spoke to Dave. High five to me.
'Of course they do. "Je joue a la guitar." "Ou est l'auberge de jeunesse" and "Garcon, il y'a une mouche dans mon potage." I passed GCSEs with these three sentences . . . Monsieur! Trois bieres, 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.