'Dear God, you'd think it was the only place in the world,' he says. Then he grins. 'Yes. Well, sort of. Follow me.'

He walks out with a bounce in his step, glancing round but not waiting for me, so I have to hurry to keep up. The heat from the garage forecourt pours over me like warm oil. I feel softened and slippery. The bottles clink gently.

And we go back down the High Street towards the broken bit of wall. It's like I've spent the whole day just walking back and forth, tying an invisible knot round Tyme's End, with Oliver. It feels like a dream. I clench my fists tightly round the handles of the plastic bags, but the sense of unreality doesn't go away. When we climb over the wall I can't believe I've done this before, for real: it's more like I've been rehearsing it, hoping, waiting with bated breath for the moment when he takes my hand to steady me. I stagger and he laughs, and somehow it's easy, it's natural, to put my hands on his shoulders, letting him take my weight, to lean forward until our faces are only a few centimetres apart.

Then he swings me safely to the ground, gives me back the plastic bags, and leads me down past the house, through long grass and the beginnings of woods, to the most beautiful place I've ever seen.

I stop, and I open my mouth, and I hear myself make a noise like a hiccup, because this is exactly, exactly where I want to be.

To my right there's a wide, rocky stream, emptying itself shallowly over rocks into a still, narrow pond that's full of the reflections of trees. Over our heads the trees glow green grass-green and jade and eau de Nil and moss-green, so many different greens I don't have words for them and the flat water is bright with sunlight, rippling with lines and circles like an abstract painting, except in the shade, where it's murky brown, like water you've cleaned your paintbrush in. I see the flicker of a grey fin and a tiny ring expands on the surface, bright silver-gold.

I hear Oliver move, but I can't look round. The water rattles and gurgles over the stones, talking to me. The sunshine runs light, intimate fingers over my collarbone and shoulders. The only word I can think of is yes.

'Have you been here before?'

I shake my head. It's not true, because we used to come here when we were kids, years ago, to muck around in the mud and flick pebbles at each other. But this is different this is I can hear Oliver smiling. He can't see my face, but I'm sure he knows, somehow, that I'm smiling too.

'Are you hungry?'

'I ' The stream says words to me, suggesting answers. I'm scared to go on talking in case I say some of them by mistake. 'Yes.'

'Good. So'm I.' There's the rustle of plastic and the crackle of packaging. Then Oliver walks past me, crouches by the stream and lays the bottles carefully down in the running water. He looks round at me. 'We can wait, right? For the champagne?'

'I thought I wasn't allowed any.'

'You can, if you're good.'

'I'll be very good.' I'm so hot. I can feel sweat on my face and soaking into my T-shirt. 'OK. Bagsy the strawberries.'

'You're not getting all of them,' he says, and we look at each other. Then we both dive towards the food, grabbing for the strawberries, giggling like kids. I realise I've still got my bag over my shoulder, and it slides sideways as we struggle and elbow each other, crushing the crisps. Oliver makes an indignant, protective noise, and breaks off to rescue them. Now I'm on my knees. I turn my back to shelter the strawberries, pick out a handful of the nicest, and then pass them back. He shakes his head in mock disgust, crams some into his mouth and stretches out next to me, leaning back on his elbows and chewing thoughtfully.

We eat in silence a companionable, sparkling silence that makes me feel so happy I could cry. When I'm full I lie back putting my bag on one side, so it doesn't dig into my ribs and look up at the leaves shimmering green above us. Oliver's still eating. I hear him swallow.

At last, he says, 'Who would've thought it? How on earth did I end up having a picnic with a trespasser? How did you transform from such a vile teenager into someone who's actually rather lovely?'

I glance at him. He's looking into the middle distance, as if it's a real question.

'I was going to leave but I'm still here,' he says quietly, as if he's talking to himself. 'How did it this happen?'

I look up at the leaves and I feel giddy, like I've suddenly realised that the ground underneath me is quicksand.

'I guess I was just ' he says, answering himself, as if he's two people. 'Lonely. And miserable. And I hated being back here. And then, when I met you, when I saw you crying I guess I thought you were like me. You were the only nice thing in well, in England.' He licks guacamole off his index finger. 'And you were the same. You were miserable, and then I turned up and took your mind off it.'

There's a silence.

I say, 'Actually, I think I just fell in love with you.'

More silence. The noise of the stream goes on, and the trees whisper, like people at a party who don't realise everyone else has gone quiet.

It seems like an eternity before he turns his head.

He looks at me. I wait so long I half expect to see the setting sun reflected in the water behind him. There are creases under his eyes as if he's smiling, but he's not, not quite. His irises are so beautiful I can't bear it.

