The Road Trip: The heart-warming new novel from the author of The Flatshare and The Switch by Beth O'Leary (books to read now TXT) 📕

‘Not if you didn’t want booting out of the car, you wouldn’t.’

‘No?’

I admit, I knew that would get a rise out of her.

‘How about bolshy? Sassy?’

She cottons on and a smile tugs at the corner of her lips. ‘You’re trying to wind me up, aren’t you?’

She likes to be teased, then. I file that away.

‘I’m showing you how enlightened I am. After making the mistake with little.’

‘And the judging of my driving.’

‘And that.’

I’m getting somewhere – her tone has warmed. We’re in the village now, and between the houses the view is breathtaking: distant, hazy blue hills behind tumbling fields of olive trees and grapevines. There’s something mythic about it all. It feels like a setting, rather than a place, as if stories are meant to be made here, and the sense of grandeur resettles on my shoulders as I breathe in the husky scent of olive trees on the air.

Addie parallel parks outside a little café. It has plastic tables underneath a bamboo awning; a group of Frenchmen sitting by the door watch us with mild interest as we make our way inside.

I ask the woman behind the till whether she’s seen a tall, hippy-ish young woman with pink hair down to her waist, gold piercings in her nose and a tattoo of an English rose on her shoulder. No, the woman says, so I try purple hair, or blue – Grace goes through hair dye the way Marcus goes through pretty first-year girls who’ve yet to be informed of his terrible reputation.

Oh, yes, the one with blue hair – she was here a week or so ago with a man, the woman at the till tells me. An older man with a big belly and a pocket watch. She sat in his lap and fed him cubes of Gruyère. No, she didn’t leave a message.

I narrow my eyes. As much as I’d like to say this doesn’t sound like Grace, there’s really nothing that sounds unlike Grace – she is wholly unpredictable. That’s what Marcus likes about her, I think.

‘Your French is good,’ Addie says as we make our way to one of the outside tables with an Orangina each.

‘It gets me through. How’s yours?’ I’m suddenly wondering how much of that exchange she followed.

‘Oh, pretty crap, really. But I understand enough to know she said there was a bloke with your friend,’ Addie says, looking sidelong at me. She stretches her legs out; I can feel the Frenchmen glancing her way, their eyes following her movement. ‘Does that bother you?’

‘Not especially, no.’ I run a hand through my horribly unstyled hair and try not to stare at Addie’s legs.

She quirks her eyebrow at me, that teasing smile returning. ‘Seems like you’re making an awful lot of effort for a woman who can’t even be arsed to send you a postcard.’

‘It’s not like that with Grace,’ I say, because I don’t want her seeing me that way, like a man chasing after a woman who doesn’t want to be found.

Addie takes that in with a tilt of her head. ‘How come your family aren’t here, then?’ she asks. I wonder if she’s nervous. If she is, she hides it very well; her delicate, elfin features are hard to read, smoothed out like a fresh page in a notebook.

‘Familial dispute. Nothing special.’

‘Where are the rest of them? At home? They’ve just skipped out on three weeks at Villa Cerise?’ She pauses as I shrug yes, and her eyes widen. ‘Who does that? The place is amazing.’

It is. I feel rather proud of myself for coming, now, and I say something vague about appreciating the privilege which makes Addie’s eyes soften. Her gaze holds mine for a moment too long; my pulse beats hot under my skin.

‘How have you been entertaining yourself, then, while you’ve been here?’ I ask.

She gives me a shrewd look that says she knows what the question really means.

‘Sex with guests,’ she deadpans. ‘Non-stop, really. Shagging all over the place.’

I watch her sip her Orangina through a straw. Just hearing her say shagging is embarrassingly titillating. I want her. I haven’t had sex for two months, and suddenly I can’t fathom doing anything else; I feel almost faint with the desire to lean forward and kiss her.

‘Really?’

‘No, obviously not. That would be disgustingly unprofessional.’

Oh, right. I pull up short, eyes flicking away from her lips.

She laughs. ‘I’m just messing with you.’

Now I’m thoroughly bewildered. Has she been shagging all over the place or not? Is sleeping with guests off the cards? God, I hope not. If it is, maybe I can just move to a nearby hotel, though that would look a little . . . desperate.

Addie’s eyes are mischievous; I sip my drink and try to collect my thoughts.

‘Most of the guests are – what would you say? – wrinkly. Dads and granddads and rich guys with hot girlfriends permanently attached to their arms.’

‘Ah?’ I manage. ‘So . . .’

‘So I’ve spent the last two months doing my job.’

‘Right. Of course.’

‘And getting wasted on the wine they leave behind. And tanning. And stargazing on my back in that insane infinity pool.’

I think this means I’m all right to look at her legs again.

She watches my gaze shift over her and her lip quirks. ‘Penny for your thoughts?’

My heart beats faster. ‘They’re . . . not suitable for public discussion.’

‘No?’ Her eyebrows lift; that smile grows, and my nerves settle a little. She shifts so her bare foot touches my leg – she’s kicked off her sandals under the table. ‘Maybe we should find somewhere more private, then.’

‘How long is the drive back to the villa?’ I ask. It comes out rather more quickly than I intended.

She slides the car keys across the table. ‘Depends who’s driving, I’d say.’

‘I bet you a hundred euros I can knock fifteen minutes off your time here.’

Her eyes widen. ‘Done,’ she says. ‘But be warned. I’m not beneath dirty tactics.’

My imagination goes haywire. I take the straw out of my