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‘It’s not bad,’ I said. ‘We can refine it a bit.’

‘If you’re any good at refining hooks, be my guest. As you can see, brevity isn’t my forte,’ he said, pointing to his index cards which had mini essays written on each one.

I laughed lightly. ‘You said a sentence or two. Not a sentence or six.’

For the next couple of hours we plotted hard, drank coffee, got up occasionally to stretch our legs. Did not mention howgood his fingers had felt on my neck. At one point tiredness got the better of me and my eyes started to close, much as I didn’t want them to, and annoyingly Theo must have noticed, because he tactfully suggested we bring the night to an end. What was wrong with me, I was usually up to 2 a.m., no problem?

‘I don’t know about you, but I think I’m done,’ he said, snapping his laptop shut.

I didn’t even bother to protest – he’d clearly seen me almost nodding off.

‘Fine, but let’s get back on it tomorrow morning. In fact, I cordially invite you to a masterclass in character at ten sharp. Are you in?’

‘And who will be running this masterclass exactly . . .?’ teased Theo, packing everything back into his bag.

‘Hahaha,’ I said sarcastically, making him smile.

As we made our way back to our rooms, the hotel was silent, except for the gentle movement of the night manager on duty at reception as we passed through. When Theo held the door open for me up on our floor, it dawned on me that for the first time in years, I was beginning to remember what I’d liked about him in the first place. But then, this was what he did, wasn’t it? He was charm personified at first; a good listener, easy to talk to and looked – well – amazing. But if you showed any sign of actually liking him back, he ran for the hills. I wondered if our almost-kiss out by the pool had been enough to make him want to run again.

Chapter Eighteen

The beach bar we decided to hole up in for our ‘masterclass’ was everything I imagined Cannes to be – achingly cool and chic with white sand beneath our feet and the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean lapping at the shore metres from our table. Attractive French staff with impeccable tans brought us bottles of sparkling water that I didn’t dare look at the price of, plush posh crisps that looked positively good for you and plump, green olives.

We wrote for a bit, not really talking, just tapping away next to each other which felt much more motivating than trying to write on my own in my room. I always worked best when there were other people around – in a library, for example (although they couldn’t be too quiet or else I’d worry about disturbing somebody as I bashed my fingers over the keyboard) or in a coffee shop or on a train or a plane. Anywhere, really, it was how I’d always been, snatching moments of time, not having the luxury of being able to wait for inspiration to come. It was a process and I always got there in the end. But I had to admit, working with someone else waslovely. It was something I’d thought about off and on since starting the retreat. We’d done a lot of thinking about ourselves, something I usually avoided. And it had become crystal clear that what I wanted had always taken a back seat. What I hadn’t realised until now was that in some ways that was a choice. It might not feel like it, and itmight not have been when I was nine, but it was now I was the grand old age of thirty-four. And if there was something that made things easier for me, whywouldn’tI grab hold of it with both hands?

‘Shall we stop and grab some lunch?’ I suggested, my stomach rumbling with hunger, even though I’d stuffed it with croissants and bread and fruit this morning at the hotel buffet. Why was it that everything in France tasted so good? I could probably live on their crispy baguettes and salty butter.

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ said Theo, snapping his laptop shut.

‘Actually, I’ve got a challenge for you,’ I said, suppressing a smile. I knew he was going to hate this and I knew I was going to relish every second of his discomfort.

‘Why do I get the feeling that I’m not going to like whatever it is you have in mind?’ he said.

‘You’re going to like it about as much as I liked your index cards.’

He grimaced. ‘That bad? Is this the start of the character masterclass you promised me?’

‘Bet you thought I’d forgotten about that,’ I said, grinning at him. ‘But oh no. We are about to get under the skin of our two main protagonists with a little game I like to indulge in.’

‘Oh God. OK. Tell me.’

‘Are you any good at role play?’

‘I’d literally rather do group therapy.’

‘So you’re going to play the role of our husband – Ethan,’ I said, ignoring Theo’s protestations, ‘and I’ll be the wife – Caroline. And we’re going to imagine that Ethan and Caroline are having lunch together at a beach bar in Cannes, just like we are at this one. The day before they argue and Ethan goes missing. And we’re going to order lunch as if we are Ethan and Caroline.’

He was looking at me as though I was mad and I thought I probably was a little bit, but this exercise had helped me in the past, if I was struggling to find a character’s voice, and therefore I thought it might be fun to give it a go. For all of Theo’s plotting expertise, I could tell he was finding it difficult to truly understand why our characters were behaving in the way they were. This might just free something up in us both.

‘I keep waiting for you to tell me that this is a joke,’ said Theo.

‘Afraid not. Ready?’ I said.

‘No!’ he replied, looking absolutely terrified. ‘I’m terrible at this kind of thing, Scarlett. Seriously, I really don’t think I can do this.’

‘Excuse me!’ I said as a waitress rushed past, getting the ball rolling before Theo had a chance to pull out. She doubled back, arriving at our table.

‘My husband and I need to order,’ I told her.