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‘You were Waterstones Book of the Month,’ I said, remembering how insanely jealous I’d been when I’d walked into my local branch and had seen an entire table dedicated to him.

That particular accolade had felt like something I could only ever dream of and it meant thousands of sales pretty much guaranteed. Plus it signalled that his publisher was backing his book, going all out to make it a success. It had been his first solo offering afterLittle Boy Lost. I was certain it would have sold well, but perhaps his second hadn’t.

‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Your second solo book has just come out, right?’

He knew how many books I’d written.

I, on the other hand, had pretty much stuck to my vow never to google him or his novels, although sometimes information about his career was thrust upon me without me even looking for it. And very occasionally, my fingers hovered over thebuy nowbutton when I happened to be on Amazon and one of his books popped up as a suggestion – it would have been so easy to download a copy to my Kindle, secretly, as you could with ebooks, so that nobody ever had to know what I was reading. But I’d have known and I’d have been annoyed at myself, so I avoided his glossy, manly covers, and had never even looked at his Instagram feed until yesterday (OK, I had once or twice, ages ago, and had instantly regretted it because I’d seen a gorgeous black-and-white shot of him walking through Washington Square Park and had imagined him in New York with his latest stunning, successful and highly intelligent girlfriend and it had nearly killed me).‘My second –The Mother-in-Law– hasn’t sold as well as they thought it would,’ I admitted, instantly regretting being so upfront. I was supposed to be giving him the impression that he was lucky to be working with me again. ‘I actually thought it was my best one yet,’ I said, attempting to redeem myself.

Theo raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. ‘Better thanLittle Boy Lost?’

I knew he was teasing me, but two could play that game. ‘By a mile.’

The truth was, there was something about the novel we’d written together that had resonated with readers all over the globe. Perhaps it was just a case of right story, right time:A newly employed au pair drops her three-year-old charge at nursery. At collection time, the school denies all knowledge of his existence. Can she find him before his high-flying parents discover he’s missing?The reviews had pretty much all been four or five stars. People had said they ‘couldn’t put it down’. I’d even seen a few people reading it on the Tube, which was one of the things I’d thought happened automatically when you were a published author, but clearly not, since none of my other books had ever made an impromptu appearance on public transport. In my darker moments, when I began to doubt whether I could write at all, I’d think that maybe it was Theo who had madeLittle Boy Lostwork. We’d done a lot of press; he was very photogenic. His fan base was almost 70 per cent women, Carla told me once, and of course my imagination had gone wild after that. Was he sleeping with his fans? Did he pick up women at book signings? Probably. I knew he’d been on three dates with Gayle from our writing course and, after we were published, I’d once seen him leave an event with Lilian Rich, the insanely beautiful books editor at theObserver. I’d assumed he was going home toshag her. Not that it was any of my business if he was, but still. It kind of hurt.

Just as I took my first delicious bite of the jam-filled croissant, one of the most dazzling women I’d ever seen walked into the room. It was like she’d been blown in on the breeze, with her wispy, barely there maxi dress, thong sandals and mane of curly blonde hair framing an elfin face, and sporting the sort of perfectly even deep tan that indicated she spent her year hugging the sun – Ibiza, probably. Bali next. She was mid-forties, perhaps, but it was difficult to tell because she exuded health and happiness and youth – it didn’t matter how she looked on the outside because I could tell that on the inside she was in the best condition of her life. I returned my pastry to my plate, instantly feeling bad. If I wanted to look like that in a dress, I should probably be eating fruit and yoghurt, not buttery white carbs.

Theo glanced at her, too. No doubt he’d have tried to chat her up if I wasn’t here. I bet he used the ‘I’m a bestselling author’ line to perfection when it came to making small talk with women at a bar or a party. For some reason it worked better that way round, I reckoned – women were impressed by stuff like that. Because he was an author, they’d no doubt assume that he had a certain ability to empathise, to get into somebody else’s head, to use evocative words to perfection. And he could, because he was a brilliant writer. Which made me think that maybe I needed him more than I cared to admit. If we could collaborate on this new book without killing each other, writing together was potentially the perfect solution – whatever our own work lacked, the other would hopefully fill.

The goddess wafted around the restaurant, chiffon billowing in the breeze, her face lit up with a huge smile showing off her perfect teeth.‘Do I have a Scarlett Green and a Theo Winters out here?’ she called out in one of those weird but quite nice transatlantic accents, her voice louder and less fairy-like than I’d have imagined. I was so caught up in watching her, mesmerised by her ethereal presence, that it took me a second or two to register what she’d said. Had she just called my name?

I glanced at Theo. For a second we were united in fear. Who was she and what did she want with us?

He grimaced. ‘Should we just ignore her, or what?’

We couldn’t do that. What if the hotel manager pointed us out? We’d look ridiculous.

‘Maybe she’s the owner come to apologise about the mix-up yesterday,’ I suggested.

‘Oh good point,’ said Theo. ‘Over here!’ he called out, waving his hand in the air.

The goddess wafted in our direction and I wondered what had possessed me to wear jeans, an albeit cashmere jumper and trainers to breakfast in the French Riviera? I had nicer things in my suitcase and now desperately wished I’d had the foresight to put them bloody well on. This –this– is how I should be dressed, I thought to myself as this stunning woman appeared at our table, smelling every bit as good as she looked.

‘Hi,’ I said, deciding to act less like a lamb to the slaughter and more like an adult human being. ‘I’m Scarlett.’

She grinned at me. ‘Lovely to meet you, Scarlett. And you must be Theo?’

She turned to him and he shifted in his seat. I watched carefully, knowing that any second now he’d turn on the flirtatious charm.

‘That’s me,’ he said, the familiar twinkle reaching his eyes. ‘What can we do for you?’

There it was. He hadn’t lost it, then.

She looked at her watch and then beamed at us as though she was expecting us to do something, but I couldn’t for the life of me think what. ‘I’m Melissa. We’re down at the pool waiting for you guys. Perhaps you didn’t realise it was a nine o’clock start this morning?’

‘I’m . . . um, who is waiting for us exactly?’ I managed to stutter. It was slowly beginning to dawn on me that Melissa looked suspiciously how I imagined a world-renowned psychotherapist might look. And there could be only one reason she was trying to find us.

‘You’re on the couples retreat, right?’ she said.

My heart started hammering in my chest for some reason I couldn’t explain. In hindsight, perhaps I’d thought that I could just pretend to take part in the retreat but then not actually do any of it, or at least that I’d be able to pick and choose what I wanted to join in with. Theo and I hadn’t discussed it yet, of course, but I imagined we were in agreement on this.

‘We were actually expecting to be on a writers’ retreat,’ said Theo, saying the exact same thing I’d been about to. ‘We’re not a couple,’ he added.

‘Fabulous!’ said Melissa. ‘So you’re friends?’

Theo and I looked at each other. How to describe it? I shook my head.

‘Colleagues?’ suggested Melissa.