He says, 'Yes. That's pretty much what I said, isn't it?'

We hold each other's gaze. I feel as if I've been turned into nothing, into thin air. I want to look at him for ever. What does he mean? Is he saying ?

Then we both crack up.

It's not funny, not really, but right now it feels like the funniest thing in the world. I laugh so hard the taste of strawberries surges into the back of my mouth, acid but still summery-sweet. I carry on laughing longer than is strictly necessary, because I don't want to be the first to stop.

Oliver's collapsed on to his stomach, his face cushioned by his arms, his shoulders shaking. In the end he says, 'Oh dear. Sorry. I wasn't taking the piss, I just . . .'

'It's OK,' I say. 'I know.'

He looks up. Only his eyes are visible above his forearms. His wrists are slim and bony, like something made out of marble. 'OK,' he says.

Another silence, and I don't know how I feel.

'I'm going to have a swim,' he says. 'Do you mind?'

'Why would I mind?'

'Because I ' His eyes crinkle, but I don't know if he's smiling or wrinkling his nose. 'I don't have do you mind if I, um . . . I thought I'd just wear my boxers. I don't want to make you uncomfortable or anything.' A pause. 'No, forget it, I'm sorry, that's completely inappropriate, it was a crap idea, forget I '

I'm laughing again. I can't help it. I say, 'Please, Oliver, I have seen boys in their underwear before, I'm not a complete virgin.'

His eyes widen.

'No, wait,' I say. I can feel myself blushing. 'I only meant sorry, this is so embarrassing I didn't mean I wasn't a it's just that, you know, we have a life class at school and everything, I'm very enlightened. I'm not going to be traumatised by you in your boxers.'

He sits up. He's blushing too. He says, 'You don't know that yet. It might give you nightmares.'

'I'm prepared to take the risk.'

He nods, without looking at me. 'Well anyway, I believe the convention in a life class is to let the model undress in private.'

It takes me a second to realise he's telling me to turn my back. I twist round, staring through the trees. I can see the outline of the roof of Tyme's End, and a glint of glass.

I wait until I hear a splash and an intake of breath. When I look round Oliver is doing a kind of flappy front-crawl, splashing and gasping. He stands up, so the water only comes up to his shoulders, and waves at me. 'It's lovely,' he says, spitting. 'I recommend it.'

I grin at him. 'Yeah,' I say. 'You're really selling it to me.'

He shakes his head, so that little globes of light fly through the air. I feel a drop hit my cheek. 'It's OK really, once you get used to it. It's a bit cold to start with, that's all.'

'I'm fine here, thanks,' I say. 'I'll just sit and watch you catch hypothermia.'

'Ghoul,' he says. 'Revelling in other people's misery.'

I smile at him without answering and he laughs. Then he sinks slowly, until his hair is floating on the surface like weed and a few little bubbles rise to the surface.

I lie back, reach for the little gold cardboard box of chocolates and tug idly at the ribbon, but it's glued in place and I can't be bothered to try any harder. I lean my head on my bag, feeling the sharp corner of my special box pressing against my neck. Water flashes and glitters through the air as Oliver splashes his way across the pond.

I told him I was in love with him. Oh, God, I told him I was in love with him . . .

I close my eyes and look at the bright orange of my eyelids. For a moment, out of habit, I start to imagine I'm with my real mother, in a foreign country under a hot Middle Eastern sky . . . But I don't want to be anywhere but here, right now.

When I wake up, he's gone.

It's a little bit cooler than it was, but the air is still warm and heavy, sticking to me like honey. The stream is chirruping, singing to itself, and I can smell hot earth and grass. I don't want to open my eyes, but I do. And Oliver's gone.

For a second I feel more bereft, more alone, than I've ever felt in my life.

I sit up. The remains of the food are still spread out around me, but shadows have grown over them like moss. The bottles of champagne and elderflower stuff are still in the stream, rocking gently in the current. I look round, squinting through the trees to see where the sun is. I don't know how long I've been asleep.

I put my hand down on something soft and warm. It's Oliver's T-shirt, neatly folded but still dented from where my head was resting on it. He must have put it there for me to use as a pillow, after I went to sleep carefully, without waking me. I pick it up and put it to my face, breathing in the scent of summer soil and grass, my own shampoo, cigarette smoke and, underneath all that, the clean laundry smell that was the first thing I noticed about Oliver when he hustled me out of Tyme's End like a bouncer. That was only yesterday. It feels like years ago.

I stand up, still clutching the T-shirt, and look round. His bag is still here, and I feel a wave of relief. If his bag's here, he's coming back although my bag isn't where I left it. For a moment I wonder whether he's stolen my special box, but it's not like he would want it. He probably moved it to stop me rolling over on top of it and squashing everything when I was asleep.

