The Island Escape. Kerry Fisher

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СКАЧАТЬ of football/rugby/netball match attendance now he didn’t have work as an excuse. I didn’t know how she stood all his fussing about, running his fingers along the banisters checking for dust.

      Her calling him Mr Right brought out the devil in me.

      ‘I bet Xavi would be on Facebook. You could have a quick peek without him even knowing.’

      ‘Yes, I could, but I’m not going to. I’m very happy with my life, thank you. Let’s fill in the questionnaire about personality.’ Octavia immediately started laughing. ‘God, this is sophisticated. Tick the boxes that apply to you. ‘I like to converse at an intellectual level.’ Big fat tick. ‘I enjoy luxury.’ Huge double tick. ‘I get discouraged easily.’ Think that’s another tick.’

      ‘I don’t get discouraged easily.’

      ‘You do at the moment. At the New Year’s Eve party, you told me every time I spoke to you that you’d never meet anyone.’

      ‘Pardon me for being a bit depressed. I’d only left Scott six days before.’ No doubt Octavia would have led them all in the conga and a burst of the hokey-cokey.

      Half a questionnaire later, with my imperfections glittering in cyberspace, I needed a break. ‘Come on. Let’s see if we can find Xavi.’

      ‘We’re supposed to be finding a man for you,’ Octavia said, but her protest was weak.

      I shuffled her out of the way, logged on to Facebook through Alicia’s account, and typed in Xavier Santoni. No results.

      ‘He’s probably living in the Corsican mountains and working as a shepherd,’ I said, preparing to click back onto my dreaded dating profile.

      Octavia put her hand on my arm, ‘Try just putting in Santoni – might bring up one of his rellies.’

      I nudged her. ‘I thought you weren’t interested anyway.’

      ‘You’ve only got yourself to blame. You’re the one who’s let the genie out of the bottle. I’ve spent years telling myself “Step away from Google”.’

      Forty-six results for Santoni. I scrolled down. She pointed to the screen.

      ‘Click on that one. I think that’s his cousin, Magali.’

      I went into Magali’s photos. We stared at the pictures, trying to ascertain whether they were taken in Cocciu or not.

      Octavia squinted at the screen. ‘That might be Xavi’s mother. Or maybe Xavi’s aunt. Ooh look, I bet that’s Magali’s daughter. She looks just like her. I think that’s his parents’ garden – I’m sure that’s the view down the hill, where we saw those wild boar with their babies when you came to visit me.’ Happy memories were lighting up her face in a way I rarely saw any more.

      She then insisted on clicking on every Santoni who lived in Corsica, searching through their friends, looking into the crowds in party shots, peering at children for any resemblance to Xavi. I felt as though I’d taken a bit of fun and turned it into something desperate.

      Eventually Octavia sighed. ‘He’s not there. Probably living in a yurt in Ulan Bator. Anyway, let’s stick to the task in hand.’ She pulled out her mobile phone to take my picture. She’d lost some of her playfulness. I knew I’d touched a nerve.

      Xavi had been special in a way Jonathan wasn’t.

      Xavi had such energy, approached life with such gusto. He was the perfect match for Octavia’s whirlwind of ideas, her zest for the zany. Though now I reflected on it, it was a long time since she’d made us wash our faces in the dew on the first of May for eternal youth, or read the Tarot cards. Little by little, her quirkiness had descended into something more pedestrian. Maybe it was age. Maybe it was having three kids and a demanding job. Maybe it was Jonathan. I hoped I wasn’t going to become one of those bitter women who saw faults in everyone’s marriage because my own had imploded. I pulled a face at the camera.

      ‘Stop it, or you’ll only get the boss-eyed axe murderers emailing you.’ Octavia was zooming in far too close for my liking.

      ‘I won’t date anyone, anyway.’

      ‘Of course you will. When they start telling you how gorgeous you are, how you look like a young Audrey Hepburn and that they’ve got a holiday home in Andalucia, a yacht in Antibes and by the way, you’re going for dinner at The Savoy, you’ll be dying to go out with them. Anyway, you’re not looking for a husband, just someone to go to the cinema with.’

      ‘I’ve got you for that.’ I nodded as Octavia showed me a photo that didn’t make my complexion look like a piece of ageing Stilton.

      ‘You’re not going to meet a bloke toddling off to the Odeon with me to watch a rom-com, are you?’

      ‘You sound more excited about this than me.’

      ‘If I was in your position, I’d go absolutely wild. Fill my boots. Shag myself silly. You might get married again in a few years’ time and be stuck with the same bloke for half a century.’

      I heard something in Octavia’s tone that made me swing round to look at her.

      Envy.

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