Girls Night Out 3 E-Book Bundle. Gemma Burgess

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СКАЧАТЬ 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!’ СКАЧАТЬ