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The fact he felt the same way as me was part insulting, because what had I ever done to him, and part a relief, because it meant that we’d probably both want to spend as little time together as possible. At least the view out of the window was a good distraction. As we passed a huge, glistening white block of tiered apartments that looked like a cruise ship from a distance, and Rome’s Coloseum close up, the taxi driver explained that this was Marina Baie des Anges, a luxurious apartment complex built in the sixties. And soon after that, I could make out what I thought was the sea, a dark blue mass shimmering gently on the edge of my fieldof vision. As we rounded a hill just outside Cannes, the sky had turned orange and pink, and coupled with the shadowy hills in the distance the image reminded me of a beautiful Cézanne painting I’d once had Blu-Tacked to my bedroom wall. Our trip might not have got off to the easiest of starts, but if I had to write a book with Theo Winters anywhere, I thought I might be glad that it was here.

Chapter Four

For some reason the hotel reminded me of a smaller, cuter version of the Chateau Marmont in LA, all straw-coloured walls and green shutters and little wrought iron balconies. Theo and I had had one dinner there, with the producer who’d come closest to gettingLittle Boy Lostactually made. I’d spotted Ryan Reynolds at the bar.

Once I’d got out of the taxi and had properly taken in my surroundings, I realisedHôtel La Villa de L’Oliveraielooked altogether less ostentatious than its LA counterpart. The gardens flanking us on both sides of the winding stone pathway consisted of perfectly manicured grass lined with bushes that were bursting with flowers in the most gorgeous pinks and purples and whites, and I could immediately smell the roses curled around the entrance to the reception area, which was housed in a different building, a pale pink French cottage with a sloping roof and an arched doorway. I felt calmer than I had on the journey down here: there would be plenty of space for us both. I could write under one olive tree out in the garden, Theo under another.

‘Merci, Monsieur,’ said Theo, handing two fifty-euro notes to the driver. ‘Keep the change.’

I pulled a fifty out of my bag and handed it to Theo, but he shook his head.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said.

I put the note away. ‘I suppose you can expense it, anyway,’ I said.

I was very on-it with my tax return, about the only thing I was on-it with, actually, because I was so used to paying bills and looking after Dad’s finances, and I religiously filed my receipts according to the accounting system I’d developed way back when I had time to create Excel spreadsheets. I had no idea whether Theo was like me in that regard or not. I knew that he was meticulous about planning when it came to his books and that he plotted absolutely everything out, or at least he used to, and that he stuck to it rigidly, even for the first draft, which we’d laughed about together once, because I was the complete opposite. I just had a vague idea and went for it, seeing what happened, discovering stuff along the way. I wondered if he’d changed. I had, a bit, over the years – I’d learned to at least come up with a synopsis for my books, otherwise they’d never have been signed off by my publisher in the first place. But I didn’t like doing it, and I left as much wiggle room as possible – that was half the fun of writing for me, being free to take my characters’ lives in whichever direction I – or sometimesthey –fancied.

Theo held open the door for me as I shuffled my suitcase into the reception area, which instantly felt rustic and homely with a touch of French charm. The man behind the desk was in his fifties with shaggy grey hair and that undeniable French twinkle in his eyes and the sort of tanned complexion that came from living in the sunny hills of the Côte d’Azur.

‘Bonjour, Madame, Monsieur,’ he said, looking up from his computer screen as we approached the desk.

‘Bonsoir,’ I said, smiling at him.

I already felt a sort of sense of peace descending over me. There was definitely something to be said for physicallyremoving myself from the day-to-day worries that usually weighed heavily on my mind. Knowing that I couldn’t possibly visit my dad even if I wanted to helped, for starters. Usually I’d have this sort of internal crushing guilt about it all, because Cambridge was only an hour or so away from London and I could get on a train up there at pretty much any time, and therefore often felt bad if I fancied a weekend alone at home when I could/should be visiting him. But out here, in the beautiful surroundings of this little hotel, in the midst of rolling hills and enticing-looking vineyards, what could I do? As if on cue, a message pinged through on my phone. I went to read it and stopped myself: it could wait until I was settled in my room, surely.

‘You are checking in?’ asked the man behind the desk in his sexy French lilt. Mind you, the French language always sounded sexy, didn’t it, no matter whose mouth it was coming out of? There were obviously some exceptions – the up-themselves, disinterested waiting staff I remembered from an ill-fated trip to Paris with Jackson, for example, during which he branded almost every single thing I wanted to do too touristy. It had felt like the beginning of the end; like we just didn’t connect anymore.

‘We are,’ I said. ‘I should have a room booked under the name Scarlett Green?’

He tapped away on his keyboard.

‘Ah,oui,’ he said. ‘May I take your passport, Madame Green?’ I rifled in my bag, handing it to him. ‘And you must be Monsieur Winters?’ he said, looking expectantly at Theo, who was standing next to me with his hands shoved in his pockets looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else but here. How could he not have been charmed by this place? Was the prospect of spending two weeks in close proximity to me really that distressing for him?

‘That’s right. But I’ll check in after, don’t worry.’

The Frenchman looked confused. ‘Ah, but you are together, non?’

My eyes widened and I could only imagine the expression on Theo’s face.

‘No!’ I said abruptly, forgetting to be my usual, polite self. I made a diligent attempt to soften my tone. ‘We’re not together.’

The manager furrowed his brow dramatically.

‘But you are booked as a couple,oui? I have it here, Madame Green and Monsieur Winters.’

I flinched. Clearly there had been a misunderstanding.

‘We’re here for the writers’ retreat, actually,’ I told him, trying to hide the panic in my voice. ‘Our agent handled the bookings for both of us, but we should have separate reservations. Sorry for any confusion.’

The manager was still looking at me. Shouldn’t he have been sayingOui, pas de problème,and shifting our names around on his computer?

I became very aware of Theo’s presence next to me. I’d forgotten how tall and perfectly lean he was, but now that we were shoulder to shoulder – or more accurately, my shoulder was parallel with the middle of his chest – I remembered how he’d always seemed larger than life. Wherever he was in a room, I could usually sense him, either by the rumble of his voice, or a glimpse of his profile out of the corner of my eye.

‘Is everything all right?’ asked Theo in the commanding tone I now also remembered.

The manager shifted uncomfortably. ‘I am afraid to tell you that our writers’ retreat is happening in one month’s time. At the end of May, afterle festival du cinéma. And this month, beginning tomorrow, we have our couples retreat.’

Theo took the words right out of my mouth. ‘Couplesretreat?’