Anyway, if he's coming back, I don't care about anything else.

I walk over to the nearest tree and sit down against the trunk, facing towards Tyme's End and the sun, the way we came. I watch and watch, narrowing my eyes against the low green glow of the sunlight on the grass, waiting for Oliver. And it's not long before I see him, materialising through the dazzle like a mirage, becoming more and more solid as he gets closer. In this light he could be anyone: he could be a ghost, except that he throws a long shadow. It points to me, like a finger. He raises his hand when he sees me, but I don't move. I savour the feeling of staying still while he walks towards me.

He's wearing jeans and trainers but nothing else, and he puts his hands into his pockets and hunches his shoulders when he gets close. His skin is paler than mine, and greenish spots of shade slide over his chest. I want to stare at him, but from the way he's standing I know I shouldn't.

'Hello,' he says. 'Did you have a nice nap?'

'Where did you go? I woke up and you weren't here.' I sound like a little girl, but it's too late to take it back.

'I went to check on the lawnmower situation.' He twists and looks over his shoulder at Tyme's End, shading his eyes. 'Which is non-existent, unfortunately, so I stuck the petrol in the study, just behind the secret door to the cellar, because I thought we shouldn't leave it lying around. Oh, and ' He glances at me quickly. 'I put your bag in there too, your papers, because I thought it was probably safer, in case it rained or something.'

I look up at the sky and then back at him, raising my eyebrows.

'Yeah, well, you can't be too careful.' He holds out his hand to help me up. 'You don't mind, do you?'

'No,' I say. ''Course not. Thanks.' I take his hand and pull myself upright, too suddenly, so that I reel into him and have to put my hand on his bare chest to get my balance back. He flinches. 'Sorry sorry.'

'It's OK. Just no, really, it's OK. Your hands are cold.' He walks through the trees, a few paces ahead of me. Then he stops and we stand side by side, looking at the water, the stream pouring itself over the rocks, the smooth trembling of the reflected trees. 'Did you swim?'

'No,' I say. 'Not yet.'

He smiles. 'You should. It's nice.'

'Only if it won't traumatise you to see me in my underwear,' I say, and instantly want to bite my tongue.

He laughs, without looking at me, and walks away to the side of the stream, kneeling to fish the bottles out of the water. 'It's all right, I won't watch you.'

'I don't mind if you do.'

He still won't look at me. He's fiddling with the wire on the champagne bottle, untwisting it.

'When I said ' I wish he'd look at me. I want to go and kneel next to him. 'Oliver, what I said I wasn't joking. I meant it, really, I '

'I thought you probably did.' Suddenly he jerks his hand away from the bottle and puts his index finger in his mouth. He says, indistinctly, 'Bugger.'

'Are you OK?'

'Yes, I stupid, jabbed myself on the I didn't mean I believed you because it didn't surprise me just from the way you said it. I'm not that arrogant.'

'You could ' I drag my foot through the grass, pushing a plastic bag aside. 'You could say something about it. If you wanted. You could tell me you're really embarrassed and let's forget I ever said anything and I'm not old enough to know what love is anyway.'

Then he does look at me. He grins. I don't know if he's laughing at me or himself.

'Bibi, I'm twenty-seven. You're sixteen. Words can't express how bad an idea it would be. Trust me, OK?'

'You think I'm a kid.'

'I think ' He stops, and his smile fades. 'Yes. Because you are a kid.'

'I'm not. I'm over the age of consent.'

He puts his hands over his face and laughs through his fingers, shaking his head. Then he looks up and smiles at me. 'Yes, but the fact that you even need to say that . . .' He picks the bottles up, comes towards me and sits down at my feet. He doesn't say anything else until I sit down next to him.

'Bibi, in my experience, the love affairs you remember most kindly are the ones that never happened.'

'That's really profound. Is that Confucius?'

'Do you want champagne now or after your swim?'

'Both, please.'

'OK,' he says. He pushes at the cork with his thumbs, frowning, until it comes out with a discreet, tactful pop.

'Impressive,' I say.

'My grandfather used to have champagne every Sunday night. When I got old enough he made me do the corks because his hands got stiff, and he said it would be a useful skill for later life.' He inclines his head towards me. 'He obviously had a point.'

'Why Sundays?'

'Because they were dreary. Apparently.'

'Oh.' I watch him. He's smiling down at the neck of the bottle, an odd, loving, bitter expression on his face. I say, 'He sounds nice.'

'He was. He was the nicest man I've ever known. To me.'